Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Black Dahlia Pillow

Shit's tough. As much as I love my girlfriend, I find we're prone to miscommunications. One second I'm minding my own business, just doing my thing, then I say something stupid and get sucked into a mood vortex. It feels much like this:

Incredibly, I might actually live through this frightening ordeal. I suppose the key is to just hold on, breathe through my nose, and carefully watch things develop. And watch my mouth.

Aw hell, who am I fucking kidding? A vortex is a vortex, ne c'est pas?

Really, though, we all have our ups and downs and giant jet intakes. What are the alternatives? Well, the Japanese have made loneliness into a creepy art form:

Of course, not everyone has six large to spend on a silicon life partner, so, for gaijin that aren't quite ready to commit--or be committed--our friends from the Land of the Rising Sun have invented the girlfriend pillow:
Sure, a girlfriend is more than just a sum of her parts, though it's comforting to know that they can be reduced to a torso-less lap if need be. But can you fuck it? It's a pillow, silly!

So yeah, I guess you can fuck it...

For the tit man, there's this little gem, retailing on Amazon for a mere $16.95:
The hand appears to be wearing some kind of latex glove. This is the "hand job ready" model, I suppose. Look at those awesome breasts! It's like a kid's drawing of boobies meets a muppet psycho killer murder scene.

Other versions are available with wrist bangles and nail polish (though still no head):Clearly Sport doesn't want any bitch messing up his perfectly gelled 'do. And she won't kick him out of bed for eating popcorn.

Who would've thought Elizabeth Short's short, tragic life and long, painful dismemberment would give rise to such a perfect Christmas gift?
Can it be much longer before a Black Dahlia signature model girlfriend pillow hits the market? Satisfy your darkest, most private impulses without having to leave the evidence in a public park.

Ladies, don't think the joys of dismembered sleep partners are strictly for men. How about a soft--yet firm--male torso, conveniently divided vertically through the chest plate, with a plush felt hand to rub your ass as you snooze? Look ma, no head!
It's just like a real boyfriend, (but hacked to bits and not flapping his annoying fucking mouth all the time! And not watching football.)Well, we've all got our problems. I suppose sleeping with dismembered pillows and/or an apartment full of latex women is better than acting on one's more savage, sociopathic instincts.

But humans are still an amazing failure as a supposedly social organism:
The Japanese aren't the only culprits. The above pictured "man" (I use the term loosely, hence the scare quotes), Lee Jin-gyu, is actually Korean. His wife, the pillow, is, however, Japanese. Of course.
Who knows, though? The linked article claims that, despite marrying what appears to be a gigantic Kleenex ghost, ol' Jin-gyu still has people that call him friend, and these people are willing to appear in public with him and his plushy wife, so maybe social bonds between living, breathing homosapiens still count for something.

Or maybe we just have no shame.

Somewhere, evolution took a wrong turn. It was probably drunk. I suppose the fact that these pillow-fuckers won't be contributing to the gene pool might help blind Darwinism find its way back to the road.

Speaking of wrong turns and places where there are most likely dead bodies stashed, I recently posted a bunch of photos from the Secret Sidewalk in the East Bay hills. Well, without further ado, here is the second installment, taken with my iPhone after my Nikon's battery ran out. I feel it only right and proper to cop to the fact that I'd bought the phone the day before and shot nearly all these pictures with the little clear, protective foreskin that comes with the phone case still over the lens. You can see the distortion/lack of focus on the side of the frame on most photos--I finally realized it and peeled it off. This can be construed as a slight act of retardation, but I'm going to claim it as artiness.

Giant kilns from the brick factory:
Workin' on a railroad:
With the shit:
Conduit for Sale!Freud:
Fuck You!
Keep out (sort of):
Go over get ur head split. Graf is for real:
This has been mimicked by Fremont teens since time immemorial:
Box Chevy:
Where the sidewalk ends:
This is a hole leading into the undergound part of the Secret Sidewalk. You can jump in here and go into the tunnel/tube for a mile or more:
Why? Did you eat him?
Presumably painted by Master Shake:
Weed. It's like you can read my mind.
Laura chooses the cash:
Kid Cudi needs to work on his hand style:
Batman gets around:
As does Leroy Jenkins, apparently:

Fear of a XX large planet:
Turvy takes style cues from Care Bares and Rainbow Brite:
Slightly more masculine style by Bear:
Thizz is important. Ask Mac Dre.
However, you'd be remiss to forget the classics:
Part of the sidewalk was purposefully demolished:

Down below:
Love appears to be a dead end trip:
Cow chute:
Remnants of an abandoned homestead:
Abandoned, save for Cock Boy, that is:
I call this "Ode to Cock Boy":Backlit lady:
Bathing is important:
Magic brownies and Sam Adams, a new Secret Sidewalk tradition?
Sexy thumbsucker:
Mood swings on a dime, available here. Dorchester stank eye ain't nothin' to fuck with:
How do spare tires migrate to the middle of nowhere? Seriously, who carries this shit into the hills?
Turkey feathers, I think:
Where pipe goes to die:
So much drama:
I dunno. Rob?
Poor man's sculpture:
I will farm no more forever:
Awesome auger. Though apparently not as awesome as massive cocaine abuse.
Pig iron:
Free computer. Pick up only:
Goin' Native:
Well, that's a comforting thought:
Penal code reminders are everywhere:
Now that, is some motherfuckin' virulent poison oak:
Witness the post, do not disturb it:
I got a broken face:
Everything falls apart.

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