This Monster Party looks like a total snooze-fest. Lemme guess: you’re playing Band of Horses songs on that fucking ukulele. I love a Monster Party as much as the next guy, but I prefer loads of booze, a medicine cabinet full of pills, and some drunk nineteen-year-old monster slut flashing her multiple set of tits.

With the invention of this, there are now officially two ways to give someone a Bob Ross. One that involves happy little trees and one that involves sad little lower backs.

If you ever take three Ambien and start playing a tune on your Pan flute you may find yourself sailing off in a wooden shoe over a beautiful sea of dew. I heard about it once from some drunk guys I caught having a threesome in the bathroom of a Burger King. I think their names were Wynken, Lincoln and Todd? Anyways, they claimed the stars would be herring fish, but when I got there, the stars were just anthropomorphized farts. If you’ve ever wondered to where your fart mysteriously disappears when you blast one on a plane, now you know.

Fantastic art I made a fart joke about by The Black Spot Books.

I knew that stable hand who kept twirling his handlebar mustache and melting my clocks was suspicious. That’s the last time I let Dali groom my pony. Ha ha. Ha? Does anyone remember how awesome it was to read Black Beauty?

If I were totally invisible, I’d probably murder a lot more. After that, I’d just walk around quoting lines from The Shadow radio show. Then I’d miss the hurt faces people make when they can actually see you flipping them off for no reason. And after that, there’d be no reason to go on, would there?

This post is like the Doublemint Twins of BHG. Except you don’t want to tittyfuck it. (Or do you?!?) Up for grabs we have two items illustrated by Oliver Jeffers…

1. A hand-drawn map of the world and some pushpins. (Yay. Holes.)

2. A book called, “The Incredible Book Eating Boy.” (Let’s crap words!!)

via swissmiss

Dateline, My Butt. The Chilean earthquake altered the axis of the Earth and  slowed time. But, breaking news, the value of a picture has changed and brought world-wide financial markets to a standstill. The picture-to-word ratio has plummeted from 1:1000 down to 1:140 over the course of the time it took someone to create The Museum of Tweets. No, not 140 words. But 140 characters.

That’s right. Filling your 401k with the scribbled drawings of  your toddlers was a bad move, as was allowing your employer to pay you in doodled-up napkins. You should have taken the empty gum wrappers and chewed shoelace ends like I did. Now if you’ll pardon my running off, I have a money-diving appointment with Scrooge MacDuck over in the natatorium.

If my under things turned into adorable, wayward sea creatures like in this illustration by Agata Nowicka,  that would be a pretty great day. Except that I would have no underwear and I think they might clog up my shower drain. I wonder if that big red one used to be her period panties?

On the off chance you forgot your “readers,” this nifty print reads, “I dislike most things.” A fitting thing for a rhinoceros to say since the rhinoceros is the grumpiest of all the grumpy animals – grumpier than a spider being eaten by wasp larvae and even grumpier than my dog, Billie, who is a real bitch. What’s really comforting about this whole grumpy animal thing is that, at some point, evolution selected the grumpiness gene as one that would ensure survival. So, grumpiness equals evolutionary superiority. Which means, not only am I the pinnacle of God’s regular old 7-day creation. I’m at the forefront of the sciency one as well.

Guess what I don’t need? Another pink sphincter on my wall. But I could use some body paint remover. Seriously. My taint looks like cotton candy.