Wednesday, December 29, 2010

WAKE UP LZRD HOLLYWOOD

HA HA HA! i clicked to the seventh dimensional fish who'd escaped from my building's elevator shaft. I wheld up the FLYER some thing had slipped under my door crack and waved it around, stirring the tiny air molecules that fed the lava on my floor. I had to strand on a stack of disfigured Barbies to avoid the sulfurous bubbling
THIS HERE says, I said, that if I'm not shropping at LEON'S then I'm paying too much for my antiques and must be CRAZY! I laugged again at the notion. LEON IS THE CRAZY ONE, HE KEEPS HIS LIZARD-ALLIANCE FLAG IN THE CORNER OF HIS STORE'S WINDOW!
I rocked me and armadillo to sleep to visit of our favorite world where the mud bubbles and sound of Mother's bandages always rip, and we dream and sleep and listen.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Ricky, the depressed second grade solipsist

If all this exists only in my mind
why has my mind created such offensively puerile torture.

Friday, December 10, 2010

The Velociraptor Who Ruined & Then Saved Christmas

Only after the velociraptor had attacked, eviscerated, and finished devouring the plump, greasy naked pink ape who had climbed into its cave did it realize what it had done. The jingling of the sleigh bells perched atop its rocky lair and unmistakable mixture of elaphine stink and jolliness made its nostrils quiver with voracious hunger and sudden guilt.
"OH NO!" it shrieked, red specks of gristle flying from its steel-strong jaw. "I've ruined CHRISTMAS! How will I fix this mess?"
It plopped onto the icy cave floor as well as a velociraptor can plop and buried its head in its razor sharp claw hands. Out of the corner of its emotionless amber eye, in a pool of viscerae, it spotted starlight glinting, ever so slightly, off of what looked to be short fur.
"Is that— could it be—" it squealed hopefully, snortling quickly and leaning forward to peer. Despite the velociraptor's colorblindness and the bloody mess of the puddle, it was sure the fur was pure, jolly red. It lifted it up out of the clumpy bloodied mass. "His hat!"
Fitting the Santa hat over its bony skull, it gnashed victoriously in the air and let out a hideous, cacophonous scream. "THIS CHRISTMAS IS FUCKING CRETACEOUS!"

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Spaghetti is a person! Dough & meat & grease!

I AM SEÑOR ESPAGUETIS!!!
MADE FOR YOUR CONSUMPTION SO PLEASE CONSUME ME!
PLEASE PAY NO ATTENTION TO MY NOODLE ARMS TWITCHING AS I TRAVEL DOWN YOUR THROAT!!!!


Sunday, November 21, 2010

Ima be your one love, your #1 crab

DEAREST JUSTIN!!!!,
I am your number one fan I painted my walls the color of your face skin!!!! Please come visit me I will try not to drown you.
LOVE YOU ALWAYS AND FOREVERE
Krbarbkarkkkk

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

My darling,
I hope you never read this letter. I wrote it in the Google search box on my browser's tool bar at work so I seem less suspicious. Yet this too is fraught with peril, for if I accidentally press enter it will be embedded in my browser history, and all could be lost.
Darling, darling, to get back to why I write this to you, except not to youI must tell someoneno wait, no one!of my feelings for you. How often I think of your clammy, meaty hands pawing through my hair, our bodies sticky and rank from the friction of lovemaking, your warm, milky breath jagged and humid in my ear. I need you badly but cannot tell you for a number of reasons, not least of which is your deep, violent loathing for women. I forgive you, darling, oh I forgive you, if only you'd kiss me, just once, with those sloppy pink pillows you call lips. Just a fistful of your glorious hair and a fleeting orgasm is all I ask.
Darling, I must go, for I fear that sitting here typing in the Google search bar on the Wikipedia page for "hard work" is beginning to look suspicious. Just remember how deeply I long for youor don't.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Excerpt from Le Noir Erotique: Chapter 2

The stringy, twisted mustache of Jean-Paul glistened and gleamed from his sensual efforts. The bristles in his slender nostrils winked in the moonlight as he thrusted, his powerful, sinewy muscles knotting beneath the salmon-colored flesh of his buttocks.
"Arg," argged Jean-Paul.
"Arooo?" Georgette howled questioningly. Jean-Paul's pink-cheeked virility made her eyes roll back in her head a full 360 degrees.
"ARGGGG!" he argged again, sinking his canines into her ample brow and vacuuming up a good amount of her headflesh into his mouth. "Enuh tah. Tih uh feh ot a ur-shihuh urgahzah ih yor oboree feeh lih."
She bucked her hips and squeezed her powerful, tree trunk-like legs around his torso. Her bellow would echo through the piney forest for a very long time, bouncing around in the ears of future sylvan lovers for years to come: "LET LOOSE YOUR PEARLESCENT RIVER, YOU BRAWNY RAPSCALLION!"
-- from my forthcoming erotic novel

