ANN MARIE'S REVIEW "Art" is the result of Humanity putting form to its imagination. No matter what the medium, art is simply a thought that has been given substance. So why do we have a label for "Fantasy Art?" Aren't all artistic creations derived from Fantasy? John Steinbeck wrote, "as the man once said, 'whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,' by which he meant Everybody. Had he looked through another peep-hole, he might have said: 'Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men.' And he would have meant the same thing." When my ruggedly handsome and well-sexed male Game Hole counterparts look through a peep-hole at Rose's Fallen Angel, they see a shapely blonde doing what every woman should do when she is alone near a waterfall. I see a pond with one too many beavers in it. They see sweet, sweet thighs glistening in cool water. I see leaches and mosquito bites in terrifying places. These contrasting peep-holes explain the demand for a niche labeled "Fantasy Art." For one man's Fact is another man's Fantasy, n'est ce pas? Just because I don't see hot, horny ladies when I look through peep-holes, doesn't mean they are not there, boys. One question nags me. Why has this angel fallen? Was it by her choice? Was she looking for a change of scene in which to satisfy her womanly desires? Was there perhaps a lack of Rods in Heaven that day? Or instead, was she forced out, banned from eternal Grace for attempting to pleasure herself. I wonder if (God forbid) one is not allowed to seek sexual gratification in Heaven. If that is the case, I'll see you in Hell. Ann Marie February 2002	Fallen Angel by Nick Rose	JASON'S REVIEW Nowadays, the nineteenth century discourse of “painting about painting” seems a distant memory in contemporary art, but less so in fantasy art. As the Fallen Angel makes clear, fantasy art today is about “the creation of a completely autonomous or self-contained image.” Instead of Manet’s patches of color or Cézanne’s apples, what you have here is a chick standing in a puddle fingering herself—that has been manipulated to look like an everyday scene. The canvas seems to hardly ahve been touched at all, attesting, perhaps, to the ways in which our perception vis-ŕ-vis fanstasy art has already been subtly transformed. The Fallen Angel creates an image that is as beautiful (and about the same size) as a real piece of living room art by a starving artist. It is predicated, however, on a nuts-and-bolts photo-Conceptualist ideology that puts us in dialogue with contemporary issues of technology, representation, and that old chestnut, fantasy’s hobby horse—the foxy chick who will actually let us watch as she touches her own hooper. Fantasy? Hardly. This is in fact an image from out collective experience, the actuality of the everyday. Haven't we all seen something like this at the local 7-11, or on a rerun of Different World with Dwayne-Wayne. The image is all too familiar, yet still inviting. And what is the glowing golden mist that surrounds her escape hatch? Ah, yes, you can almost smell the clam chowder. J-hole 1 February 2002

ALEX'S REVIEW The Nude. It is one of the first images that comes to the mind of the average joe when thinking about art. It is as essential to the common man's view of art as vomiting is to Bourbon Street. I am buoyed by the prospect of such a axiomatic image in art being being brought into the family of fantasy art. As an aficionado of fantasy art, I am well used to seeing the majestic dragon depicted in a variety of ways. I have to admit that this is a first. In a classic example of the chicken chasing the fox, we have a dragon painting a nude of a human female. This work is stunning groundbreaking in that it not only depicts a reversal of traditional roles, but it also employs the "art within art" concept seen most commonly at road side art sales featuring dogs playing poker in velvet or loving portraits of that icon Elvis. I could go on and on about the social and cultural implications of a piece of this power and magnitude, but screw that. On the the image itself. First, the babe. I mean come on. With her coy little girl next door haircut and east german shotput team thighs, how could any man resist? The chick is "neat" but my favorite is the weird little imp in the lower right hand corner. There he sits enjoying his copy of "Boy's Life" with his dilapidated little pud just hanging out. How sweet is that?!? All artists draw on various emotions and experiences to help fuel their work. For Van Gough it was a cruel father. For Monet it was unrequited love. This begs the obvious question, what makes this one handed typist tick? I am afraid we have to resort to the usual refrain, naked chicks and snakes. Oh well, at least we have some imp genitalia to enjoy. Alex March 2002	Dragon Artist by Travis Woodham	JASON'S REVIEW First - the quality. This is clearly a modern piece made using the latest technology available. The imcredible detail and clarity means that this can only be digital photography. The high quality is tinged only somewhat, and is vaguely depressing, an oxymoron like the advertising slogan "a major motion-picture event" or the hip-hop mantra "Keepin' It Real". The digital "revolution" bequeaths to us a desiccated photographic field of complete authorial control, within which the experience of anything like a punctum has been banished. And while the