We are the Gingerbread Men Lebowski. We are here to fuck you up!

Today is Gay Roger's birthday. I hope if I give him an art card I can avoid giving him a handjob. I need to save my strength for drawing.

Iowa City Has Public Sculpture that Doubles as Your Tombstone

My idea to improve Iowa City: instead of one bronze Irving Weber downtown and a bunch of geese stuck on street signs: bronze HEADS of Irving Weber, as if he's buried up to his head, placed all over town. By street corners, by manholes, wherever. In some, he's in excruciating pain from his burial torture. In others, he's happy with his fate. The Fucking Duality of Man as embodied by Irving Weber.

P.S. The dark cloud in the sky comes from Roger's cab. I wish he could be more green.

I Like to Draw Vaginas and Penises

Some people say that artists are kind of freaky—you know, freaky like Roger's freaky, when he gets his freak on. I prefer to think that we artists are just sexually enlightened.

Trees and birds are sexy, too.

Peas of Despair and Misery

...
God, I hated eating peas when I was a kid. Even today I sometimes weep when confronted with a bowl of fresh (or frozen) peas. Snap peas make me paranoid.

What I really wanted was ham, or maybe pineapple, or perhaps a fresh latte.