Forum Overview :: Mac Hall Complaints Department :: Upon furtur consideration

[quote name="Entropy Stew"][quote name="Motherhead"][quote name="Chairman Mao"]I'd get right on that if I was funny. [/quote] I had a harebrained concept for a Caltrops comic, if anyone wants to jump on it be my guest. Actually I really dig the idea of 20 different takes on the same theme. Anyways: The abstraction was Caltrops being a saloon. Why? Because the most brilliant and retarded things are spoken at any given bar. People wander in and out, horribly disgrace themselves, sometimes redeem themselves and it never matters anyway. Quick Mock up of the exterior (apologies to Fussbett for horking up his logo work.): <img src="http://img.villagephotos.com/p/2003-8/137609/loweringthebar.jpg" width=437 height=443> I figure it might also be easy to draw everyone from the back of their heads, sitting on stools. The bartenders have to be rendered though. I am thinking SB tends bar/is the twitchy bouncer, Fussbett is like the silent partner that does whatever he wants. BDR has his own booth. ICJ <i>actually stocks the liquor</i>. ES wanders downstairs to clean out the drawers and announce bar policy. Sometimes he hangs, mostly he is in the alley stabbing people in the face. If there is any interest I'll spill out some more conceptual shit, though honestly I've nothing carved in stone so if anyone wants to pick up the ball and run a few plays, have at it.[/quote] I'm more likely sitting alone in a corner bashing my head against the wall, searching for inspiration among the reverberations bouncing inside my skull. Suitably inspired, I temporarily suspend my vigil in order to share my insight. "Charlie Motherfucking Tuna!", I proclaim, and glance accusatorily at a spot on the floor 3 1/2 feet beside me. By the time everyone within earshot turns their head to see what's what, I've already gone back to the cadence. On rare occasions, I'll venture over behind the bar and have Barb toss me a bottle of tequila. The exchange usually goes something like: "The usual" "Your forehead has a big dust smudge surrounding the open wound" "I know" "Oh. You know what would fix that?" <i>The entire bar, simultaneously:</i> "Oh fucking hell..." "BSD! I haven't needed a reboot for the last 16 years!!! and blahblahblahportsblahcompileblahOMGkernelblah" 5 seconds. My bullshit squelching ear implants need to be recalibrated. A necessity - these diatribes have become all too frequent since Barb achieved his goal of trancending humanity to become a head in a rusty metal box. "blahblahGreenlandblahblahblah... Hey!" He's finally noticed I've been making fish faces against the perspex front panel of his box. "Stop that!" 3...2...The sound of a robotic spray nozzle cutting through the air emanates from the space my head had occupied not two seconds before. Predictable old Barbie. I claim my prize and vault over the bar, narrowly avoiding the electrical bolts arcing out of the sink. My first sip of Cuervo tastes of ozone. At this point, one of two things usually happens: 1. I start licking the waitress, then blush to an even deeper shade of purple when I realize that it's just Fussbett in a French maid's outfit. I think he does it on purpose 2. I start headbutting anyone who makes light of the fact that I'm imbibing my hooch through a pink curly straw Bottle-in-hand, I work my way through the crowd over to BDR's corner. "Bringing your work home?", I inquire. A flayed corpse, barely recognizable as human, adorns the wall above the booth. "Fuck you," he says, "that's my ex!" "You dated that? All post-fatal damage..." "Pre." "...all fatal damage aside, she must have looked rather wormish in life." "Yeah, well, turns out she was 90% cunt. Anyways, she had red hair, so it didn't matter." Bill lifts up his glass to take a sip - a triangular red coaster lies under it. "Good point." Not liking the glint in BDR's eye, I make my way to the restroom. Most of the urinal cakes have a Silent Bob-looking face etched upon them - I choose the one with a frowny. As I begin to zip up my purple tights, the frowny cake looks up at me and says "Hi." Not being Kramer, I manage to finish zipping without gelding myself. "Sup mrs j. What the hell are you doing in there?" "Writing. I wrote a dirty limerick on the wall over there, wanna take a look at it?" "Not really, but I'm drunk, so I'll humor you." I locate the limerick. It does not rhyme and has no verse. The gist of it concerns a man going into the ruins of a cathedral and beating a drum in a very plain manner, then jumping out of the bell tower and exploding halfway down. Thoroughly dissapointed, I head back and piss a hole straight through the mrs. Feeling a good 3% better, I walk over to the sink to wash up and stop midway to listen to the muted grunts wafting up from the handicapped stall. BDR must have followed me in. Later, I run into the saucy Fussbett on a sortie to the bar. He flags me down and forces me to listen to his microcassette recording of the Vagina Dialogues. The fucking faggot. He'd be completely fucking useless if he weren't so useful. Away, forward, and onto the tequila. After my second or third bottle of the stuff, I hop on the bar, fall off, and start spouting verse from the sticky floor. Thankfully, everyone's gone home by this point. After my impromtu low-altitude poety slam, I curl up (assuming that I landed in a curled up positon) and fall asleep. Barbie probably laughs in his tin can manner at this point, but I can't hear him. -/ES/-[/quote]