Happy fucking Wednesday. Here is a little motorcycle made out of lobster shells.
Peace out.
What did I say? WHAT DID I SAY?
I said, “We’re all fucked.”
We just got 25% more fucked.
Orcas can fly. Cougars can swim. Meerkats can operate AK-47’s. Raccoons have taken up swordfighting. And now, sharks can walk.
Good luck trying to get back to sleep tonight. THAT is in the ocean off the Moluccas. I swam in that water. That’s what’s down there. And you wonder why I don’t go in the ocean anymore.

Keep Calm and Hail Cthulhu
I WARNED YOU ALL!!!! I warned you, and you laughed, didn’t you, or at least you lol’d and posted it to Twitter. I know you, you and your lol-ing, Twitter-posting ways.
But you didn’t take it seriously, and now look what’s happened while you were off posting cat pictures to Facebook: they’ve begun to spread. The first Flying Orca, as previously reported, was spotted in BC, as was the first known Flying Humpback Whale. The Cascadia region is a well-known refuge for cryptids, from the noble Sasquatch to the mighty Ogopogo, and not forgetting the endangered Pacific Tree Octopus. Now according to the Daily Mail, the terrifying Flying Orca been spotted off the coast of Mexico. Obviously they have a means of long-distance communication that not even the NSA can detect!
Meanwhile, under the sea, all has become a deranged orgy of climate change-inspired breeding and cannibalism! It’s like a Russ Myers/Roger Corman film starring the Deep Ones!
But it gets worse.
Just as normally-submarine predators have taken to the skies, so too have voracious land-based killing machines begun to encroach on environments in which they were previously unknown.
That’s right: you are not safe on the land, in the air, or on the sea. Sleep well. As for me, I’m off to buy a shovel and start digging.
You can blame Julian Assange for an awful lot: This whole Cablegate kerfuffle. The Collateral Murder video. Embarrassing virtually every nation and security company on the planet. Really stunningly poor relations with at least two exes. Annoying the staff at the Ecuadorian Embassy by humming to himself too loudly on occasion. That jacket.
And now, this. It’s all yesterday’s fault.
https://twitter.com/IanAMartin/status/331868173974503426
https://twitter.com/IanAMartin/status/331893331648978944
Words, my friends. They fail me.
Particularly when the poster in question fails to back it up with the magical words “I’m buying.” Sigh. Tease. Story of my life.
Now this girl, she has got it going on. Or had. Since nobody has heard from her since posting this.
Seriously, I’m dying to find this kid and her dad, for soooo many reasons. So many questions.
COMPLETELY UNRELATED POSTSCRIPT: Today’s celebrity encounter, thanks to a comment I made on a story Fidel wrote about “Sex and the City” author Candace Bushnell.
https://twitter.com/CandaceBushnell/status/331910083942432768
Welcome to Sunday. Sunday is, quite obviously, the most important day of the week.
It is the day the restaurants close.
In an age of over-adequate labour supplies and chefs, sous chefs, and assistant-sub-sous chefs, there can, of course, be only one reason for EVERY FUCKING RESTAURANT I WANT TO GO TO being closed on a Sunday. TWICE IN A ROW.
Everyone on staff has gone off to worship.
For those of you picturing neat rows of Episcopalian pews filled with shiny, freshly-scrubbed food and beverage staffer faces, allow me to shatter your dreams now. Think back to the last time you were at a good restaurant. The bartender, the waitstaff, the chef, the buspersons…did they look familiar from church? Did they even look like the type of person who goes to your church? I think not. I very much think not.
Yet, Sunday closures. Therefore, they must be Cthulhu worshipppers. It’s the only logical conclusion. When everything impossible has been eliminated whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth, and you KNOW those people don’t show up at your church, now do they? So does it really matter what flavour of damnation they choose, whether it’s Lutheranism or SisterWifeism or Whateverism? No. But restaurant staffers, if they’re clever, know exactly how to play the angles. They know how to pick a winner and glom on to him like there’s no tomorrow, which is why Gordon Ramsay’s busboy is the same as he was twenty years ago, only with more scars.
Hence, Cthulhuism.
Now there’s a religion that pays out for your investment. The stars are going to align almost any day now and when they do, acolytes of the Cult of Cthulhu such as myself and all non-fast-food restaurant staffers are going to be on the top of the world, along with loathesome, towering monstrosities of which you’ve never dreamed in your worst nightmares. If you really, truly doubt that Cthulhuism has infiltrated, influenced, and irrevocably changed mainstream culture, listen up: has there not been a VAST increase in the number of women insisting on being eaten first?
I rest my case.
Now, let us sing, Cthulhian-hipster style.
The Fishy Song
Hey There Cthulhu