Shaolin Monks Rule. A photographer got permission to go into and photograph the home monastery; there’s now a book. Check out the links in the Metafilter link, above.
We’re very sorry we didn’t think of this first. Via Rob.
Best gag herpes med ad EVER. Somewhat obviously NSFW.
How about a squid with human-looking teeth? (Don’t worry; apparently they’re very small.)
This one steals Doritos from inside stores.
Zeldman: Inappropriate “Talk Like A Pirate Day” comments. Sample: “Aaaar! Be leavin’ you, I will, and fightin’ fer custody of th’ youngins, damn yer eyes.”
WMMNA has a write-up of the horrifying “Cloaca” project, developed by Wim Delvoye, a series of machines that, when fed a slurry of acids, bacteria, and enzymes along with food, produce feces.
That thing on your shoulders? That’s your head. These things? They are big-ass holes in the ground.
Someone on Second Life is offering “tiny, adorable baby unicorns that you can hold and cuddle… but they come with a price. You can only get them by having sex with an adult unicorn located at the bel Highland sim…”
Photos of women with meat for hair.
Check out the gas pump prank. Who’s that actor?
MoanMyIp.com. It’s just what it sounds like. As should be obvious, NSWF.
Via Agent L, from here:
No One In Women’s Shelter Able To Cook Decent Meal is profoundly wrong:
CLEVELAND–Despite having no other household responsibilities to occupy their time, none of the residents of the Cleveland YWCA Battered Women’s Shelter can prepare a decent hot meal by 6 p.m., sources at the shelter reported Tuesday.
“If it’s not burned or under-seasoned, it’s the same goddamn thing they made yesterday,” said group counselor Devon Martin, who doesn’t work all day long in the shelter’s therapy sessions to microwave his own leftovers. “Without mastering this important life skill, these women will never be able to leave the shelter. It’s not like they got anywhere else to go, anyway.”
Although records show the shelter houses more than 100 battered women, there is some speculation that this number may be exaggerated, as hardly any of the laundry bags left in the hallway get taken care of.
This is just fabulous; so good, in fact, that we’re quoting the whole thing:
Reply to: firstname.lastname@example.org Date: 2007-08-14, 1:01AM PDT
People throw that expression around a lot, “I’m looking for a partner in crime,” or something along the lines of, “I’m looking for the Bonnie to my Clyde.” It’s cute, I think. These people that say these things, they’re legitimately looking for someone to share experiences with, someone to be passionate with, and I am A-OK with that!
Or, perhaps, they’re delusional and they think love is actually a crime…I don’t know, maybe they’ve listened to that shitty Anastacia song too many times or something. Whatever.
Anyway, while just saying it is sweet, I actually mean it. I am looking for a partner in crime.
We’ll start off with small things; infractions and misdemeanors, mostly. We’ll jaywalk back and forth, flipping off oncoming traffic and exposing ourselves to blind people and getting drunk in public on Heineken and Robitussin. Then, when we’re ready, we’ll move up to vandalism: we can get pigs blood from a butcher’s shop that I know and use it to paint “EAT MEAT” in a large, serif font on the windows of that Vegan grocery store we always shop at. Then we can rob liquor marts for booze and cigarettes and money; we’ll give the first two to homeless people and schoolchildren, but we’ll use the money to buy silly hats from thrift stores (I have the feeling you’d look really sexy in a homburg).
When we’ve saved up enough money to buy a couple of airsoft guns that look real, we’ll put on a couple of hats from our collection (I have dibs on the stovepipe) and rob a bank. We won’t go for the safe, no, we’ll do it just so we can take the money from the tills. When all the money’s in the bag and we’re making our getaway, we’ll pull over to the side of the road and strip, get in the back seat, and empty the bag of money all over ourselves. In the pile will be that exploding dye pack that you see in movies, the one that splashes permanent red ink on everything. When it explodes on us, we’ll kiss and draw little dollar signs and ampersands and other symbols nobody’s ever seen before on each other’s flesh. We’ll fuck and later we’ll push the car off a cliff. It was your mother’s anyway, and she deserves it for saying that I’m a bad influence, in my opinion.
A couple of years will go by. We’ll change our names and pretend to be married and move to a small town in Illinois. I’ll masquerade as a reverend and lure the penitent into your clutches, and it’s in this way that you’ll become one of the most prolific serial murderers in history: torturing the victims in our basement and killing them in curious ways (like with a toothpick, or in the process of trying to find out whether plucking nose hairs can cause a lethal infection–the reason I always give to you so I don’t have to do it). Our weekend bible retreats will be a cover for dumping the bodies. After a long stretch of this I’ll show up in your torture room while you’re using dental tools on a person trying to find out if the human anus can accumulate plaque, I’ll have a suitcase and I’ll be wearing the only fedora I have left.
