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inaccurate.
***
inaccurate.
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Statue enters multi-story car park on mechanical bull. Kick butt music. No one concerned yet…. I fucking love this game. Quick hard slam of a meaner yellow inflator, slow dramatic dismount still wearing soup of helmet fog. Soon the jokes will begin to tapestry a delicious rotting tragedy among the creepy onlookers’ barking gut bacteria: in united pyramids, a body of acid wants you dead…. a recycling of sick home video wears its luxury torrent like fallout, dams in hangover resulting in collision…. So, in my real world, the maid cancelled Sonic the Hedgehog: “You will notice that I have concerns with the Doritos,” she says. “Hey, perhaps I am not a very good shrek!” Through toxic waste I glimpse the room sized dream; the saddest apocalypse is still quite intrusive, culminates in neighborhood saturation wound. “Pal, you are.” Gadget hits sister’s baby, the sheer fucker atmosphere dehydrates the hot module ruining the virtual reality bees; anonymously, their dead can in some fashion keep themselves well numb.
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Questions:
i] Who cancelled Sonic the Hedgehog and why?
ii] What size was the dream?
iii] What provoked Gadget to hit sister’s baby?
iv] Was that Inspector Gadget or was it something else?
v] Where was this whole thing set?
vi] Tell me three ways the saddest apocalypse could be intrusive. Continue reading
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Zine: Psycho Holosuite [Issue 1]
Pages: 80 [print version], 90 [e-version]
Contributors: Berit Ellingsen, Frankie Sachs, Soren Melville, Thomas Stolperer, Marc Horne, Tyson Bley and me [Oli].
Release date: Now
Notes:
Well, after printing this thing 5 months ago and watching it sit in a box in the corner of my living room doing nothing ever since, I can finally say, man, it’s out.
By ‘out’ I mean available for order in stripped down e-form on amazon, and on its way in glorious zine form to the following places:
Atomic Books [Baltimore]
The Coming Society [Hong Kong]
Sticky Institute [Melbourne]
Housmans [London]
Book Thug Nation [NYC]
Molasses [NYC]
Quimby’s [Chicago]
There are still 4-5 places we’re gonna add to this list, but you can find out more about these confirmed stockists here.
All of them are decent and well stocked with zines from all kinds of people, so even if you don’t like our one, you probably will like at least one zine there.
Also, if you want to order a copy, just e-mail us and we’ll see if there’s any left.
What’s in Issue 1 of this zine?
Well, there’s: Continue reading
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Zine: Psycho Holosuite [Issue 1]
Pages: 80 [print version], 90 [e-version]
Contributors: Berit Ellingsen, Frankie Sachs, Soren Melville [cover artist], Thomas Stolperer, Marc Horne, Tyson Bley and me [Oli].
Release date: September 1st
Publication: Every 3-4 months hopefully
Notes:
Unlike the Gupter Puncher zines I’ve done before, I really like the name of this one.
The issue number was going to be higher to give the impression the zine’s been running for longer than it has, but I scrapped that idea and just went with ‘1’.
80 Pages isn’t that many, even with 6 other contributors.
Theme? Stories?
The first issue of this zine will deal with a] authenticity and b] dread.
The stories will be alive and integrated fluidly into the zine, not just put down on the page to be admired.
There will be e-mails and comments and tangents all over the place.
There will be time travel and dying astronauts and riker from Star Trek [barely] and a hybrid designed specifically to colonise Mars.
There will be a Ray Bradbury piss-take.
There will even be notes for most of the Freddy films written by me pretending to be Robert Englund. Continue reading
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This is my kind of poetry…, short, weird, sci-fi-ish, bizarro, funny and the word choice is almost always spot on even if I have no idea what he’s trying to say…
Tyson does lots of these over on soapstain and zizekpress
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Vulcan insomnia forges a portal through the underbelly of
a shaky tricorder, which Spock points at his wig and
mock shoots himself with, alone in his purple room,
rattling off a series of atmospheric extinctions.
A frogman with false-looking teeth will be described
as steeped in cum-tarnish the next time he points that
thing at a dog’s rubber chew toy.
After a very poor display of ‘impulse containment,’
the tricorder finally ‘recognizes’ the wig.
Flooding the corridors in tight sleepwear, the startled crew
hears the machine gun noises of time standing still,
the creaking of giant rain standing still, a shiny tumbling of
miniature gas. A white-out of taekwondo muff, riding up.