Another Thing

These girls look like they are completely avoiding me and I haven’t even signed in yet. Thanks, OkCupid.

Confidence level: Quasimodo

Joe on Flickr.

Painted by hand on MS Paint.

~Cavutto

Deion on Flickr.

My nephew Deion. Kid has a canon…he can’t field or hit for shit, but he can throw and look awesome.

CT River on Flickr.

CT River

thefuzzydave:

First we kill The Batman

The Mural Story 
by Cavutto

In the joyful days of his youth, there were five things that Squidward loved more than anything else: Filet O’Fish, Alyssa Milano, penny loafers, high-end home theater systems and murals. Looking back on his life, it was those long summer days he spent at the Vineyard, muraling and listening to Genesis on his high-end home theater system, that Squidward thought of most fondly. 

It started in 1973. While the country was in the grips of a devastating oil crisis, young Squiddy Boy was embarking on his own oil exploration project, which involved a clean wall, oil-based paint and a boundless imagination. Considered by many to be a wall painting virtuoso, by the age of seven, every muralist in the country had their eye on the little prodigy from New England. It was a heady time for a young muralist; the modernist muraling movement was in full-swing and Squidward was riding the crest of its wave. You couldn’t pick up a muraling magazine anywhere in the country without seeing the face of the boy wonder staring back at you from the cover. It was during these formative years that the idea first took hold in the mind of Squidly Squidbert. 

The East Germans had begun constructing the wall in August of 1961. By the time Squideroni was graduating from Muralissimo University in 1985, it had served as dividing line between East and West Berlin for almost 25 years. Many regarded the wall as the symbol of oppression and injustice. For Squidson Squidstink, it was second only to the Great Wall of China as the best fucking canvas ever constructed. 

“Mr. Gorbechev, tear down this wall!” The words rang out like a ringing outing thing. Squidlov had been in West Germany for two years working on The Wall and had muraled over twelve linear feet of its forbidding facade. The goddamn thing is a lot taller than it looks on television. The challenge issued by Ronald Reagan on that overcast day in June of 1987 marked a turning point in the life of Captain James T. Squirk. It was the day his dream died. 

As the throngs of people celebrated and danced on The Wall, Squidtilla the Hun sat alone, under a bridge like a troll, with a bottle of schnapps in one hand and a Fillet O’Fish in the other. “I will never mural again.” It was a phrase that seemed almost absurd as it rolled off his tongue. “I will never mural again”, he repeated, as if to convince his own ears that they were hearing actual language and not the gibberish ramblings of the clinically insane. It would be another twenty years before the word “mural” would cross his lips again. 

Squizzle Squidstone met the Mermaid in the late autumn of 2006. It was happenstance, really. An accident. Like, a real accident with cars. Squidder Squidnose was on his way home from his job as a manager of people at some place when it happened. The Mermaid was eating noodles while she was driving and didn’t see him stopped at the light, rear-ending Squidberry and totalling both cars. “My beamer! My fucking beamer!”, yelled Squidleton Heston. “It’s ruined! My goddamn convertible BMW is ruined! It has a red leather interior and did I mention it was a convertible! And now it’s ruined! Ruiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnneeed!” 

Five years and three kids later, Squidmore College and the Mermaid were happily married and living the suburban dream. One day, as they were eating omelets at their antique dining room table, the Mermaid said, “I think this room is great. I love this room. This table, these chairs, that terrific wainscoting. It’s all just lovely and I think it’s all great. Truly, I do. However, these walls look boring. They’re all white and stuff and, well, they’re boring me. I think I will hire a man to paint murals on them.” 

In that moment, it all came rushing back. The Wall. The tempera. The murals. All of it. As he silently wept into his omelet, he resolved to put The Wall behind him. He wasn’t just some manager of people at some place. He was Squiddy Boy: muralist.