“I’m leaving,” I’ll say.
“I know,” you’ll say, “I could tell this was coming.”
I’ll put the suitcase down, “This just doesn’t do it for me, not like it used to,” I’ll sweep my hand towards the writhing naked man on your table of horrors.
Your eyes will glide down towards the chainsaw on the floor, thinking, weighing. “You should go,” you’ll say.
“I’ll always remember you,” I’ll say.
I’ll leave and change my name again and become a youth counselor or a parole officer, something ironic like that. One day, when I have a family of my own and I’ve grown fat with beer and ennui, I’ll be watching the news while I’m eating blood pudding and I’ll see that you’ve assassinated someone important. Your face in perpendicular mug shots will be cracked and bruised, but you’ll still have that grin I remember you having after doing something wicked and pulling it off perfectly.
As I climb into bed that night my wife will talk to me about soccer camp and what shouldn’t be put in the recycling bin and whatnot, and all I’ll think about are the great times that we had, and the great times we could have had if maybe I just stuck around a while longer and tried to make it work. I decide that in the morning I’m going to tell my wife about my plans to assault the soccer coach that keeps yellow-carding our son for kicking his cleats into the back of the other kids’ knees, just to see if she’d be into that.
Pic4pic. Girls brought up strictly catholic preferred.
We sure hope this gets him laid. (Brought to our attention on The Well.)
We’re kind of shocked we’ve never covered this before, but Crank.net is a wonderful compendium of Internet weirdos, wackos, flat-earthers, and the like.
Apparently, there exist spas in China wherein one may sit in a pool and allow tiny fish to eat your dead skin cells and thereby exfoliate you.
Watch for the subtext.
Apparently, there’s a great deal more to that story; the lion in question was mostly raised in an apartment in London (they bought him at Harrod’s) before being released as an adult. He lived, by all accounts, a normal lion life after adjusting (with a bit of help) to being “wild” for the first time.
So, lion raised by people and ultimately release, right? A year later, his caretakers go check on him in the wild. Check out the video. Neat.
PHOENIX — Years of controversy were finally settled Monday after DNA tests conclusively proved that Duane Panovich, an attraction at the Phoenix Zoo for the past 11 years, was indeed a human being, and not a reticulated giraffe from southwestern Kenya.
In a statement following Panovich’s release, the zoo said it will appeal the court’s decision regarding its former giraffe. In spite of this, Panovich’s story has spurred new interest in the case of Ernesto, a scarlet ibis that claims to be a contractor hired to remodel the aviary at the Houston Zoo.
In some ways, it was inevitable that some artist would order a Realdoll of themselves and use it in weird performance art.
We were busy yesterday. However, here’s a great big match, just to make it up to you.
At least you’re not part of the Childhood Goat Trauma Foundation.
(Via MeFi, in whose comments you will find the obligatory Goatse joke.)
(It turns out we covered this first in 2004, but with nearly 5,000 entries, how can we be expected to come up with new material every single time? We figure you could use the reminder.)
BoingBoing brings us creep pix from the ventriloquism museum. Um, enjoy.
We have seen 3D Mailbox, and it makes us weep.
DO NOT WANT.
This is brilliant. Aussie TV show decides to determine who, exactly, remembers the lessons of the Trojan Horse. It’s like that stupid Jay Leno news quiz thing, but funny:
(Hat tip to RFB, who notes that the other “Chaser” videos on YouTube are probably worth your time as well, especially their bits on airport security and Fox News.)
We finally got around to checking the account.
Since last November, we’ve earned, oh, something under six bucks. What’s really odd is that $2.56 came last December alone. People are Christmas shopping on Heathen? Who knew?
We’d cancel, but Google won’t pay up for anything under ten bucks, so skating now means we lose six bones. We’ll put up with the ad banner for another 5 months to get our tenspot.
Someone’s been making absurdly detailed shadow-sculptures out of piles of trash.
Kohler’s advertising people are very, very strange. On the upside, the microdemographic of “people turned on by hot plumbers flushing objects not meant to be flushed” will be very, very pleased.
“It’s true, I’ve got to stop reading the inscriptions on ancient door seals out loud,” Whitson said. “I also need to quit dusting off medallions set into strange sarcophagi, allowing the light to hit them for the first time in centuries. And replacing the jewels that have fallen from the foreheads of ancient frog-deity statues—that’s just bad archaeological practice.”