digital image embeds itself ever more completely within the domain of the photographic archive, what Barthes called the studium—the photograph's communication of cultural information—fares no better. The photographic document suffers the same fate as the photographic wound; the agon of truth and excess fades away. We now prefer photographs "without qualities," or those with too many—photographs of everything and nothing at once. That is precisely why this piece works so well. It doesn't confuse us. It doesn't pretend to be smarter than we are. Quite the contrary, it dumbs it down. Way down. 227 Jackee down. Bud-Weis-Er frogs down. Whoever smelt it - dealt it down. Humor of course can be a sign of crisis, a way of negotiating implacable contradictions in a symbolic order. In this work, Woodham has allowed the photographic crisis staged in his images to seep into other domains, connecting the collapse of the photographic medium to a succession of social and artistic dilemmas. This work raises the possibility that the provenance of all these actions is in some sort of documentary image, whether artistic or journalistic, and that the digital archive put into play here should be read as marking a series of dialectical connections. Dragon artist is a last gasp in the battle between reality and the image. Yet for all its simplicity, Dragon Artist deserves a second look. Is that really a little weiner in the bottom right? Is the naked chick really wearing tennis shoes? Who's the little fella looking at the canvas? Why are her legs so damn chucnky? If the dragon has colors on his palette, why none on the canvas? Oh yeah, because it sucks. Hard. Could the sucking power of this piece outsuck the Gamehole itself? Ofcourse not, but you have to scratch your head to think of a way to make this painting worse. A dildo flying by perhaps? A smurf eating pizza? Can something really be so bad that it's good? Not anymore. J-hole March 2002

ALEX'S REVIEW Any follower of the gamehole has by now realized that fantasy art is all about naughty ladies. So, here we have another such offering. What caught my eye about this piece is the obviously functional nature of the clothing that this damsel has on. Picture being a buxom lass who upon waking decides to commit some villianry later that day. Would you don some sturdy dark leathers or some other such protective and sensible clothing; or, do opt for the Fredrick's of Hollywood diaphanous negliee? Well, if you are a naughty lady, the choice is self-evident. From there, how would you accesorize this outfit? All you need is some lace elbow length ball gloves, a spikey staff and some strapped sandals are you are ready for some evil. Let the villianry roll! I am willing to bet that this artist will not be asked by either Women's Journal or Oprah to put together a montage for their respective publications. All fantasy art fans know that an element of the profligate must be mixed into the overall aesthetic. In other words, naughty ladies rule! With this work, Herr Lockwood satisfies the concupicence in us all. Alex April 2002	Villains by Todd Lockwood	JASON'S REVIEW The Italians are known for many things. Their art, culture, food, wine and traditions. They are also known for digging the ladies. In fact, one of the oldest Italian poets once wrote that the perfect size for a woman's breast is such that it fits exactly into a champagne glass. Evidentally through the passage of time, the new apotheosis of mammory perfection fits into the Nascar 44 oz. commemorative cup available only at 7-11. Some other long dead wop also told us that the eyes are the key to a woman's allure. With that as your compass, let us start at the top and work our way down...naw, just skip right to the hooper. A ruby encrusted vagi-shield eh? Ofcourse. And those strap-on sandals that only the classiest ladies at dogtracks wear. Any woman can have outer beauty and subtlety, but how many can say "I sure do wish I were being layed right now." Well, this one can. Have we not seen this woman before? Was she on a Van Halen cover? Was she drawn in red ink on the back of some a-hole's notebook in 9th grade? Or was she in some long forgotten D&D module? O'Keefe painted flowers that looked like gineys, Sheeler painted steam pipes that looked like wankers. Thank god someone is willing to paint the real thing. Albeit covered with something picked up at Spencer's. And before we forget, do you notice that smell? Is that Hawaiian Tropic spray-on tanning oil? Is it the slightly faded aroma of Marlboro Lights and Wine Cooler? Is it the sharp, piercing stink of vinyl pants? Is it the smell of rubber innertubes filled with rotting meat and clam chowder that are set afire - a smell that can only be produced after getting your hair colored by a 19 year old single mother of three working as a 'cosmotologist' at Cost Cutters? Or is the smell just a dream, a memory, a wish, a soul? Then it comes rushing back to you, this woman does have a place deep in your memory banks. Isn't she the substitute teacher that Chad Camacho fingerbanged in the teacher's lounge? After which Chad spent the rest of the day trying to get everyone to smell his finger as though anyone would know that scent must belong to Ms. Saranti? Was he right? Yes. Yes he was. And that my friends, is the genius of this work. Whether you knew Chad or not, whether you thought Ms. Saranti was hot or not, you must confess that had her ex-boyfriend not lost his job as a ham-pumper at Oscar Meyer's, he would have bought her a gift certificate at Glamour Shots - and this would have been the result. (After substantial airbrushing ofcourse). The image is timeless, it is a reality not achieved save anywhere but our hearts, etc. J-hole April 2002