Sunday, November 7, 2010

This is for you

Hey you.
I wrote you something. A love letter. I put all of myself into it—all my feelings, my desires and dreams, my love for you. Then I got too embarrassed and erased it and drew you this picture of Taylor Lautner on a riding tractor instead.
I realize this is probably why you don’t love me, but what am I supposed to do? Not draw pictures of Taylor Lautner on a riding tractor? Sorry.
Love,
Me

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I have whatever the opposite of psychosis is

You know how sometimes you're talking to someone, just anyone really, like in line at the grocery store or waiting to cross the street, and as you babble on about the weather or the price of kiwis you realize they're really millions of baby spiders hiding inside a latex human suit? And when you realize, you can't speak and you try to gasp or scream but your every muscle is frozen in horror, and then they turn into a horrible, melting monster that kind of looks like your mom with Sean Connery's face growing out of its scaly, boil-covered back as it vomits baby spiders endlessly, drowning you slowly in the squirming void as you stand paralyzed by utter terror? MEEEE NEITHERRRRR LOLLLLL!!!! So glad we can agree on that.

Monday, November 1, 2010

"Sex Crazy Cop" by Leoncie - LYRIXXX



my transcription of Leoncie's touching lyrics to "Sex Crazy Cop"
He toldur that he wazint sorrehhh
He waz workin laaate and she shoota da stannn
She toldim I down believya storeh
It's just oneifa u-zoo-al one nye stans
Yuuurla tellin meh lahs, an think dah ahbaleerb yeh
Yor satcha lowr der greep enn hah despise you
Nothin seems to madder to yeeeerw ennie watch cheap seckss
Cheap secksss!
No needa chellis. Thurs no needabe chellis.
She wass onea of dose eesie pushy borhin trambs
Shat tha hellup! Whal you were bissie duinit
I woss worekin hoorrrrd at the disco beeenk
You were justa lousy gup and not some great detettih
You pickle all da sluts from the street and screwdim in sikhrat
If thas not enough, you go pooda spool geh some more
Cheap secksss!
You bangdem inda mornin! Bangdem evry deeh!
Come home in the evenin saynits ok
Weetcheeng his doktore told you that it's safe! Fuh yuh famuhly!
You were justa lousy gup and not some great detettih
You pickle all da sluts from the street and screwdimin sikhrat
If thass not enough, go guerda der spoo gessome more
Cheap secksss!
You bangdem inda mornin! Bangdem evry deeh!
Come home in the evenin saynits ok
Weetcheeng his doktore told you that it's safe! Fuh yuh famuhly!
Ohhh! Cheap secksss!

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Monster4W, seeking companionship, delicious soft bone marrow

hi ladies :) :) ;) my name is chad. i have been looking for that special someone to share my life with and im sick of the barscene lol! i love hiphop n skateboarding even though im not very good at it it's my life and i don't know what id do without it! im just a normal guy looking to not crunch your bones and voraciously feast on your glistening entrails in the dank bloody cavern where i slowly and maliciously devour all my soft human victims lol. hit me up on FB or email me here, lol u no what to do! :) ;) >:() :,O X,,( :d !!!

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Excerpt from Le Noir Erotique

Jean-Paul’s manly need rippled through his body as he stretched out upon the French Riviera beach, his tawny skin kissing the pale blue sky as he ravished his young companion with his steel gray eyes. "Georgette," he mewled from his curled and scaly pink mouth. "It is your body I have dreamt of for lo these many years!" "AH JEAN-PAULLLLLL" squealed Georgette, clasping her slender hands daintily over her gently heaving ivory bosoms. "I have waited for you for so long to say those very words to me!" He roughly grabbed her shelf of back fat and pulled her close. "Ah Georgette," he cooed into her mustache. "Our sensual vacation of clammy bodily delights awaits us."
-- from my forthcoming erotic novel

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Manny the Manatee: The Blog Post: The Movie

