"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Gates of Dis-claimer

In some specific place… at some specific time while attending high school, I realized that graffiti was pretty, pretty… pretty neat. I would draw “graffiti styled” art on paper and it was fairly easy to pose as though I knew what I was doing, given the audience. What I later realized, is that the aspect of graffiti which I had prized so much wasn’t necessarily the style, but the destruction of property… and to a lesser, but perhaps more valuable extent, what the art said.

So thus, I took to “graffiti-ing” my school textbooks. If you are privy to American schooling before the internet became more or less dominant, the names “Houghton-Mifflin,” “Macmillan,” or any other pretentious-sounding publisher that calls to my mind the grueling away of the first week of every grade school year folding book covers for these overpriced monstrosities, being forced like a slave to help goad them slowly to and across their seven-year life cycle, may perhaps sound familiar. This understood, you then also might remember the photographs in between chapters that would, I guess, attempt to visually summarize the information pending. When presented during chapters, these similarly dramatized photographs would attempt to represent people making real-world use of the knowledge which you were just about to be forced to memorize lest you fail a test. These pictures were my derelict walls, my overpasses, my canvas. I eventually saw, after years of grade school culminating in the thinking that there must have been some large, physical pile of stock photos taken in the 1980’s for John Houghton to pull from, that these were begging to be made fun of and… that I knew exactly what the characters in these pictures were thinking.

I don’t mean to pour a clandestine, retrospective bucket of “awesome” on my childhood self, as I probably only did it a handful of times. But I clearly remember fucking loving it. Though no mirage of pride exists in this frivolous venture, I say that before you were a turd in the toilet of the internet floating around near the vacuous hole of 4chan entertaining other anonymous, perfunctory turds in attempt to maintain your school-yard neurosis of acceptance-seeking to avoid being psychologically flushed in what most likely is a meaningless existence when away from a keyboard or touchscreen, I was writing “de-motivational poster” dialogue with raised pen in hundred-dollar text books; I was using manual “paint-shopping” to repurpose the subtext of “found art,” which has since become an underground, then summarily overground internet phenomenon after I had already graduated from that psychopathic crap-factory.

I’m not puffing myself up as some sort of OG, by any means. But I will say that back then, the hand-drawing of hilarious word bubbles on photographs in what we were ingrained to think of as very expensive textbooks and then ripping out the pages to keep for posterity actually meant something. And I’ll be DAMNED if the internet hasn’t cheapened that.

So thus, I’m going to retroactively “Raekwon” this shit and plant my Iron Flag on the earth that I felt as fertile long before technology made it far too easy to till. And by “shit,” I mean “meme.” And by “I,” I mean “myself.” And by “earth,” I mean “the garbage you assimilate in your every day life, digest and crap out with absolutely no thought.”  By “‘Raekwon,'” I mean “pioneer,” and by “flag,” I mean “DICK.”

This “comic” will serve me as an aesthetic ginger for the sushi bar of my work. It will be vulgar, yet beautifully apropos. And most of all, just what I need when I find myself taking the world just a bit too seriously. Hopefully you also (yes, you, not that asshole I was referring to earlier) can find a similar reprieve and value within it.
Thanks for understanding my satire. Or thrunks for not understanding it and getting offended.

Whichever one applies to you.

-BrianshipPotemkin

Addendum, May 2014: Fuck quick-meme websites, and the lazy shits who use them.

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