ALEX'S REVIEW Congratulations to Nick Rose. This is the first time The Gamehole has honored an artist with a 2nd review. Devout followers of The Gamehole will recognize Nick from the February 2002 feature, "Fallen Angel." We at The Gamehole recognize that it is often important to examine an artist's entire body of work before racing to judgment. Therefore, the reader should re-examine the "Fallen Angel" review before reading further. Now that everyone has completed their homework, let's consider the common themes between the two pieces. Obviously, Nick is fascinated with the tension between good and evil. In "Fallen Angel" we have an angel with big knockers splashing around in some muck hole. In "Vampire" we have some freaky bitch with huge cans and walrus tusks standing in front of stained glass depicting an angel strumming a lyre. That's right. Good, evil and big ass boobies all blended seemlessly into a symphony of images designed to heat the beans. In "Vampire" Nick masterfully uses lighting to help evoke this haunting image. Instead of using more prozaic and difuse light sources such as a moon or a sun, Nick appears to employ the trusty flashlight. Either that, or Nick really sucks as an artist. Naw, that can't be. Who then is holding the flashlight? Can good exist without evil? Is there some sort of peeping tom with his pants down trying to catch a glimpse of the strung out vampire bitch prowling around in a church? Can the path of evil once so thoroughly trod be then repudiated? What is a bare tited vampire doing in a church? Is the unfortunate vampire secretly longing for her righteous former life? What does her pooper look like? This is the mark of a true artist. Nick's work raises more questions than provides answers. It makes us wonder whether or not Nick is into Dio. It makes us guess as to when the last time Nick saw a real set of cans. It also causes us to speculate as to whether Nick prefers his pornography in classic VHS or in the exciting new DVD format. Nick is clearly a troubled soul. As Van Gough tapped the angst from his tempestous relationship with his father to fuel his creative energies, Nick Rose wrings every drop out of his porn obsession as his personal muse. Nick represents the seedy and filthy underbelly of The Gamehole. We are proud to present this second piece of tripe for your viewing pleasure. Alex May 2002	Vampire by Nick Rose	JASON'S REVIEW I dated a girl named Michelle. She thought Vampires were cool. She also had a thing for ankles. I don't date her anymore. Nick has a thing for vampires too. He thinks a lady vampire would be pretty fresh. Let's think about that for a moment though. A lady vampire still likes blood. A lady vampire lives forever. A lady vampire (at least the kind Nick hopes exists) probably likes boy vampires. A lady vampire could be doing it with a boy vampire for all eternity. The result? One worn out hooper. Things aren't smelling so good now are they Nick? Enough dashing of Nick's dreams though. Let's get down to art for art's sake. First the use of black and white. We all remember Motherwell's 'Elegy' series which employed black and white. Touching. We also can picture some of Jackson Pollack's early works in black and white. Masterful. In those instances, the use of black and white conveyed a sense of emptiness, a desperation, and a tired hope. Nick, on the other hand, uses black and white because he can't afford colored markers after he buys every edition of 'Girls Gone Wild' and cases of Wildwood soda. He uses black and white, because colors are used by artists. Black and whites of she-vampires with big cans are done by guys who have never been in a pool and think that the Olson Twins are hot. Oh wait, enough about Nick's problems, back to the art, errrrr, image. The cans are nice, it's true, but the teeth? Can you imagine the lisp that this chick has? "Oh Nick, I really withsh you would make sthweet wuv to me." Thankfully Nick exagerrated her teeth so we could tell she was a vampire. The title is too subtle. The juxtaposition of the angel is too subtle. The botched pentagram is too subtle. The 3" long fangs though, those are probably only found on a vampire. Can she fit a spoon between those teeth? Was she holding the flashlight between her teeth before it fell to the floor casting this unholy light on its subject? Is there a bigger stain in the whole world than the guy who draws slutty vampire women with big breasts in black and white only to masterbate furiously when a Goldie Hawn movie is rerun on TBS? Enough about Nick though, back to art. Thank you Nick for being a two-time gamehole artist. This distinction is not only fitting, but unlikely to be duplicated in my lifetime. May you never run out of black ink, may you never stop drawing spooky ladies, and may you never lose your job at the roadside vegatable stand. J-hole May 2002

ANN MARIE'S REVIEW I had a hard time writing this review. It was frustrating. I sat, pen in hand, staring at the Cat Girl, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. I am not used to being at a loss for words, so naturally I was worried. I knew the drawing was full of things to mock. I tried to write about the plastic-looking blue rays surrounding the apple. I tried to write about the coke-whore expression on Cat Girl’s face, and the fact that her tail seems to be unconnected to her body. I knew these were all things that would normally inspire a flood of words, and yet my pen was still. I began to panic. Could the three hours I spent in Cottage Grove last night have made me dumber? Was my ability to express myself dwindling? I stared harder at the picture. I noticed that the arrowhead is large enough to cut down a tree, let alone pierce the apple. The arrow is notched in thin air. The titless breasts are wholly unaffected by gravity. And that “text bubble?” I wondered if Peter has an Aunt Sue. My Aunt Sue buys those little stickers that say “Whoops!” and puts them on pictures of Uncle Randy with ketchup all over his shirt. Yesterday these sorts of things made me laugh. So why was I unable to make fun of this piece like it deserves? Suddenly I realized that my shakes, cold sweats, and racing pulse were not the result of a hangover, but the result of pure fear. Peter Keres! What if I ran into him on the street? How would I recognize him? How would I protect my loved ones from him? I rushed home and embraced my cats. I told them how much I loved them. I made them promise never to accept candy or rides from strangers. I told them that if they ever see a van circling the apartment, they should lock the door and call the police. Life can be plenty creepy. Sometimes, late at night, I can hear my neighbor’s bedsprings squeaking. Not in a fat man just rolling over kind of way. More like a fat man going bouncy-bouncy on a girl who’s had too much Apple Pucker kind of way. Once I found my ex-boyfriend sleeping naked with another man. Once a lawyer gave my best friend an American Flag thong bikini for St. Nicholas day. Those are all forgivable acts of creepiness. It happens. But a man who thinks ladies with cat feet are sexier than ladies with nipples? I can’t forgive that creepiness. I can’t even laugh at it. Ann Marie June 2002	Cat Girl by Peter Keres REBUTTAL OF REVIEWS: Great art reviews. Make sure the girls know that one reader was more aroused about the idea of them staring at the Cat women's kitty more than staring at it myself. I'm also glad that they didn't like it much. If they said they did, they'd be lying. Lying about their opinion or lying about what's between THEIR legs. It's like women's pathetic attempt to understand our twisted views or mimic our ways with such events as "bachelorette parties." "Look at us having our own fun just like the guys do." Right, drinking from a penis straw is like buying an eight-ball, getting kicked out of some sleaze joint for drinking Jack from some scanks festering hatchet wound, throwing up and drinking a beer to clear your esophagus of chunks, and getting a "Hot Carl*" by your best friend when you're passed out at six in the morning. It's funny that neither of them caught the redundant message in most fantasy art that we want to be physically, and to some extent mentally, dominated by some sort of hot feminine fantasy character. Hope the freshness continues in..................The Gamehole.com *Hot Carl: this activity involves a person lying horizontally while another squats over his chest and dumps a load. Also known as a "Detroit Steamer." Robbie June 2002	MIRANDA'S REVIEW As a guest of the Game Hole via Ann Marie, I would like to announce my approval. I, Miranda, thought the graphics were great, the cat furry, and the boys cute. I know absolutely nothing about gaming except that it takes much imagination and books and paper, and a roomful of boys who aren’t very good at talking to girls. Today, as I stumbled into the Game Hole for the first time, I felt kind of like I did at my first Grateful Dead concert. Overstimulated, curious, and kind of horny. There were a lot of colors, art, and objects moving that shouldn’t be. Somebody said, “Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one. So the following is my opinion of Fantasy Art. I will analyze the picture to the best of my amateur knowledge. A Southern Woman named Tellulah Bankhead said, “My daddy warned me about men and liquor. But he never said anything about women and cocaine.” Or in Fantasy Art…women and cat tails. I do not declare myself a “feminist,” but I am a little annoyed at the outright sexism in many of these pictures. Because, like in Fantasy Playboy, these women are a fucking beauty standard that society has made up. “Miranda,” I tell myself, “it is Fantasy Art. Let it go.” But art imitates life. I see the Fantasy, but the Art is a little hard to find in pictures of freak women in come-hither poses. Why not be honest and call it porn? “Cute, sexy, mischievous…all what a Cat Girl needs to be” is hilarious. First off, I can live with the naked breasts thing. They’re breasts. But, let’s be frank, women have nipples. The nipples allow a flow of milk to feed babies. That’s why we have the wonderful breasts men fantasize about. Without nipples, breasts look like cantaloupes. Peter, it pisses me off that you left the nipples off! Breastfeeding is very important to a baby’s health. You can’t do it without nipples. What if I was to draw/design with a computer a huge fantasy dick without a piss hole? Or without balls? It is still a dick, but why did I leave it off? To prove a point? To show that I care about testicular cancer, or that I don’t care how men urinate? To say something about art? Perhaps. The easiest way to see that this is a piece of Fantasy Art is to note that the breasts are perfectly matched. Real girl boobs are not the same size exactly. Mine aren’t. My friends’ aren’t. So, in conclusion, Cat Girl looks like a boob job gone wrong. Really wrong. So wrong it makes my nipples hurt. Like when I saw “Pink Floyd: The Wall.” and they shaved off the nipples. Oww. Winnie the Pooh merchandising executives have the trademark on the font used for Cat Girl’s ridiculous request. It is the font used for the “Bee Happy” Winnie the Pooh toys and shirts. This request is just as ironic as the fact that homely, overweight women wear T-shirts featuring Winnie the Pooh, the homely, overweight bear. Irony. A naked bow-toting animal woman saying something you would hear from a whiny, insecure woman in a bad relationship. Can we get over the woman/apple thing? I liked Michaelangelo’s painting in the Sistine Chapel. It is a breathtaking. But it’s a new day. Let’s get some new material. I want to see the apple eaten. By men. Or by worms. Who cares? It’s old and overdone. The best stepping-stones for women have been birth control pills, the right to vote, and g-strings. Now, ordinary women can feel like strippers, not have panty lines, and feel air over their ass cheeks. And men can draw fantasy art without feeling they must look at that deep secret women have kept for years- the Vagina. It is where we all came from. But no one wants to think about that. Now, G-strings can cover the hairy, many folds of the vagina. Let’s go there. If it is a Cat Girl, I want to know for sure. Maybe it’s a Cat Boy with his dick tucked under his tail. The G-string would have to be gone for the critic to know that the title is true. I do like the green of the g-string. Good symbolism. Green M & Ms are supposed to make you feel aroused. The green goes nicely with the red head’s skin. Or fur. Whatever. Her epidermis reminds me of a lizard. Short, tousled hair is sooo 21st century. Natalie Maines and Meg Ryan have made the style a “Do” in Glamour Magazine. Good hairstylists are hard to find. Thank God Cat Girl has found one. Can I get that phone number? I must know what products she uses! I could criticize for hours, but I must stop. Peter, I am sorry. Fantasy Art, I am sorry. Game Hole, I am sorry. After today I will never feel the same way about dragons, cats, women, and the art of troll hunting. I made a D in geometry for not understanding that lines do not really exist, just floating in space. I never thought Santa Claus existed, and I always knew the Tooth Fairy was just my dad. So I can not believe in or draw Cat Girls with weapons. If I ever did find one, I would buy her a litter box, watch my back, and explain to her why some men have hang ups about House Cats. Thank You Game Hole! Good Night! Miranda June 2002

SEAN'S REVIEW Not since Tom Hanks and Darryll Hannah has an individual done so much to taint the beautiful concept of a bare breasted women swimming about the ocean and reclining on remote beaches clad only in a glistening thin sheen of water. Her pose fits this image perfectly as she tosses her head back, locks blowing in the sea breeze, eyelids cracked ever so slightly as she glances at her onlookers (generously exposing her bosom). This is one of the basic tenets of the fantasy world, beautiful not quite human woman flaunting their nonetheless spectacular human attributes for the benefit of the average adventurer. However, an astute observer may note that Soyarama (now a two time Fantasy Art Review subject and one of those rare genius’ understood only too well in his own time) has made a few critical revisions in this pure dream and given birth to his own rather morose image. At first his amendment of splitting her legs to the feet and thus allowing exploration of the sunken cavern(and allowing wayward sailors the ever prevalent dream of interspecies dating)seems one to be heralded with much applause, however, this is where the beauty of Soyarama’s fancy fades to the surf pounding down upon the virtually barren rock isle with that not so pleasant odor of rotting fish. Which brings us to what may be the most prominent feature of the piece, that of the rather large and quite dead fish. Upon a moderate examination of the offending ichthyoid one might note that not only is it gushing blood, but appears to be losing the length and breadth of its innards while its heart lays on the ground a testament to the utter defeat of this once powerful creature. However, our young watery lovely appears unfazed by the uninterrupted flood of ichor welling up and rolling down her chin and over her well-formed bosom. Did the young lady kill in the name of hunger, with the lack of a tidily wrapped filet-o-fish presenting itself forcing her to this gruesome repast? Was Soyarama just giving us a view into the cold harsh realities of the mermaid world? No, I feel this sick puppy downed this fish for the pure joy of the kill and damned if you don’t have to just smile and appreciate that kind of human mentality in your basic subhuman creature. In the end this was the overwhelming tenor of this piece for me. Soyarama has depicted the lamentable state of this glorious species after the tainted influence of man has twisted their harmonious coexistence with the rest of the denizens of the ocean. In this way man despoils the final pure frontier of this planet, bringing our arrogant and violent ways to a once peaceful, serene and HOT creature. Then again, what the fuck do I know.	Mermaid by Sorayama	ANDY'S REVIEW Where to begin with this piece of work. Ah yes, soyarama. I first saw his work while I was flippin throgh the pages of Penthouse......the one from the stroke magazine I recall was a lady with a stake stuffed up her bum. Well, it seems Soy-boy is constantly trying to up the antie here, eh? Notice the cool colors in this one, it definately isnt meant to be as romantic as the snake in the ass piece soy-boy did before. Or is it. Perhaps it is romantic to the female gender? Notice the lesbian undertones. The woman is eating bloody salmon (I.E. menstruating woman). Her tail is that of a tuna. The shattered Chains of Love underneath her scaly hide. There are so many mixed vibes with this piece because how many jerk off sailors fantasized about mermaids? But a sailor's sexuality is questionable as well. Or perhaps is this a piece that was meant for Gourmet Magazine. Here is a big tuna stuffing itself with Caviar. Or perhaps it was soy-boy's joke to put this in the stroke magazine. Imagine you are pagin through the ol penthouse , stroking it as ya go ....and you come across this. EW. This is gross. I dont like seafood. especially not caviar. Stick to snakes , Soy-boy! Andy July 2002

MAT'S REVIEW Hajime is such a unique individual. Upon first inspection of his 'artwork' I found myself pouring over countless web pages for hours. The actual psychological dysfunction with his artistry is difficult to pin down in words. Bill the Cat may say 'ack', while others may simply vomit violently. Freud may deduce cardinal desire for an equestrian maternal tryst. Though it can be said that he has mixed emotions and torrid views on women, this particular piece intrigued me with it's Nixon-esque salute. This girl is ready to party! I particularly enjoy the possible pivot joint he incorporated somewhere in the neighborhood of L2 or L3. A lumbar spine simply does not curve this way. Perhaps I'm being a little esoteric. Aside from obvious physical impossibilities, the pinup makes me think. If give the right ambiance, how would a date go? Could I love this woman? She looks like a fun loving genetic freak, probably enjoys progressive punk rock, grooming, and Socrates. I am particularly drawn to the delicate mole. It offsets the combination pointed check bone/largish boil (just above) nicely. Throw that in with some razor sharp nipples and you have a work of perfection. Trinkets and baubles would be hers. It could be fun, though I bet she'd be hell on carpets and stealing all the damn blankets at night. Not to mention the invective comments and dark jealousy I would incur from others. Come to think of it, it really wouldn't work out anyway. The is a certain vapidity to her eyes that tells me shallowness is nearby. Maybe I am just not hunky enough for her, though that could be projection. The image is burning in my mind like sin or really hot pizza. I plan on running to the nearest church to find solace in Jesus. If he cannot help, I am hopelessly at the mercy of Sorayama. Truly caught up in the moment. If anything is to be said about this work, the dial goes up to 11 (thank you Spinal Tap, it is one louder.) There is so much more to say, but most of it would be lost to a sea of colorful metaphores that really wouldn't do the picture justice. Mat G. August 2002	Centaur by Sorayama	COMMENT Mat is one of the principles behind DODAC'S RPGS. They are located in scenic New Jersey and are purveyors of out of print 1st and 2nd edition D&D stuff. They have supplied the hole with many items so are afforded this opportunity to participate in Gamehole fun-n-games. Nice job Mat! The Gamehole August 2002

ALEX'S REVIEW Why does everyone suck so much? I mean really, why so much constant sucking? Why is it when I go into the average sandwich shop I am confronted by some slack-jawed clerk with eyes like ban roll-on applicators who clearly just moments before my arrival had his fingers either up his nose or his ass and when I place my order, I have to do so as follows: "I will have the blah-blah special, except hold the special sauce and when I say hold the special sauce I mean no special sauce, not extra special sauce, got that dutch?" I mean what the fuck?!? Even following this prophylactic protocol, my success rate of getting a sandwich unlaved by a gallon of mayo/sauce/goo is only about 50%. Since I am on the subject, what about that guy who has to mow his lawn every 20 minutes or so. What is this asshole's problem? I know you know who I mean. There is one in every neighborhood. How can perfectly uniform grass every minute of everyday be something that one aspires to? I am thinking about getting a dog for the simple goal of having a shit delivery device for improved neighbor relations. Now, speaking of people who suck and the way they piss me off, we have this month's subject of the FAR. What the hell is going on here? Was there a recent atomic blast in the distance resulting in that bizarre sky? And, the sky is the best part. At least that comports with the basic tennants of fantasy art. Correct me if I am wrong, but I thought the touchstone of fantasy art was the twisting of the laws of physics and nature combined with some imaginative idea or thought resulting in the fantastic. This is some asshole waltzing though the woods who comes upon a naked chick. This isn't fantasy art. It is a Penthouse letter. I mean, what's so fantastic about that? I have several friends who have paid good money just to have that happen to them. By definition, the subject of a piece of fantasy art cannot be something that can be accomplished with $100 and a pint of vodka. This huckster sketching low grade soft porn and passing it off as fantasy art is emblematic of a larger problem in society. Everyone is now complaining that the economy is bad and that times are tough. I hope the economy gets even worse. Why do I say that? The reason is, when times are good, unemployment drops and more of the completely worthless have jobs. The few competent people out there are put in management positions leaving only the truly helpless to do the majority of everyday jobs. Like making me a sandwich. If this twit can actually make a living creating this kind refuse, it is time for me to turn in my library card. I am going to go to the grocery store, buy a pile of sandwich "fixins," get a dog, sit at home making perfectly crafted sandwiches while feeding my dog on a nothing but sauerkraut and anchovy diet, sit by the window contentedly chewing my non-sauced sandwiches while enjoying watching my dog pump out piles of the foulest shit on my neighbor's lawn. Alex September 2002	aof by Jonathon Bowser	NUTSON'S REVIEW Counterpoint. There are more delicious sandwiches now than there have ever been. You can get a deli-style sandwich at Arby's. You can go to Subway, like Jared and get several different healthy choices with no gizm spunked all over them. You can also enjoy any one of the gated communities in Arizona where rock gardens are the order of the day, and a lawnmower isn't heard for miles. Then again, Arby's does smell like the used maxi-pad Rosanne accidently dropped behind the toilet, Jared deserves a punch in the nuts, and Arizona is the loose, overused, frayed and flaking anus of the United States. Maybe Kammer is on to something after all. With all that being said, if you can't like the content, then like the craftsmanship. Is this piece done in colored chalk? You know, colored chalk, like little whities use to make rainbows and hopscotch boards on their sidewalks. Colored chalk, like the gym teacher used in health class to show the difference between the vulva and the labia. Colored chalk, like maybe the shittiest least impressive most Walgreenstasic crappy way to draw something on earth. Damn, shot down on craftsmanship. Subject matter? No help there. But let's give the artist the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this isn't about some pervert's dream where he stumbles upon a barely breathing naked chick that the Michigan basketball team just finished with - maybe it's about our inner drive, forcing us to press on into the unknown. Maybe it's about the possibility that our efforts will be repaid, not with some vainglorious acquisition of lucre, but by helping the tired, naked chick in all of us. Then again, maybe it is just the thinly veiled hopes of some child molesting/necropheliac who can only find an outlet for his 'art' by calling it 'fantasy art'. Time to bottom line it. What would Dave Thomas think? Dave Thomas would set a big sack of biggie fries and a triple stacker on his lap, lose himself in the azure sky, and masterbate furiously until his glasses fell off. That means we have another remarkable piece of fantasy art on our hands here, and another big glob of 'special sauce' on our combo meal. Nutson September 2002

ALEX'S REVIEW At the urging of some of the more prurient members of the hole, we have selected a subject for this month's FAR containing more nudity. I hope this makes everyone tingle in all the right places - sick bastards. To begin, I am astounded that herr Chichion could not come up with a title for this masterpiece. Let's give him a hand. How about The Munch-O-Matic 1000? Or, The Naughty Toaster? Dickhead. This is quite a toy this lass has just finished assembling. I wonder if the warranty is any good. Is it covered up to so many gallons of clam juice? Is there a drain plug? And, leaving aside Robo-cock for a moment, whatever happened to the vibrating egg, chocolate thunder and the pocket rocket? I guess these classics are just not enough to get it done in the future. Apparently, snappers of the future require more to achieve an adequate level of stimulation. As usual, there are a couple of things that I am confused by. What the fuck kind of work shop is this? It looks like something out of Tron. Is this a private residence? Or, is this some sort of future Adam & Eve factory building fully functional Robo-mates? Oh, wait, I just realized that I do not give a shit either way. And what is up with the nun's habit? As Beavis would say - "nuns from the future are cool". At the end of the day though, this work proves the adage that you can put lipstick on a pig, but it is still a pig. Sure we got some cans here and some deviant appliance kranky kranky which may heat the loins, but at the end of the day, it is just another piece a shitty fantasy art. Alex October 2002	Untitled by Oscar Chichion	NUTSON'S REVIEW Fellas, remember that first time you got to third base? Remember thinking, this is kind of gross. Remember thinking about the wisdom given to you by an older counsin who warned of the queef. Ladies, remember that first time you got to third base? Remember thinking, hey, this guy's totally chowing on my box. Remember trying to hold back that queef? Everyone remembers where they were the first time they found a hooper on their face. Everyone remembers at least some of the carpets they've munched. I think it's safe to say that in absolutely none of those memories does Robocop appear. This can lead to only one conclusion...the artist of this piece has never been within 100 feet of an actual fish taco. Is there a woman who wants a robot tongue poking her taint? Is there a robot who wants gritty sauce running down his chin? No - and no. Is there some depraved freak who wishes he was robot, and wishes ladies liked robots? Yes - and yes. For starters, what is a robot tongue made out of? Is it metal? Is it a high-tech space-age plastic like you might find on the space shuttle? Is it a synthetic tongue developed by the engineers at 'Girls Gone Wild III - Girls in Ghana'? The question is moot. Robots don't like giney unless some designer tells them to. Anyone smart enough to design a robot, doesn't want to waste his time programming the robot to search out hot buttered muffin. But enough about the content, what does it really mean. What's underneath the surface? What makes this art? Well, it would have been easier just to show this chick mounting a juicer, or a martini shaker. But what is signified by the robot? Is it our embracing the new century or our comfort with e-commerce? More likely it shows that at some point in this guy's childhood he jammed a transformer action figure or professor owl calculator up his ass and thought it felt neat. Underlying message you seek? Try this one on - Nascar is popular, asian brides are affordable, and you can buy tacos at Burger King. Thanks for opening my eyes Munch-o-tron Nutson October 2002

ALEX'S REVIEW This month's offering is yet another classic fantasy motif - the brave, buxom and stalwart heroine replete with all the expected images: the vile wyrm's severed head, the gore encrusted blade, the flutted armor and of course, the boobsicle. I hope this chick saved her receipt when she bought her byzantine leisure suit. I wonder if they take returns at the local fantasy five-and-dime? I doubt there is a "customer is always right" plaque behind the counter of Grog's Armor and Torture Supplies. I don't see customer service as being one of the highest priorities in the dark ages so I will assume that this is another case of caveat emptor. But, I digress. I know that if I were a lady warrior type and I were about to go into battle, I would certainly want my knockers flopping around in the breeze. No doubt I would eschew a breastplate or other similar protection. I know the purpose of this drawing is to titilate (God, I am funny) but come on. I am cognizant of and appreciate the mesmerizing power of the funbags, but this is too much. Who am I kidding. Show me a hint of cleavage and I will give you my car keys. To wear pasties or not to wear pasties, that is the question. How would Walter Solcheck resolve this quandry? "Has the whole world gone crazy!?! Am I the only one who gives a shit about the rules?!?" My sentiments exactly Walter. In typical male fashion, I have focused on the mammary and have ignored the rest of picture. What the hell is that weird penumbra of light coming from around the severed head? Is that supposed to respresent the miasma of evil being excreted from the severed head? Right, back to the cans. Maybe I have this all wrong. Maybe the artist is attempting to express something deeper. Maybe the valkyrie/bared tit image is a metaphor for feminine strength without having to compromise feminine sexuality. Not likely. The artist is just another fantasy twit peddling soft core porn to pre-pubescent teens and overweight comic book freaks who are always endeavoring to find new and exciting ways to catch a beat. Alex November 2002	Bifid by Luis Rojo	NUTSON'S REVIEW Yeah, I see it. Do I think it could really hold back armor? No. Is there any good reason why it needs to be exposed? No. This is the only logical explanation - when you have some talent as an artist, meaning you can draw realistic tits and hoopers, you simply cannot resist. It doesn't matter if logic, convention, and common sense dictate otherwise...if you can draw a realistic nipple, then you'll find a way to work it into everything you draw. I'm more impressed by the fact that this chick's makeup is perfect after evidently cutting the head off a dragon. She looks like she's on her way to an Iron Chef taping, where the main ingredient is steamed head of dragon, and she is to present the item to Chairman Takata. The chiaroscuro effect off the dragon's head is interesting. Interesting like the smell of Bea Arthur's sports bra after a brisk walk to her gynocologist. That is to say...the fuck? What's that, back to the nipple? Very well. Remember the rumors about Sarah in high school? Remember the talk that her nipples were so long that you could put a 9-volt battery between them and make her hair stand on end? Who would win the nipple-war between Sarah and this chick? I leave that to your imagination, but remember rock beats scissors. Nutson November 2002