Listen the fuck up, Disney.
You're terrible. You're struggling. You need a movie with a--are you listening?--MANATEE IN IT. They're no diggity SO HOT right now. 87 out of 92 stupid fucking kids agree, manatees are the new vampires.
"Oh no!" you stupid pussies are thinking. "Now we have to write some movie about manatees! What the hell are manatees? Are they a type of chewing gum?"
ERRRNNNNNHHHH (STEPPING ON BREAKS NOISE)!! HOLD IT, you Disney corporate fatcat wall streets! I ALREADY wrote this goddamn movie FOR you!!! It's about a Manatee named MANNY and he has a girl friend and a bad hammerhead Shark nemesis and why the fuck not a slow loris friend, because kids are too stupid to know what slow lorises is. It can talk with a Jamaican accent or some shit.
Now, a bunch of cartoon industry dumbfucks, including yourselves, are thinking 3-D and CGI are the new way to go. WROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG!!! Just LOOK at the Accessories folder in your Start launch and see for yourselves -- it's MS PAINT. Kids these days don't learn jackshit about art ANYWHERE. Schools don't have money for art classes, and when kids DO get markers and glue, they spend all their time huffing or smoking it while sexting their teachers. The first experience this new generation of children get with art is awkwardly drawing Spongebob giving it to that fucking squirrel using the spray tool on the universal art-making program, MS PAINT.
Not sold yet? Well, fuck you too. And read this excerpt from my script I typed on WORD, a professional word processing program:

MANNY
I am save the ocean? But I am scarewd!
TITTERELLA
I belief in you I think the water neds you ot
MANNY
STOP TALKING I NEED TO THINIK OK
JAMBI THE SLOW LORIS
Ya mon like lit da mon dink he ned to sef os fram da shork do
MANNY
Jambi i Can always count of you for sense.
JAMBI THE SLOW LORIS
(gets hits in the nuts with a starfish)
Oyyyy monnn, my notttts!! (author's note: catchphrase JACKPOT)

I will share the rest of this script and drawings with you, Disney or whoever else has money, for the low low price of 250 grand and a lifetime supply of weed. You know how to get at me. So fucking holla.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Deep sea fishing


YOU'RE UGLY pulsed the jellyfish BUT I'M ALONE SO YOU'LL DO.
If you think I am that desperate, growled the angler fish, you're right.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

For every occasion

Here are some cards I have been working on! If you would like to give these to a loved one, coworker, friend, acquaintance, secret arch-nemesis (you know who you are, you loud-mouthed bitch), stalkee, or your favorite zookeeper, please feel free to print them out and make into IRL cards! Just credit "© K.L. Ingram, Marquess of Love, 2010" on the back in Sharpie or nail polish or whatever scratchy tool is available to you (tip: fingernails work in a pinch). If you want to commission original work from me, leave a comment with your name, address, alternate address, email, height, date of birth, short description of your ass, favorite type of apple, and phone number.

Samples from my portfolio (My Documents folder, which I renamed "BADASSSSS"). Click to enlarge if you can't read it—I don't want you to blame your eye cancer on me!:

From the "Hey, it's you, or whatever. Guess I should get you a card or something" line

From the "We're family but we hate each other and have terrible taste in TV" line

From the "Why is everyone I hate more successful than I'll ever be?" line

From the "Generic card occasion" line

From the "Ugh. Sisters." line


Thursday, September 30, 2010

The sweet _______ of success!


AH! The taste of success! It tastes suspiciously like halitosis, but brushing with baking soda and gargling hydrogen peroxide won't cure success, I can assure you. Take a deep breath. What does it feel like to fill your lungs with so much successful air? I hope you didn't exhale out of your rank mouth right before you breathed that air in. Try again without doing that. There. Now that's successful air filling your successful lungs. Successful people go jogging, own complicated phones, wear clothes they didn't get from bums in exchange for Popeye's leftovers, and brush their teeth at least twice a day (or get their maids to do it for them! Ha ha!!!). Go buy an original Vermeer, have it covered in platinum, diamonds (extra blood, please!), and dodo leather, and blow it up inside the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln. God damn it feels good to be alive! Or should I say it feels good to be successful and alive? What's the point of having the second without the first! AHHHHH, FUCKING SUCCESS!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

An exploration of happiness

What is happiness like? Is it like a dog on a mountain of muffins?

Is it like two friends swinging on a swingset?

It might be like learning to love new friends no matter where you are.

Or maybe happiness is like a child actress portraying a robot on a 1980s sitcom standing next to a fake refrigerator filled with fake burritos.

