Bourbon Ostrich Today

• 2012-05-17

  ruineshumaines:

  Approximately 3,000 students from two vocational art universities in the Netherlands joined together to create this enormous model of a man joyously raising his fists in victory as part of a campaign developed by international communications agency KesselsKramer. It’s an interesting, albeit gross, project that required the scholars to gnaw at a piece of gum and then stick it atop the remnants of their fellow classmates’ piece as a sign of unity. | KesselsKramer

  Source: ruineshumaines

• 2012-04-09

  

  Source: misoginger

• 2012-03-21

  Band Names

  Band Names 03/21/2012

  -          Cleaton Bridge Water and the Fist Boots Band

  -          Bad Yankee

  -          Mr. Who Cares and the Gee Whatever

  -          The Eye Lash Hangnails

  -          Home Made Bread

  -          The Hand Me Down Jesus Christ Beard Band

  -          Today’s Pant Fire, Yesterday’s Band

  -          Wolf Folk Taco

  -          Sniff, The Paper Cut Band

  -          Lash the Hatches

  -          Campton Utter Face and the See Shell Run Quartet

  -          Urchin Six-Pack

  -          Bean Dip Tears

  -          Generation Beardless

  -          Floating Johnson and the Sinking Ships

  -          Alaskan Breast Fed and the Deep Thought

  -          Snowed In with My Mothers Beached Whale

  -          A Hand Made of Eels

  -          Homeless in the Castle

  -          Your Pancake Eyes

  -          Constant Nose Bleeds and Birmingham War Chlamydia

  -          Alone in Potholes

  -          Pre-war Blues with the Popsicle Hospital Nude Family Band

  -          The Alphabet Ending in Why with Math the Not English

  -          Female Liberation from Nocturnal Disorientation

  -          The Cat Hats

  -          Verbal Irony

  -          Moiling Jessica and the Tan Face Mask

  -          Broken Cookie With Heart of Gold

  -          The Minotaur in Love With the Ear Bee Duo

  -          Spartacus Merry Weather

  -          Frodo Pimple Shimmer

  -          Last Days of School

  -          Snow Cap and the Pretzel Rods

  -          Old Man’s Ferry

  -          Glued to the Seat

  -          Tambourine Tantrums

  -          American Music Fun Time with the First Month Weepies

  -          The Hindenburg Skinnies

  -          Fat Rachel and She Ate the Cat Trio

  -          The Dead Living with Foaming Thing

  -          Special Adjective

• 2012-03-14

  Alamo, Custard, and The Little Big Horn Sheep

  By Ryan Edward Brown 

              Would it be out of place to say that something was surprisingly less Jesus like than normal-? I don’t believe and I don’t consider it to be the other way or this way, or even that way. The heaping high of holiday gravy, a mound of sanctity smoldering to high heaven without notions of continental drift or soft ball league irony.

              I digress and an apology is in order, tactless and doggerel shit packed fart barking behemoths of the night descend the crystal cascade of whimsy pot induced revelry. A curtain of blame, a tangible to the tantamount to the titillating responses garnered from foreign shore correspondence, belief is disbelief. The black smock of telling tales and spinning yarns tells you to hide away your children and live sexy but know no other meaning to the word, save for what slop of ownership and consumption you can metastases from the fear of the empty and silent, to the forgotten and the never known, to saying one has experienced and truly just aloofed within the shy realm of pitiful pranks and pompous boast, the double plush rubber duck head cigarette ajar and piping to the roof of the gods a truth both buttery and sweet. The fat ass response riding escaladers to escalate the ease of living only to find what has been made easy is simply what has always been…easy. Like walking or reusing and repairing, but I digress, my pants are on fire with detergent burns, the scars of will-o’-the-wisps, jack-o-lanterns and green men fog my disposition to be closer to the ocean, to be away from this pantheon of associative green and gibberish fallacy that I yearn, like every damp Victorian chasm secretly yarned. Piggish bilge and bloody finger film the weep of seeing the plumpness of public, a peculiarity that at times voids itself of being sentient enough to stop smoking or take their insulin like a nice dynamite rigged beach whale a, heart beat breath away from contact.

              But I busy myself along, I know today is going to be a day unlike any before, wonder spills flippant and water starved fish like onto the deck of senseless ponderings, of rocking chair turds, of firing squads pilfering the rusty dead, bayonets long and sharp and shinny glean hungry in the above average heat, global warm fresh taco completion bemusing the hyphen of realizing the analogue motions of living this moment without any sense of reality. Some would say an indulgence of the time bloated or the sharp eyed hedonist, but having never heard the yelp of machine gun fire or the tantric motions of the melee, I begin anew. A dissolving fizz of chemical reactions of retrograde notions, clam shells, jelly beans, constipation commercials and gingivitis misappropriation interfere with the amounting futility. Spontaneous self combustion is preferred to this, the laxed heavy smiles of collagen, the medieval bemusement besmirched with hefty high school alliteration and Dayglow sunsets. Plastic fantasies and the near pornographic finger picking of pimples, zits, and pretend tuberculosis protrusions. You see this heavy sweater is chocking the twilight from the sky and the soggy moon beams aren’t even reaching the sandy fucking beach.

              Speaking of protrusions (the last sandwich slips between the slippery saliva shinny lips, the fiery bonds of Earth ascends the either, the nether, the void of petulant redundancy. Soggy from too much slow sipping of the sweat nectar, also known as the unwillingness to stop the gratuitous drinking by the age of 22, the realization that party scene flow amounts to heart ache, tumors, rats, cats, and continuous retardation playing cup games, but aren’t you mostly hung-over while writing this? Well that remains to be seen, from behind the painted veil of Zorro, the Oreo bedecked god of sunlight, laughter, and fart jokes, there remains a purity of seriousness that always goes unnoticed. An exile to strangeness in among the shopping mall folks slowly coming to grips that SOME HOW, today’s vomit is the yellow stitching in scar tissue, the half fermented fetal beast filling the feta ferment tin mugs of another this that something we are made to want more of, months upon months leave me pealed, paired, and double duplexed, but I digress and say goodnight to the raccoons of Berlin. Goodnight.

• 2012-03-01

  followthefood:

  Maoz Sandwich Meal: Freshly Baked Whole Wheat Pita Pocket filled with hot made to order Falafel Balls, Avocado, and Babaganoush topped with your choice salads and sauces their awesome salad bar. I put some fresh coleslaw on mine. Meal comes with choice of regular of sweet potato fries made to order and drink.

  I love the beets, roasted cauliflower, and chick peas from the salad bar. 

  @ Maoz 683 8th Avenue (Between 43rd & 44th) New York, NY 10036 (212)265-2315

  http://www.maozusa.com/

  Source: followthefood

• 2012-02-26

  Green Hills in North Carolina

• →

  

  Rhododendrons

• →

  GREEN THINGS 

• 2012-02-25

  Reblog if you love to write.

  Whether it be fanfiction, original stories, drabbles, songs, poems, books, or anything that has to do with creative words, then reblog. Let’s gather all the writers of Tumblr together.

  (via imtr4sh)

  Source: insaneandproudofit

• →

  Former Spanish Colonies & Bayous

  Former Spanish Colonies & Bayous

  I am your son;                                                                        

  The bilious failure that once birthed

  Was slapped formally across the ass and thrown into a potato sack.                                  

   I am your son;

  Who lived off motherly grunts and forced fed skunk cabbage

  Chewed with the thick crocked teeth,

  Stained with all the past vegetable maladies that came before me,

  This was how I got to know my mother.

   

  I am your son,

  The one with the broken limbs and rabid stench,

  Found in the hollow dry wallows of Christmas Eve Chinese food.

  It’s that fork struck ajar in my vacant skull that forced a divorce between you and mother,

  Who is spilling beat juice tears down her long bearded lips.

  I’m your son;

  Who watched you leave,

  Filth worn luggage; brown even in the darkest night,

  Stained bed sheets dotted with the protrusions of wicked trinkets,

  And that slanderous whore in tow.

  This is my only memory of my father.

   

  I am your son who;

  Watched my mustached mother hang herself in the bowls of humid July.

  Our river raft slick with archaic slime

  And soon she slipped, passed through my gnarled knuckles and swollen thumbs,

  To the unreachable depths bellow the slow constipation of the river.

  I am your son

  Who is alone in this world,

  Washed ashore; I slowly aged

  In the gathering of sterile mist along this twilight shore.

                                                                                                                                         

  I am your son

  Who made love to unctuous toads and passive possums,

  My bastard constituency that one day brought me a swamp wife.

  The previously dismembered mermaid, named Star Fish

  Found half drunk clinging to her last night’s heroine dumpster needle.

  I am your son

  And this is how I became content.

   Ryan Edward Brown                                 September 26, 2008