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uberreinigerSo I have been on a serious, serious H.P. Lovecraft kick lately. Just really gotten obsessed with his stories all of a sudden. And I've got to be honest. It's frustrating. Why? Because he published 70 stories during his lifetime and the Great Old Ones, Outer Gods, etc. (a.k.a., the stuff you immediately think of when you think of Lovecraft,) only appear in like, TEN of them. The other 60 stories aren't bad, you can clearly see in them where he's trying to find his own voice distinctive from that of his idols like Poe and Machen. But they're not what you're really paying to see.
It's like how you go to see a Transformers movie for the sole purpose of watching robots fight and spout pithy one-liners at each other. Yet Bay and Spielberg insist on forcing a pair of untalented twentysomethings pretending to be teenagers (who have inexplicably been spray-painted orange,) onto center screen for 75% of the movie.
It's like how you expect pussy but all you get is tits with the bra on. And though pulsing, green, insidiously tentacled pussy it might be, it is still the pussy you want. And lo though the tits may be Elder tits from beyond the Cosmos whose sanity-warping visage is obscured only barely and not for eternity by the meagerest of bras that we misguidedly call "reality," it is still tits with the bra on.
Why, Howard? Why did you die so young and leave us with so little? Why must I now sit here in frustration, dreaming of the robot fights and braless tits that might have been?
It's like how you go to see a Transformers movie for the sole purpose of watching robots fight and spout pithy one-liners at each other. Yet Bay and Spielberg insist on forcing a pair of untalented twentysomethings pretending to be teenagers (who have inexplicably been spray-painted orange,) onto center screen for 75% of the movie.
It's like how you expect pussy but all you get is tits with the bra on. And though pulsing, green, insidiously tentacled pussy it might be, it is still the pussy you want. And lo though the tits may be Elder tits from beyond the Cosmos whose sanity-warping visage is obscured only barely and not for eternity by the meagerest of bras that we misguidedly call "reality," it is still tits with the bra on.
Why, Howard? Why did you die so young and leave us with so little? Why must I now sit here in frustration, dreaming of the robot fights and braless tits that might have been?