Or perhaps it's the opposite of that. I can't remember!

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Let's get erotic!

I close my eyes and sigh, my hands gliding over your slippery back, my lips following your long jawline. Your free hand tangles in my hair as your mouth slides against my neck as I try to unhook your work overalls. “Oh Big Boy,” I breathe against your ear, a smile in my voice, your hamburger trailing down my body. “You’re the best I ever had.”
--- excerpt from my upcoming erotic food novel


Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Shark and Shrimp meet at a watering hole

Shrimp and Elephant, after many hours of riding, came upon a watering hole whose clean sharp scent they could smell and taste in the air long before they could see it. As they eagerly drew near to drink, they found another pair of riders approaching the water from the other side.
"Ho, fellow travelers!" greeted Shark and Other Elephant.
Elephant shifted uneasily. "Ho," said Shrimp. "We do not want any trouble. We are very thirsty and will be on our way after refreshing ourselves here."
"Oh, us too, us too," said Shark. "Whyever would we give you trouble? You and I, we are fellow creatures of the sea. We must stick together. Perhaps there we were enemies, but on land we are as foreign and confused as our elephants would be in the oceans, and the troubles we face here are far too great to turn against our fellow lonely friends who once dwelt in waters."
Shrimp thought about this. "You might be right, but even so, we will drink our fill and be on our way."
Shark nodded and climbed down from Other Elephant. "Very well, your choice," Shark answered with a bow.
Shrimp dismounted to get a drink alongside Elephant. As soon as Shrimp's head dipped into the cool clean water, Shark splashed across the watering hole and ate Shrimp up in one bite. Shark felt the futile wriggling going down its gullet and sighed with satisfaction as the thrashing came to a stop. Shark turned and jeered at Elephant.
"What good is caution," grinned Shark, kicking the water towards Elephant, "to an anthropomorphic fictional shark?"
Shark and Other Elephant rode away into the Photoshopped forests, and Elephant stood alone at the edge of the watering hole, wondering what anthropomorphic meant.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Zeke, the lonely space cowboy

Perched on a slowly revolving ring of Saturn, Zeke the lonely space cowboy chewed his salted pork and corn pone sandwich solemnly.
“What do you think is out there?” he said to his trusty bay Willie, who whuffled into her helmet. He narrowed his eyes at the planets and stars that shone and winked in the inky vacuum.
“Probably a lot of stuff I could fuck,” he said, and he put down his sandwich with the brilliance of this revelation. “Willie, we got ourselves a new adventure!”

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Ariel has a sad bath

Ariel lowered herself into her new bathtub, the warm, clean water unfamiliar and unpleasant to her dry, newly human skin. Suddenly a ridiculous bubble of desperate hope rose and burst in her chest. She reached both her hands into the water to search for underwater friends hidden in the tub. After several minutes of scanning and grasping at imagined flickers of movement in the empty water and finding no one, she gave up. Ariel sat alone in the saltless barren water and sighed. She settled back against the too-cold porcelain to wait for a servant to fetch her for yet another confusing meal with strangers.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Brine Meridian, or the Evening Gherkins in the West

Thanks to strict new pickle rustling laws, sunlight shines safely upon packs of plentiful unplucked pickles. All is right with the world.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

PART 2 of the 2010 Alien Cro22-Blog2perience Xtravagan2a: The Bloggening

Picture by Bryan F.
Made spacier by me

This short story tale is the collaboration between me and Bryan, a very talented and spicy young man who will one day clean the president's teeth with a hot glue spider, or something. Part 1 was our individual stories (HERE'S RAYBAN'S!!!) which showcased our own perverse and various talents, and today you see what happens when we share a Google Doc and write together (SPOILER ALERT: it's MAGICK!).

PART 2 OF 2 SEPARATE STORIES
UNTITLED ALIEN PROSTITUTE TALE: IN WHICH THE GOSLINGS ASK FOR PIZZA

by B. Erik Fernandez & K.L. Ingram

Maleien was sitting in his pimp chair when his ho Ganxaxa sashayed through his door.
"BITCH," he boomed. "Where my money. If you don’t got my money I’m gon cut you!"
She quivered in her pearls. "Naw, naw, Maleien, you got me wrong! You know I'm good for it! I just got so many goslings at home, sometimes it's hard to keep up with everything!"
"I don't CARE if you good for it, I want the money now! You bring me 25,000 floopdedoops by TOMORROW or I'ma salt you and turn you into jerky, naw what I mean?"
"I will, I will! You'll see! I'll turn extra tricks, open a jerky shop, or something!" she cried, running out of the door.
She ran, viscous black fluid leaking out of her eyes, into the elevator up to her apartment where her goslings were waiting.
"BABIES!" she said, her voice shaking through the tears.
"MAMA WHAT’S WRONG" said all the goslings in unison. (Goslings are a hive mind until they reach level 24 drekels.)
"I got bad news for you. Mama's not going to be around much for awhile."
Her goslings sat staring at her.
“PIZZA, CHARLIE!” shouted the goslings in unison, which sort of creeped Ganxaxa out. Who was Charlie?
“PIZZA, CHARLIE!” they shouted again. Ganxaxa glanced around nervously.
But before Ganxaxa could figure it out, everything exploded. Stuff was still there when she opened her eyes but it was slightly different. It was strange--she couldn't quite explain it. Everything felt a little more green and her name was probably Charlie now.
"Am I Charlie?" asked Charlie.
The goslings' thoraxes were expanding and contracting at a nauseating speed.
"PIZZA, CHARLIE" they shouted again.
The goslings' strange dance was speeding up. She vomited up a thick roll of pizza dough. She could hear their exoskeletons crunching with each contraction. Charlie vomited again in fear.
This time it was a thick, red tomato based sauce pouring out of her face.
The goslings began to drone and buzz in unison, shaking her stomach like the great belly of a farnok being tickled by a raguna feather. At once the goslings became a fiery red, similar to lava, or maybe magma, and melded together like when you're heating up chocolate chips and then they melt into a puddle, but this puddle was solid and big as a Korlernt. She vomited one last time for what seemed forever. Mountains and mountains of mozzarella cheese and assorted fixins came rocketing out of her facehole straight into the puddle.
A giant hole opened in the puddle and it ingested everything Ganxaxa had puked up. Or was it Charlie now? She wasn't sure. All she was sure of was that she was scared and shivering and owed her pimp some cash.
So Charlie hotfooted it down to the nearest jerky store and robbed it at gunpoint. She returned the money to Maleien. They were wed the next day and had a very unhappy life together.

Monday, August 30, 2010

PART 1 of the 2010 Alien Cross-Blogsperience Xtravaganza

Picture by Bryan F.

On Sunday, August 29, 2010, two "great" minds joined brain forces for what I like to call a "cross-blogsperience." The above picture was done by B.E. Fernando, and we collaborated on a single story based on it (PART 2 TOMORROW BET U CAN'T WAIT!).
We also each wrote our own stories to go with the picture. For his story, go to his blog, which you should be reading anyway, jerk. Here is mine today:

PART 1 OF 2 SEPARATE STORIES
Alien couples have sad lives too
by K.L. Ingram

"What're you all dressed up for," he asked, barely looking away from the space TV.
His wife stood in the doorway to their bedroom, her slimy hands resting impatiently on her top two hips.
"When was the last time we went out?"
"What? Space’s Greatest Boner Videos is on, hon, would you keep it down.”
"I WILL NOT! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME—get some of your hands out of your pants when I'm talking to you! When was the last time we went out, I said. Put down the goddamn remote and look at me."
He placed the remote on the arm of his Space-E-Boy and flicked his empty, pure black gaze to his wife's jagged figure. Both were suddenly and mutually overwhelmed by the nothing they felt with their eyes fixed on one another.
Neither of them was the same. They were bitter, angry, listless. Even in her finest red dress she was not the vibrant young carnivorous monster that he had devoured naked pink space apes with in the Battle of X-19-7-4098. And he knew he wasn't the same either; he no longer had the intense, ever-burning desire to fertilize her ova that he had as a younger alien, and where his hard lactic acid-filled sacs once made him an imposing, hale creature, they now hung limp with adipose tissue, his taut green flesh sallow and wilted.
They both thought often, as they did in that instant, of the occasion in which they copulated for 82 straight Andromedean days. Their excited, passionate, love-filled clicks and ululations had rung out emptily in the intimate airless void around them as their bony, grinding bodies wetly and hideously became one. Now their time together was filled with sullen silence, avoided touches, and nonenergetic feasting upon the ordered-out bones of their enemies (the preparation and consumption of which was once a joyous and often romantic event).
That brief moment of sad realization of the yawning, farcical futility of their life passed when he cleared his throats, a shrieking grinding of his esophageal bones that shattered the silence.
“Let’s go to Chile’s,” he said.
She knew it was the best they would both get, so she nodded and fetched her space purse.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

The ghost of Johnny Cash visits me at a Taco Bell

A couple of summers ago I was working a Taco Bell drive-thru on an especially sweltering evening—one of those Southeast Texas nights where the air is so stiflingly hot and soaked through with humidity that you have to hold your breath when you first walk outside. No one had come for hours and I was about to pull my till around 2 am when I encountered the ghost of Johnny Cash.
"You don't happen to have chicken dumplings, do you?” came crackling over my speaker. I had not heard the ding of the drive-thru sensor and was caught with a mouthful of illicit cinnamon twists dipped in nacho cheese. I inhaled suddenly from the surprise, and jagged shards of half-chewed crunchy cinnamon treats flew into my throat. I had to swallow half a bucket-sized cup of Sierra Mist Mojito Splash to stop the violent coughing.
"Hello—I'm sorry sir, what was that?" I croaked after a minute, drooling opaque, cheez-colored slobber onto the mic.
I heard a faint chuckle and the softest purr of an engine as the customer pulled up to my window.
You may call me crazy—and hey, I've been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia as much as the next gal. You may also call me high—and sure, I had ingested enough THC and ketamine that night to make a polar bear hallucinate for three days. But I tell you this, with every truth-filled fiber of my being, that below me that night in a gleaming black towncar at that Taco Bell off the 290/Beltway interchange was, very unmistakably, the ghost of Johnny Cash.
"Hello, hon," said the ghost of Johnny Cash. "I said, you don't have chicken dumplings, do you?"
I shook my head, wiping the drool off my face with the back of my hand. "No, no sir. We have... we just have tacos."
He nodded and asked me to read him the entire menu. I did so, and when I finished he asked me to do it again. He ordered nachos supreme and two chicken chalupas and carefully counted out the $4.35 in dimes and pennies.
"Sir, sir, don’t worry about it," I protested when he pulled out his heavenly change purse.
But he just smiled that crinkled Johnny Cash smile and said, in that beautiful rich rough baritone, "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I'm Johnny Cash."
I pressed the packets of Fire Sauce firmly into his hand, which felt neither cool nor warm to the touch, and silently, with the smile still on his face, he drove off into the hot pitch black night.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Angry bald man in a wig store

"What the fuck is this shit?" yelled the angry bald man in a wig store to no one in particular. "Fucking Christ."
The saleslady had to ask him to leave after he shuffled angrily around the store for twenty more minutes, spitting on the floor and hollering profanities at the mannequin heads and other patrons. He was expecting to be thrown out, but it still stung a little.

Monday, August 23, 2010

COSTNER: A Savagely Erotic Journey into the Heart of the American Dream

Those moments in our childhood that shape our wishes, our dreams, our sexuality: often they do not have names and identities for us now but are brief blurs, barely-shaped half-remembered stirrings. A flush of wanting in your barely-pubescent chest, a quickening of the pulse and a taste of something unknown but deeply and suddenly desired that burns and crackles through your whole being.
Well, those moments do have a name. An identity. A face.

Kevin Costner.

And here is a taste of the graphic novelizations of his movies that he, an American icon, a true talent, a wholesome yet sensually appealing collective stirring in our shared culture's loins, has always deserved. From my heart and MS Paint files to your eyes:

The Bodyguard: Raise your voice, Whitney. Sing the song that runs in all of our hearts. When Costner very literally swept you off your feet, he swept us all off our proverbial feet forever.

Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves: Remember Alan Rickman and Morgan Freeman were in this? There were also breasts and a waterfall.

Field of Dreams: We laughed, we cried, we pondered our own daddy issues, we learned about baseball players, we choked on hot dogs. This movie has everything, including a crowbar and a rousing scene where all of us good Americans stood on our chairs with Costner's wife who sort of looked like Holly Hunter and shouted together, raising our voices as one, NO WE WILL NOT BAN OUR BOOKS! WE ARE AMERICANS! WE ARE AMERICA!

And we are. Together. Because of you, Mr. Costner. I thank you. More than words can ever say.
-----
If your favorite Costner feature film (and who can pick a favorite? It's like choosing between your children or Fun Dip flavors) is not featured here, fear not. Untouchables, Waterworld, Dances with Wolves, The Postman, and No Way Out are all in the works too. But probably not soon because even my ardent yearning for Costner does not make my finger not ache from these goddamn MS paint drawings.