Meanwhile the dude's actual writing read like this
I could end my review right here, really. That kind of blatant laziness and formulaic lack of creativity is hard to top, and that's not even factoring in how insufferably smug that little shit is. But I want to talk about Steve-O's writing, if you want to call it that. First of all, Despite being 2 years old, the comic has running gags, or as I like to call them, cheap gimmicks. The first one is "rejected megaman villains" and the other is "video games I'm glad were never made". Now, despite not meeting the running gag requirement of being funny or getting funnier each time they're shown (not that the maker of Dueling Analogs knows thing one about comedy), I'm told these are the most popular strips, which leads me to wonder exactly what kind of man-apes Napkinski's audience is made up of. Also note that the second running gag is in the exact same formula as recurring photoshop contests from both Something Awful and Fark, but I'm sure that's just a coincidence, since you'd have to be a total fucking unoriginal hack and borderline retard to steal from such well-known sites.
Beyond his recurring gimmicks, Steve-O also loves using the Mario Brothers, but not as much as he loves reminding you that they're gayhomos who take it up the butt. With each other. LOL! Popular video game characters depicted as sexual deviants? That's totally fresh, edgy and in my face, man! I feel like I'm on Newgrounds circa 1998!
oh hey I think I remember the comic this is talking about
Last I checked he's retired to SA to talk about TRPGs he likes and Gunnerkrig Court and is really embarassed that people preserved his old webcomics blog and idolized a persona he detests now.
man that's like all the bad parts of being famous and none of the good ones
Half of these can be explained away as the usual inertia that can, say, give a gamer nerd a close relationship with a low-key sports jock. And half of the rest feel like people are drawing way too much on their trouble with cliques and stereotypes in high school. And the rest just feel like particularly egregious cases of romantic comedy logic, which is just...generally terrible.
This is caught in the awkward space between feminist critique and nerdy tone-deafness
It also (unwittingly or not) propagates the almost commedia dell'arte-like crystallization of the classes in high-school comedies; clearly there are Nerds, Jocks, and Everyone Else, and not only do they not usually interact, but it's assumed that everyone in a given class likes each other by default.
(This didn't fit my HS experience at all. Most of the other nerds thought I was a nerd and wanted little to do with me, while the jocks either liked me or didn't care, and there was also that roving band of hecklers that didn't fit neatly into any of the standard classes.)
This is caught in the awkward space between feminist critique and nerdy tone-deafness
It also (unwittingly or not) propagates the almost commedia dell'arte-like crystallization of the classes in high-school comedies; clearly there are Nerds, Jocks, and Everyone Else, and not only do they not usually interact, but it's assumed that everyone in a given class likes each other by default.
(This didn't fit my HS experience at all. Most of the other nerds thought I was a nerd and wanted little to do with me, while the jocks either liked me or didn't care, and there was also that roving band of hecklers that didn't fit neatly into any of the standard classes.)
I filled a very strange niche in my high school in that I was the freakishly smart class clown that all the teachers liked who was somehow friendly with everyone yet completely outside of any clear circles. I had my tight-knit circle of friends who were generally friends with one another, but they were themselves parts of entirely different swathes of the school population.
Not that there weren't people who strongly disliked me, but they were... weirdly individual cases.
I hated being in high school, but the people were all right.
Reading it further, there also seems to be a strong "these [...] shouldn't be dating anyone, much less the hot women they're with who won't date me" thread going through these.
This is caught in the awkward space between feminist critique and nerdy tone-deafness
It also (unwittingly or not) propagates the almost commedia dell'arte-like crystallization of the classes in high-school comedies; clearly there are Nerds, Jocks, and Everyone Else, and not only do they not usually interact, but it's assumed that everyone in a given class likes each other by default.
(This didn't fit my HS experience at all. Most of the other nerds thought I was a nerd and wanted little to do with me, while the jocks either liked me or didn't care, and there was also that roving band of hecklers that didn't fit neatly into any of the standard classes.)
I filled a very strange niche in my high school in that I was the freakishly smart class clown that all the teachers liked who was somehow friendly with everyone yet completely outside of any clear circles. I had my tight-knit circle of friends who were generally friends with one another, but they were themselves parts of entirely different swathes of the school population.
Not that there weren't people who strongly disliked me, but they were... weirdly individual cases.
I hated being in high school, but the people were all right.
That sounds about right for me, though I was hyper and had anxiety issues, so I have to wonder if people were afraid of me. (Well before Columbine, thankfully!)
I should also note that I went to a new school in a new town starting in 10th grade, and I was...weird then, to say the least.
as a basic human activity for thousands of years, it's good to reconnect to it. its presence is even known in language. now i remember why we have such idioms as "against the grain", "blades never strike the same place twice", and "i'm glad we upgraded to coal"
as a basic human activity for thousands of years, it's good to reconnect to it. its presence is even known in language. now i remember why we have such idioms as "against the grain", "blades never strike the same place twice", and "i'm glad we upgraded to coal"
TIL Tzetze is a relative of the dad from The VVitch
You are the end result of a “would you push the button” prompt where the prompt was “you have unlimited godlike powers but you appear to all and sundry to be an impetuous child” – Zero, 2022
Dada is a new tendency in art. One can tell this from the fact that until now nobody knew anything about it, and tomorrow everyone in Zurich will be talking about it. Dada comes from the dictionary. It is terribly simple. In French it means "hobby horse". In German it means "good-bye", "Get off my back", "Be seeing you sometime". In Romanian: "Yes, indeed, you are right, that's it. But of course, yes, definitely, right". And so forth.
An International word. Just a word, and the word a movement. Very easy to understand. Quite terribly simple. To make of it an artistic tendency must mean that one is anticipating complications. Dada psychology, dada Germany cum indigestion and fog paroxysm, dada literature, dada bourgeoisie, and yourselves, honoured poets, who are always writing with words but never writing the word itself, who are always writing around the actual point. Dada world war without end, dada revolution without beginning, dada, you friends and also-poets, esteemed sirs, manufacturers, and evangelists. Dada Tzara, dada Huelsenbeck, dada m'dada, dada m'dada dada mhm, dada dera dada, dada Hue, dada Tza.
How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying dada. How does one become famous? By saying dada. With a noble gesture and delicate propriety. Till one goes crazy. Till one loses consciousness. How can one get rid of everything that smacks of journalism, worms, everything nice and right, blinkered, moralistic, europeanised, enervated? By saying dada. Dada is the world soul, dada is the pawnshop. Dada is the world's best lily-milk soap. Dada Mr Rubiner, dada Mr Korrodi. Dada Mr Anastasius Lilienstein. In plain language: the hospitality of the Swiss is something to be profoundly appreciated. And in questions of aesthetics the key is quality.
I shall be reading poems that are meant to dispense with conventional language, no less, and to have done with it. Dada Johann Fuchsgang Goethe. Dada Stendhal. Dada Dalai Lama, Buddha, Bible, and Nietzsche. Dada m'dada. Dada mhm dada da. It's a question of connections, and of loosening them up a bit to start with. I don't want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people's inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long. Mr Schulz's words are only two and a half centimetres long.
It will serve to show how articulated language comes into being. I let the vowels fool around. I let the vowels quite simply occur, as a cat meows . . . Words emerge, shoulders of words, legs, arms, hands of words. Au, oi, uh. One shouldn't let too many words out. A line of poetry is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by stockbrokers' hands, hands worn smooth by coins. I want the word where it ends and begins. Dada is the heart of words.
Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn't I find it? Why can't a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.
continuing this theme of my being an enormous hick, my mom just told me that she was delayed getting into school because someone tried to push a fallen tree off the road with their truck
...and the most mysterious part of the story is that they would do this stupid thing instead of haul it normally or pull out a chainsaw
Comments
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
boobs
fuzz pedals
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Not that there weren't people who strongly disliked me, but they were... weirdly individual cases.
I hated being in high school, but the people were all right.
as a basic human activity for thousands of years, it's good to reconnect to it. its presence is even known in language. now i remember why we have such idioms as "against the grain", "blades never strike the same place twice", and "i'm glad we upgraded to coal"
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Dada is a new tendency in art. One can tell this from the fact that until now nobody knew anything about it, and tomorrow everyone in Zurich will be talking about it. Dada comes from the dictionary. It is terribly simple. In French it means "hobby horse". In German it means "good-bye", "Get off my back", "Be seeing you sometime". In Romanian: "Yes, indeed, you are right, that's it. But of course, yes, definitely, right". And so forth.
An International word. Just a word, and the word a movement. Very easy to understand. Quite terribly simple. To make of it an artistic tendency must mean that one is anticipating complications. Dada psychology, dada Germany cum indigestion and fog paroxysm, dada literature, dada bourgeoisie, and yourselves, honoured poets, who are always writing with words but never writing the word itself, who are always writing around the actual point. Dada world war without end, dada revolution without beginning, dada, you friends and also-poets, esteemed sirs, manufacturers, and evangelists. Dada Tzara, dada Huelsenbeck, dada m'dada, dada m'dada dada mhm, dada dera dada, dada Hue, dada Tza.
How does one achieve eternal bliss? By saying dada. How does one become famous? By saying dada. With a noble gesture and delicate propriety. Till one goes crazy. Till one loses consciousness. How can one get rid of everything that smacks of journalism, worms, everything nice and right, blinkered, moralistic, europeanised, enervated? By saying dada. Dada is the world soul, dada is the pawnshop. Dada is the world's best lily-milk soap. Dada Mr Rubiner, dada Mr Korrodi. Dada Mr Anastasius Lilienstein. In plain language: the hospitality of the Swiss is something to be profoundly appreciated. And in questions of aesthetics the key is quality.
I shall be reading poems that are meant to dispense with conventional language, no less, and to have done with it. Dada Johann Fuchsgang Goethe. Dada Stendhal. Dada Dalai Lama, Buddha, Bible, and Nietzsche. Dada m'dada. Dada mhm dada da. It's a question of connections, and of loosening them up a bit to start with. I don't want words that other people have invented. All the words are other people's inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own. If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long. Mr Schulz's words are only two and a half centimetres long.
It will serve to show how articulated language comes into being. I let the vowels fool around. I let the vowels quite simply occur, as a cat meows . . . Words emerge, shoulders of words, legs, arms, hands of words. Au, oi, uh. One shouldn't let too many words out. A line of poetry is a chance to get rid of all the filth that clings to this accursed language, as if put there by stockbrokers' hands, hands worn smooth by coins. I want the word where it ends and begins. Dada is the heart of words.
Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn't I find it? Why can't a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.
...and the most mysterious part of the story is that they would do this stupid thing instead of haul it normally or pull out a chainsaw
Well, now that's just terrifying.
(For context, this is an official figure of... Aunt May.)
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead