Cover by SteVen Erst of @liverdiet and @dabuttcollector fame...
posse sticker, by @underwhelmist Welcome to the second issue of #CumSkull a zine for twitter, by twitter, and about your wet slutty mom,,, the above sticker design is a cool thing to photocopy and put on stuff so I can get more twitter followers I guess. New this issue is a fake typewriter font and generally spooky stuff to honor the hallowwe’en traditions of our elders. Hot dog them titys, brian
It is fall and change is in the air. I can see the evidence in the leaves of the trees as I drive through the TX hill country and also in the date on the eviction notice that was in the mail when I got home today. It took me an hour to get to the letter because of all the fan mail/science questions readers like you have sent me. It has to stop. I am not a role model. Going forward, I suggest you take the science I drop on you here at Cumskull and deal with it. Love Always, @nadineseyepatch
∴ Scientists tried to extract DNA from organisms trapped in amber (like they did on Jurassic Park), and found that it doesn't work. Once again we have been lied to by Hollywood and prob Obama too. ∴ While studying how/why adult Issus planthoppers can jump at accelerations of about 500Gs (humans pass out over 5Gs), researchers found the young bugs have gears in there 'thighs' that regulate the jump. Gears have been seen as a human invention and finding them in nature was surprising to many.
∴ It has been reported that the Porphyromonas gingivalis microbe has been found in the brains of Alzheimer's patients and not in the brains of those without Alzheimer's. The microbe is responsible for gum disease and simply brushing your teeth twice a day can reduce the chance of infection.
∴ Harvard scientists found that THC cuts tumor growth in half in mice/rat studies and inhibit tumor growth in numerous cell culture studies.
∴ Princeton researchers recently made a bionic human ear (including integrated electronics) with a 3D printer.
@badmilkday
poems by @lordspaw Lines adapted from tv commercials and rearranged, take one
A soul, reimagined—crispy and delicious Hard, fast, nondrowsy business My team heart, four different species and a few large stones hit the window. I heard:
I’m bringing everything
I won nothing
Watch the games, play the games Record the games. A deadly color shift A bomb defusing idea, realized Memory is more lore than luck I’m a comic, what do I know about tire rotation?
This is the part where you revel
A man once described by both family and colleagues as ‘childish’ and ‘overly abstract’ has recently found a decision made years ago in his heart… When approached for comment he did, but only to thank doubt, praise the “altogether troubling but oceanic” work of recollection, and likened our stay on earth to the consistent—however lopsided—affection of the sun.
@gigglefactory
@RandyTobin Still from “LA Maniac“
@harlotsofcake
@promissory_boat
The Square Root of MURDER
@rev_revolver
An Epic Choose-Your-Own-Detective-Story These types of stories always seem to happen on a ‘dark and stormy night,’ but this ain’t Tinseltown. In my world it’s always dark and the rain never seems to let up… unless it’s about to hail. I work exclusively at night, that’s when the goons come out. That’s when the hoods and gangsters and ladies of the night abound and mischief prevails. I sleep during the day. I’m a detective. My name is Mont, short for Monty, but I never much cared for the Y. This particular night, a fox walked through my door. Nothing unusual. The only difference is that this one wasn’t carrying some sort of dead rodent in her maw and draggin’ her ass across my floor like some sorta crazy automated feather duster. Looked like she had the mange. When she walked over to my partner and sat on the table, he wasn’t flustered. Nothing catches him off guard. Oh, I have a partner. I call him Harold, just like everyone else. The creeps call him Harold the Smiler. He smiles a lot. “Good evening, ma’am! Is there anything I can help you with?” Smiles, as promised. The ad in the yella pages says ‘Service With Smiles.’ Turns out the other one was copyrighted. “My brother’s missing.” The fox’s got a mangy voice to go along with her looks. She’s got Bozo’s reject ‘do and sunglasses the French would be embarrassed of. Looks like she’s wearing one’a them weird body stockings dames exercised with in the 80’s, belt and all. My kinda lady. “Find him.” “No problem, ma’am, that’s what we do at Fisk and Sons Detectivery!” The name was on the door when we moved in. Smiles wrote ‘Detective’ over ‘Fish.’ It still smells the same. He’s got a penchant for the Lady of the Sea. I think it smells like shit. Probably where he gets his, since he slathers it all over every fox what comes through my door. “Where did you last see him?” “Didn’t.” She pulls a sweater from some hidden crevice in her leg warmer. “Ninety bucks when you find him.” The dame walks out my door like she just bought it, ripped it off the hinges and took it with her to sell at that cheesy flea market in Poortown. I don’t mention it, but she doesn’t let it hit her in the can on the way out. “Hey, Mont, take a look at this!” I hate it when Smiles gets excited, and he’s always excited when a new sweater enters his life. I notice it’s striped. Looks uncomfortable, like they shaved it offa some cracked-out lamb sellin’ his plasma to keep the junk flowing. “Isn’t this the most precious mauve you’ve ever seen?” I grunt. I ain’t givin’ him the satisfaction of knowing that I don’t know what the hell a mauve is. And unless it’s a new kind of whiskey, I don’t care. Scratch that – if it was new, it’d be expensive. I don’t care either way. I dig my claws into it, tryin’ to find anything as well as tear the damn thing to shreds. I’m mostly unsuccessful.
“Hold on, Mont, what’s this?” Smiles pulls a piece of paper out of a pocket with bite marks in the corner. My doing. He unfolds it and so does the case. The only thing I can’t figure out is what it has to do with anything. With a quick glance, I note that it’s one of those big head caricature drawings of some celebrity tool’s head on a little dog. Seems there’s a boat attached to a hot air balloon in the back. I hate carnies and they hate me. They guessed my weight once and all I got a plastic pencil with a bonus prize of shame. I’ll never let them live it down, just like they’ll never let me forget the time I tried to bang one’a them giant Pink Panther stuffed animals on the tilt-a-whirl. I was drunk. Goes without saying. We headed for the carnival. As we left our cozy revamped fishmonger’s warehouse, something struck me like the realization that we shoulda collected expenses from the broad for skeeball: a two-by-four cracked the back of my skull. I’m used to it. There’s an all-night lumberyard next door and the Scot security guards drink and toss makeshift cabers all the night. I’m out like Edison after a long night of carbon filaments and negro hookers.
I came to and was still alive. Unfortunate, but it’s something I deal with every morning. They say looks are deceiving, but the ugly mug I was staring at said only one thing: kidnapper, and I don’t think it housed a brain which could pretend to say anything else if it tried.
“Time for being waking!” Apparently, not only was he beaten in the face with an oaken pole as a child, he was a foreigner. I don’t talk to foreigners, or uglies. “You awake! Joy is become to me!” I noticed I was tied to a chair. It must’ve took some doing since it looked like I wasn’t moving. This is why I should carry a knife. Snaggleface moved away towards something sinister that might’ve been a chalkboard. For the first time in my short life, I felt real fear.
Oh no! Looks like Monty’s in trouble! Help him escape by rolling your six-sided die and adding that number to Monty’s Dexterity score! If you got more than 25, go to M2 If you got less than 19, go to A18
A18
I struggled against the chair for a bit uselessly. I felt like a fat man tryin’ to climb Everest from his couch because he heard it was there.
“And now is time first lesson, little devil… lessons of PAIN which are going to be taughts!” I wondered if he was gonna try to teach me to speak English. It must be pretty painful trying to keep from being pummeled by bricks every time he goes out into public. ‘Course, with a face like his, he probably doesn’t get out much. He grabbed a half-worn piece of chalk with his gnarled, grubby hand and started scratching against the board. Familiar shapes started forming, but I couldn’t quite grasp what he was getting at, like when you’re hungry in the middle of the night and you can’t quite remember what you have in the fridge but you don’t want to get up and check in case there’s nothing good and it’s a wasted trip. Well, I get up to check. I bit through the last of the restraints while Baron von Doorknob of Uglytown continued doodling on the board. I lunged at him as he turned to see me free as the sludge they call coffee at the diner on 48th. I rolled and my back connected with his legs, sending him off his feet and backwards through the air. As I continued by, rushing for the door, I heard a wet cracking sound and a moan, reminding me of the time I tried to mix soup crackers and sex, only my rope burns weren’t as bad this time. I had reached the door when I felt compelled to stop. A third sense told me that the door was about to open. Sure enough, on the other side was that fox, the one with the kicky hair and more style for going through doors than a rabbit had for making pies. “Cabot!” She saw straight past me to the still-twitching form I had left behind, propped between the chalkboard and a desk at an angle more likely to be found in an art deco painting than a living human. She bolted for his bleeding, mangled corpse (though I have to say that it was pretty mangled before I got there) and tripped up as her foot caught on mine. She looked like an outfielder reaching for a martini across home plate as she landed straight on the stiff’s torso, snapping him into two wet lumps. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched the grisly scene play out until I heard the dame mutter, “My brother! What happened to my brother?!” amidst the rest of her swearing and screaming in remorse and disgust. What little bit that was left of my brain told me that this was my cue to scram, so I moseyed out the door and back to my office. As I walk down the street, I gotta wonder about this big ball of dirt and water we’re all stuck on and the weird things we do on it. Such a sorry state we’re all in, runnin’ around namin’ our kids ‘Shampoo’ or ‘Desmond,’ fighting meaningless wars, trying to run a simple detectivery on the pier with naught but a shitty sign and a phone book ad to make ends meet; only to have it all end as a hideous and malformed mockery of life with a concussion and a bisected midsection. The thought of it all would give yer normal Joe Average on the street the urge to take a pair of safety scissors to their wrist, but not ol’ Mont. That, of course, was when my train of thought was derailed as I got hit by a car and died. Were I still alive, I might’ve seen and heard the two rednecks who were driving the delivery truck that hit me as they came out to look me over. Luckily, I wasn’t, as they were pretty insulting. “Hey, Bert! What’s ‘at den dere?” “Aw, Gregor, jus’ a dead dog. Le’s go afore they call th’ humane society after’n us.” MONTY HAS DIED. YOUR ADVENTURE IS OVER.
M2 I struggled against the chair for a bit uselessly. I felt like Superman after he’d eaten a delicious fruitcake, only to find out it was made of kryptonite and his own scat. “And now is time first lesson, little devil… the – AAAUGH!!” I can’t give any excuses for the first part of his sentence, but the scream of pain was either Smiles biting hard on his neck with his bionic teeth, or else some sort of freak coincidence that his brain was finally shutting down in an attempt to make humanity a better species at precisely the same time as Smiles bit him hard on the neck with his bionic teeth. In any case, the heretic fool dropped to the ground whining and crying like a baby that was just kicked by a 30 foot bronze jackrabbit.
“Hey, Mont! That was a close one, huh?” I hate small talk. Smiles untied me and we took off for the carnival. Neither Smiles or I have a car, so we had to chance the bus system. I figgered the ride with all the stinky bums and obnoxious teenagers would do a good job of preparing us for the carnival. Luckily, I only had to put up with Smiley’s small talk for forty-five minutes before the 248 arrived. “You again?!” I make an impression on people. Usually bad. Goes with the territory. “Look, I ain’t takin’ either of yous NOPLACE, got it?” This is the part where Smiles usually turns on the charm. “Hello there, Mr. MacNoughty! And how are you this fine day?” We boarded. The trick with this particular driver was if you talked to him, something in his brain kicked in saying that you’re from the IRS and he completely ignores you. We don’t pay bus fees this way, too. An extra buck fifty to the ‘save up for a gun’ fund. The carnival was a sight, as always. Also as always, the sight was akin to a baby born with its intestines outside it’s stomach. We strolled down the pamphlet-covered midway towards our destination, Desmond the Fink. Desmond was a source of information on every junkie, small-time thief and hit man in and out of the carnival. More in than out, not surprisingly. He knew because he’d worked for ‘em, or with ‘em, or sometimes in between ‘em. Desmond was a Fink. “Hey dere, Harold. What bring joo ta dis here ass end’a town? A-HEH HEH!” Desmond had a laugh that would turn a male killdeer gay and make ostriches stick their ugly-ass heads in the ground. It made me wanna piss on his shoes. “Yeah, Desmond. You see, we’re on a ‘case’ right now, and we even found this clue! What do you think of it?” Desmond looked about as thoughtful as Desmond ever got, and you can bet that it’s the same depth of thought which brought Jackass into the world. “Looksh like Han Soley’s head on a pooch.” Bright as ever. “Do you know who drew it?” I walked off at this point. I could tell that the clown college dropout didn’t have anything of use to us. I headed for the impromptu piercing booth and sat on a stool opposite a 13 year old boy who appeared to be getting his chin pierced. I tried to look inconspicuous as I scanned the horizon. I spotted something oddly familiar and I originally mistook it for some kid’s cotton candy helmet. But as I live and drink, it was that fox! Wahoo McHooligan, or whatever her stupid name was. I couldn’t invent something more suspicious if I was a Texan politician, so I followed her. She ducked into the clown tent and all of a sudden, everything came together for me. The hair, the caricature, the ridiculous sweater: I must’ve been blind as a salamander to miss it before! I headed in for the final showdown, flexing my claws in case it got uglier than she already was. I crouched down behind a pair of oversized polka-dot pants and listened in as the fox started talking to some fat chump in grease paint. “Hey baby, you owe me five bucks.” Money was involved now. That could only mean a hit was on. I started thinking of who the clown could be connected to. “You did it? Seriously? Was there even anybody there?” “Yeah, some weirdo with shiny teeth and a mutt or summin’.” I may not be the most handsome Joe on the block, but I don’t think I warrant ‘mutt’ from a chick who had Beakman as a hairstylist and had intimate associations with clowns. After a bit of business, I left.
So I may have lost the job, but at least I got some small satisfaction from mauling the two in the pup tent. May have to hang high or duck low from Johnny Law breathin’ down my collar for a couple weeks, but what else is new? I went back to my office. Case closed.
YOU HAVE DROPPED THE CASE. YOUR ADVENTURE IS OVER.
A MOST UPSETTING MAD LIBS FOR THE SEXUALLY DEJECTED @jshawhan It was a/an [adjective] and [adjective] night when [our hero's name in possessive form] phone rang and he knew he would soon be [perfect active gerundive] dick-deep in something. That ringtone meant [noun], and despite the [adjective] and [adjective] journey north on [name of street where people drive on their way to fuck someone on the sly], the evening would at least mean [present active participle] on or in some [noun]. This particular trick, [name of trick], had been off and on for the past {number] or so years. [adjective], and genuinely appreciative of whatever [body part] was thrown his way, he was a [disgusting noun], a/an adjective] fan of poppers, and, as a cocksucker, unenthusiastic at best. But a sure thing, especially in [year], when gas prices were cheaper, could prove {adjective] motivation. Routine involved [our hero's name] removing his [article of clothing] and [other article of clothing] as soon as the [noun] was closed. Not much for dawdling, [our hero] was, despite the fact that it would take [number] hour(s) before he would even be close to [present active participle]. Even if things escalated, as they indeed had [number] separate times before, to the point of [sexual act], the thrill of fucking [body part] was negatively offset by the [adverb] worn bottle of [noun], the one time he had seen some [small animal] crawling along the bedroom [part of room], and the never-too-far-away thought that this may have been the [place] where the guy's parents had [pluperfect participle]. [trick's name in possessive form] dick was of such a/an [adjective] size that its one introduction
and the awkward [noun] that followed led to it never being mentioned again. Tonight would just be half-hearted [sex act] while a rock-bottom [sexual orientation/fetish] porn pounded away in the background. Despite his [adjective] attempts to [sexual verb] our hero [adverb], it would end with a [body part] frustratingly pulled from between [number] [disgusting adjective] lips and the kind of [adjective] jerk-off facial you get when you can't muster up enough [noun] to properly fuck someone's [body part]. After wiping up with a [adjective] towel from a [noun] kept nearby on the [noun], there would be approximately [number] seconds to [other number] minutes of small talk, then [our hero's name] making a break for it. Perhaps some half-mumbled [noun] regarding a future [noun] along these lines. Usually... But this time was different. [our hero] just knew it would probably never happen again. It wasn't worth that kind of [noun] to [verb] that far just to be unfulfilled. But maybe the next one…
(the top image search result for “sexually dejected”)
Spooky sketch by @harlotsofcake
For the Union
The Georgian who knew from a real club sandwich Skull fucking you with flaming ten foot long dildos I don't smoke, or do drugs, or dance, I'm not into Sports, I'm not any good at video games Chubby Vegan With Minimal Ass All my personal belongings are scattered In four states that don't share borders I had a queen-sized bed once but Have no idea where I left it
All members have had numerous brushes With the law, have spent time in jail, Have suffered long addictions to alcohol And drugs, have had countless escapades With women, and are heavily tattooed Chubby vegan with minimal ass I had a queen-sized bed once All my personal belongings are scattered In four states that don't share borders I have no idea where I left it I'm on a boat Skull fucking you with flaming ten foot long dildos
by Jeremy Czerw
Some spoopy trees, by monk
“vore” by @iaredominate
INCREDIBLE SPEED, DEXTERITY, PRECISION Transcribed by @Surly_Temple_ [From the August 30, 2013 episode of WNYC's SoundCheck radio program] JS: This is SoundCheck, I'm John Schaefer. Recently we got a voicemail from one of our listeners which posed an interesting question: "Hi, my name is Jeffrey from Montclair, New Jersey I'm a big fan of progressive rock from the '70s and I haven't heard anything like it in years. Who are the Keith Emersons and Rick Wakemans of today? Thanks." JS: Now in case you don't know who Rick Wakeman and Keith Emerson are—they were pretty much the gods of 1970s prog rock keyboards... Now joining us to answer Jeffrey's question is Stephen Fortner, he's editor in chief of Keyboard magazine. He's on the line with us. Hi, Stephen. SF: Hi there! JS: So are there any keyboardists out there who are comparable to these really virtuosic musicians of three, four decades ago? SF: Yes—there certainly are. One of the most obviously well known names that would come to mind first would be Jordan Rudess of the band Dream Theater. Dream Theater has got an absolutely rabid following among prog rock fans. And Jordan is not only an incredibly virtuosic player... incredible speed, dexterity, precision, but he's also a very approachable guy and just a tireless music educator... JS: Is part of the problem that the role of the keyboard has shifted since the days of Keith Emerson and Rick Wakeman bestrode the world's concert stages? SF: Well, I think a large part of what you're talking about happened in the '90s—the '70s having been the Golden Age of prog rock, where someone who was shredding on a stack of syn-
thesizers the way a lead guitarist might shred on a Les Paul or a Stratocaster. And then in the '90s it, like, wasn't cool to like keyboards or to have anything too technological in your band—and of course, I'm talking about '90s grunge. JS: So you didn't see a whole lot of grunge keyboard players. We actually reached out to Rick Wakeman himself with this question and this is the answer he e-mailed to us: "The focus these days is so much on the vocalist as that suites reality television and the media. Sadly, no labels will sign or promote instrumentalists these days. A sad state of affairs." ... SF: I also do not want to fail to mention Derek Sherinian who I would put in a very similar category to Jordan Rudess in terms of the multi-instrumentalism, ya know—having stacks of cool stuff on stage... Derek is just an incredible player and his solo material is just full of key changes, time signature changes, all the stuff anyone who's a fan of '70s prog rock is going to look for... JS: What does playing the keyboard even mean today? It seems that for a lot of people it's not like playing an electric piano—it's a controller, it's a trigger for other sounds. SF: It is, and I think keyboard playing and virtuosity has an identity crisis that correlates directly with the identity crisis of the instrument itself, which is somewhat ironically owed to its versatility. Whether you want to be the next Robert Glasper or the next Trent Reznor or the next Billy Joel or the next Deadmau5, the black and white keyboard is the note-entry device—it's the universal interface to the world of music production. So there are people who do use it as a controller, as a note entry-appliance. JS: Now you just mentioned Deadmau5. Would you consider him a keyboard virtuoso of a sort? SF: Not necessarily a keyboard virtuoso in the Rick Wakeman sense, but having interviewed him a few years back we had an amazing talk about synthesizers and music theory and the guy knows his way around both. Whatever that blog he wrote about "we all just hit play"—he does not just hit play! He knows what he's doing!
Activity book by
@mean_crow
Activity book by
@mean_crow
Activity book by
@mean_crow
Interview With A Guy Who May Or May Not Fuck Cakes By (Twitter User) @beerclinton Photo/Cake Baking Credit: (Twitter user) @dinarosecima This fucking guy (Twitter user @mklptrk) works at a bakery. He doesn’t make the cakes himself, but I’m pretty sure he fucks someone who does. They do a lot of those penis cakes women love. I asked him about that one day. Here goes. @beerclinton: Has your bakery ever sold a penis cake that was shooting out a runny load? @mklptrk: Yeah, I could send you a pic even. Has anyone ever had a cake made in the likeness of their own dong? Like from a photo? No. Has anyone ever ordered a rainbow dick? No. Has anyone asked for a peener going into a vagina or butt? Possibly. What about a dick blowing onto boobs? Not that I know of. Why are people so fascinated by penis cakes? [No response] Are the veins usually made of frosting or actual cake? The veins and arteries are made of frosting. Only the shaft and balls are cake. Have you ever sold a poop dick? No. What about a boner with something inserted down the peehole? Nothing that freaky. A dick tied in a knot? Nope. Do you ever pop boners working around all these sex cakes? I always pop boners, not always because of all the sex cakes.
Have you ever fucked a cake? [No response] Do you think any of your customers fuck the cakes they buy? I couldn't guess. Are you super busy right now?
Do you have people who work specifically on the porno cakes, or does everybody do everything? There's no specific pervert cake decorator, if that's what you're asking. It's a team effort. What do you estimate is the take rate of sexual cakes versus nonsexual cakes?
Not really. Educated guess, 1 in 75? Just a stab. What's the most perverted cake you've ever tasted? German chocolate.
Do you ever get orders for violent cakes? Certainly. A lot?
Are people who order pervert cakes perverts themselves?
No.
Good question.
Has anyone ever ordered, say, a cake that resembles an autopsy?
Are they fat?
No. That's not a bad idea.
Sometimes, yes. Do you sell vegan cakes? Vegan desserts, yes, but no vegan cakes. Only pervert cakes. Do you think people order sex cakes just as a way to flirt with you? Sometimes, maybe. Do you have a favorite style of adult cake? No. I bet a lot of women order sex cakes. It's mostly women, yes. When most people buy a penis cake, do you think they intend it to be sexy, funny, or insulting? Mostly funny, a little insulting. I don't know about sexy. Do you find that a little disappointing? Sometimes, yes. Is the person who bakes the cake usually the person to frost it, or is there a separation of duties? It all depends. It's a fairly large operation.
What about rape cakes? I have never seen a rape cake. Do you have special penis cake molds? No. Penis cakes are carved. Neat!
FIN, Breast Milk on Wood Panel, 2013 @larredo