Armed Chihuahua gang roams Yorkshire!

Soon. In fact, NOW says Evil Chihuahua

Soon. In fact, NOW says Evil Chihuahua

Arm yourselves! Gather your families! Pad your ankles and reinforce your doors, at least up for the first 18 inches. THEY are coming.

According to the Guardian, a gang of Chihuahuas took advantage of the absence of their guards to smash a window with an iron bar, fleeing into the darkness and desolation of the surrounding moors. THEY lurk, even now.

A nationwide hunt is under way for five chihuahuas, including a Crufts champion…

Valenchino Chihuahua Xena, who was named Best Puppy in Breed at Crufts 2014, [escaped] with four other dogs from a house in east Yorkshire on Thursday.

[Keeper] Mal Hilton said he and his partner Lucy Hilton have been devastated by the [escape] of Xena, her grandmother Angel and her mother Io, as well as two others called Pandora and Evie…

Normal chihuahuas sell for around £500.

Wait. What? There is, obviously, no such thing as a “normal Chihuahua.” That is what you call a contradiction in terms.

Evil Chihuahua

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Fabulous Fascists!

Prince is the KING of fashionable fascists

Prince is the KING of fashionable fascists

I forget who said it (when in doubt, blame Diana Vreeland) but it’s true: fascists have the best uniforms. Imagine what they could do if they really let themselves go!

They could do this. From Pseudonymous (for obvious reasons) Middle Eastern Internet Artist Saint Hoax comes the ultimate recipe for a dictator.

The recipe for an iconic queen:
1- Flamboyant name
2- Fierce persona
3- Defining outfits
4- Personalized hairdo
5- A trademark feature
6- One hell of a PR teamI then realized that it takes that same exact effort to make a leader.
A rush of images containing Hitler’s mustache, Bin laden’s headgear, Obama’s campaigns, Saddam’s narcism crossed through my mind. It got me thinking that behind every “great” man, there’s a queen.Like drag queens, political/religious leaders are expected to entertain, perform and occasionally lip-sync a public speech.
But unlike drag queens, the fame hungry leaders don’t know when to take their costumes off.

Hitleria Hysteria

Hitleria Hysteria

Queen Abby

Popette Benny Madame O'Sane Georgia Buchette Vladdy Pushin Ossie B Baricka O'Bisha Kimmy Jungle

Blame Artax!

Blame Artax!

Blame Artax!

The NeverEnding Story is a childhood classic with a neverending potential for discussion. Last week, we discussed how it’s all Artax’s fault that the generation that saw this as children turned out to be completely fucked up. Stupid horse! If you’d just stayed cheerful in the Swamps of Sadness (what, they don’t have bubblegum pop playlists in Fantasia?) you’d have made it out alive, a generation would not have wasted their adolescence pretending to be Fiona Apple and Trent Reznor, and Atreyu would have saved the world a helluva lot faster, you goddam waste of alfalfa!

Emo pony doesn't care about your sugar. Life IS lumps, sweetie.

Emo pony doesn’t care about your sugar. Life IS lumps, sweetie.

This week, we bring you the last thoughts of the late Artax, emo basketcase and (formerly) living proof that man’s best friend is a dog, not a goddam equine.

I’m feeling pretty crummy, if I’m honest with myself. And sort of…melon…what’s that word? Melatonin? Melancholy, that’s it. Boy, I gotta start doing the crossword again, my vocab’s gone to shit.

‘Course I never was the sharpest nail in the horseshoe.

Is the mud getting deeper or is it just me? It is just me. Atreyu! I’m, like, four feet tall all of a sudden. What the heck?

It…it just gets worse from there. Go on. Read the whole thing.

The Nightmare of Brooklyn Real Estate: a reality check from 1905

As many events in my life are, this post was sparked by a discussion on Gawker (lately, it’s the rare one which doesn’t center around how awful Kinja is becoming, and god knows, it started out badly).

Yuppies have apparently Burst Williamsburg’s Borders, Spilling Out in All Directions.

I imagine that looked something like this.

…and was welcomed by the locals in much the same spirit.

Now, I’m going to make a radical proposal. There will be mucho blowback on this controversial statement; of that I am well aware. My lawyers are standing by, along with a team of trained PR ninjas, to ensure we all come out of the ensuing melee with our orthodontistry intact.

I’m going to say that the gentrification of Brooklyn has been going on for more than a century. It’s true! There never was a time when it was “the undiscovered country!” And there never really was a time when anyone was happy to move out of Manhattan and across a bridge, unless they were getting out of the MCC.

Here’s your proof. Memory is a wonderful thing, my friends, for lo, it has enabled me to read a Gawker post about sprawling colonialism in Brooklyn and tie it to this comic, from Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend, a marvelous collection of turn of the last century but one comics, all based on nightmares from having had too much Welsh Rarebit. I must test this theory out on the ol’ drinkscoaster blog someday, and snarf a whole Welsh Rarebit just before bed, preferably with the kind of beer that just gets gassier the farther along the gastrointestinal tract it gets.

From the brilliantly twisted mind of Winsor McCay, and from the readers who sent in their dreams for illustrations (or the stories he made up when nobody was forthcoming; was this the first Overheard In model in history?), not to mention the good people at the Comic Strip Library,  comes this panel. True then as now, down to the olde timey get-ups and the novelty smoking equipment.

Brooklyn Real Estate Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend

Brooklyn Real Estate Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend