Could it be that someone has finally found a solution to the dwindling natural habitat and consequent decline in numbers of the noble, once populous, Pacific Tree Octopus? Looks like a smart NGO has stepped in where angels fear to tread and just slam-dunked it.
How long now until Crabitat for Humanity starts in on building some cephalopads?
This is a Blogathon post. Don’t just sit there, SPONSOR ME!
Not just because it’s a Polaroid (which I love, and which are always bouncing onto and off of the endangered list) and it’s beautiful, but also because the photographer is using the nom de shutter of Squidfingers. And you know how we love our tentacles and our squid. In fact, in our experience, only good things come of making the acquaintance of people with the word “squid” in their names. Why, it was HappySquid who invited us to the Bombay in Vangroover event, and when you combine squid with gin, you make raincoaster very, very happy.
Shaken AND stirred.
This is a Blogathon post. Don’t just sit there, SPONSOR ME!
Carrying on from our infamous Cthulhu Porn post (warning: CTHULHU GOATSE, THE ULTIMATE EVIL), we present the following. In case you read The Dunwich Horror, extrapolated (as is your wont) from the circumstances surrounding the conception of Wilbur Whatley, and wondered what kind of woman would do the dirty with Mister Big Himself, Cthulhu.
Behold:
It explains so very much.
Literati are perhaps the least respected of professionals. Oh, sure, every doctor gets hit up at parties for a snap diagnosis freebie (Miss Manners’ advice? Reply “certainly, now if you’ll just disrobe I’ll examine you.” Hey, it WOULD liven up a party) but how many of them get “I’ve always been good with cutlery, probably would make a pretty snappy surgeon, doncha think?”
Writers? Editors? Every feeb who knows the alphabet has internalized that old “Everyone has one novel in them.” Yeah, maybe. But whoever said that (Confucius? Hesiod? Boccaccio? I wanna give that man a swiftian kick in the legpit region, I’m telling you) was careful not to claim it would be a good novel. Or even a novel one.
You see what I’m getting at here?
Few indeed are even the true the classics of literature that couldn’t be improved by the judicious exercise of editorial oversight. Think, for instance, how much better most of Thomas Hardy would be with a restrained sprinkling of snappy musical numbers. Think of how much more eagerly students would tear through The Canterbury Tales if they were a Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys mystery instead. Think: The Gulag Archipelago With Zombies.
Oh hey…
Where was I? Right, editors and improvement. Longtime readers of the ol’ raincoaster blog (for what crime can this be the inhuman sentence? I ask yez) will be aware that we at raincoaster HQ have long cherished a fondness for the old-fashioned Yankee consumptive Howard Phillips Lovecraft; fewer, however, will realize that in addition to being a talented author of eldritch tales™ Lovecraft was also an editor and collaborator of prolixity and profound talent.
Climb with us into the Wayback Machine, set the dial for “Arkham,” and behold the birth of a career:
Long have we dealt with the nay-sayers of millinery, the hecklers of hattitude, and long have we defended our position as pro-aquatic-yet-ecosensitive headgear activists. And now, from the upstart lolsite YourArgumentIsInvalid, comes this travesty of complete logical infarction.
The woman does, in fact, have a hat. The hat is made of crab. Indeed, crab is not simply the major component of the hat, but the hat itself IS a crab, adding metalayers of meaning and intertextuality that went over the heads of the no-doubt-conceptual-art-and-mad-hattery-deprived literalists at YAII.
For them, we can only pray. Hail Cthulhu!
raincoaster 