Liberating Ashton Kutcher's Face with Bruce Willis's Penis for the Good of the Common People or "Metaphysically Punk'd, Episode 2"

My dislike of Ashton Kutcher is a fairly well-documented phenomenon. He is just such a pretty boy cunt, and unlike previous pretty boy cunts Brad Pitt and Matt Damon, he has yet to prove himself worthy as an actor or anything less than a backslapping, grab-assing, Cool Pix-ing, manicured, manscaped, punk['d] ass pretty boy cunt.

Imagine my chagrin, née, my malaise, when I should see this pabulum propaganda across the street from my loving girlfriend's house:
The poster was a blight on my very soul; an offense to the core of my humanity--née, to the core of Humanity itself.

Most certainly, something had to be done. Silently, the defenseless denizens of the avenue called for a champion. The power of their yearning echoed like sonar through the firmament, crying out for a hero to revenge their rough treatment at the hands of the demonic Hollywood phluff peddlers.

I happened to be available.

I have to say I have never really engaged in graffiti before, save the unfortunate whittling of a detested manager's name into a mailbox during a misguided graveyard shift at the smut house. But I am a man of action, and action was called for. On the quick-like. To wit: now. L.A.M.F.

I knew just the thing. Equipped with the meager, sub-Superbad member-sketching skills I'd learned in elementary school, I assumed the mantle of a hero:

Whoa, did that ever hit the spot. However, something was missing. A little je ne sais quoi. Some zazz. A slight turn of the screw, maybe.

Whoot, there it is. And it provides a great counterpoint to those who, stuck as they are in their Freudian kiddie pools, will inevitably claim that my cultural reclamation is mere window-dressing for hot homo fantasies of an Ass to Ashton anal romp: Clearly, that is Bruce Willis's dick.

Unlawful? Sure, but more morally lawful than a bland advertising broadside featuring a couple unblemished, porecelain-faced clay pigeons. Juvenile? Hell yes. To continue with the theme of juvenalia, allow me to wholeheartedly add: Duh.

But Jesus, was it ever cathartic. Here I am, having a laughter-induced conniption fit:

I wasn't the only one offended by the puddin' like cultural consistency of the poster. Someone has already got to Ashton's tapioca-flavored co-star, Katherine Heigl:

Today, the Indians took over Alcatraz, and a neighborhood, née, a proud people, were vindicated. The best part, aside from the Sistene Chapel-like artifact itself, was when Sara and I were looking out the window at the offending visual and decided that the balls should be drawn in such a position as to make it look that Ashton were tickling them. Laura walked in on this and said "like he's catering to the balls." As in catering to one's every whim, I imagine. I have never heard a better description of nut-fondling that "catering to balls." This will not only be my primary pick up line from here on out, but also my singular means of arousal: "Baby, I want you to cater to my balls."

Close-up of "catering":

I've been taking a lot of pictures lately, so, beyond any tales of Sharpie-scented ordinary madness, the remainder of this post will be photos. I don't want this blog to be a "hey, look at what I did this weekend" thing, but it is about my life, in which I take photos, some of which are of friends and loved ones. So, excuse the tone of reportage, and, also, fuck you. Fuck you in the eye. Fuck you in the eye with pure love.

My baby:

Wanted: Africanized honey bee for sticky, barebacked adventures:

Rainy days and Sundays. Or was it Monday? Doesn't matter. I've got to say, I'm the happiest I've ever been:

Laura, Sara, and Reba customized their handgun target. Damn that Beanie Boy! Time has hardened--and tanned--him.

Cats in the hallway, police at my door/ Fresh Adidas sweep across the bathroom floor:

Dressmaking, dummy! Punctuation makes all the difference.

All Electric Kitchen:
It was raining, but then it cleared up. Laura and I took advantage of what we thought to be our good fortune, and took Bo out to Land's End. It rained. Raining, though, made it a much more intense experience. San Francisco is my Xanadu.

Hawk above the Cliff House:

Calla lilies.

Laura and Bo. This is the wall Bo jumped off of a couple months ago. It's huge, huh?

Handsome devil.

Irises. These are what was growing along the trail in Marin, but with a different coloration.

Trail fork, just in case:

Don't know what these are, but I'm sure Theodor Geisel does:

The rather tasty pepper flower:

Unidentified, which is to say, unidentified by name. A rose by any other name, however, would still smell as sweet. I think it looks like a butterfly, or, maybe, it only looks like itself. Comparative thinking is a hobble:

A rose, by any other name:

The labyrinth:

Bo's ears, blown back:

Where's Ronnie James Dio when you need someone to sing "Like a Rainbow in the Dark"?

Awesome patch--wish I knew who designed it--I scored at the Oriental Art Gallery, along with enamel pins of a cigarette-smoking skull in a top hat and a scary clown. That place fucking rules. I'm going to have to go in with my camera and a tape recorder and interview the crazy/half deaf wig lady.

Nieces to pieces: Chloe and Abby.

Chloe is 17. Which means she never wants her picture taken:

Babymama on Babymama's Day:

Anne M. Davidson, slowly losing her mind, but still has a big heart:

My brother-in-law, David. When Dolly was younger she inexplicable started calling him "Uncle Faye":

New nephew Lucas:

My kiddo, Dolores:

Acting a little too saucy for her britches, even if they're rainbow leopardskin with ruffles underneath:

The red glasses again:

Abigail. I was giving her a hard time, making up mythical nicknames and maladies for her ex-boyfriend. She looks crazy like my sister in this shot:

I love this photo:

Speaking of being recklessly happy, I recently saw this cartoon on a door at my sweetie's house:

It's by Paul Madonna, from a series he does called "All Over Coffee," which apparently appears in the Chronicle--maybe the pink section. The drawing is amazing, but the caption/poem is a moment of pure Zen grace. Perfect. Madonna has a collection of the comics out as well.

Speaking of incredibly rad and inspiring artwork, check out this Ouija bike Casey Castille Nassberg is working on:

Epic. Speaking of epic, check this animation of Epic Beard Man, cover motherfucker of this week's SF Weekly and hard-nosed winner of Internet Meme That Refuses to Die (At Least for Another Couple Weeks) award:

Speaking of Epic Beard Man--[you're going to love the way I tie this all together, trust me]--I ran across an article about death cards, from their history with the mob to their use in Vietnam PSY-OPS. [Get it--Thomas Bruso, a.k.a. Epic Beard Man, a.k.a. Vietnam Tom?]

It's a fascinating look at the art of killing people whilst fucking with their minds. And whilst on the subject of mindfucks, just how much weed do you have to smoke to come up with this Skittles commercial?