MANLEY'S REVIEW I don't get it. I'll be the first to admit that I just don't understand 20/30 somethings getting together to put on pirate's gear and sit in a basement and role play. This is why I'm lobbying for a Non-Believers page on the Gamehole site for people like me to make fun of people like Alex and The Rod. Short of that, I figured a "fantasy art review" was the best forum to vent about the jackassness of this activity. I’m also gunning for the title of “Asshole of the Gamehole.” Like the new parent who rams baby pictures down your throat, Alex blasts out emails about his site to everyone he's ever come in contact with. The perverse pleasure that he gets from this, and the fact that he knows and enjoys people thinking he's like that fat, trenchcoat wearing kid we all went to middle school with is what pisses me off. Why? Because making fun of him for it does no good as he loves the shit burgers that people feed him so much that he’ll often skip the bun. He’s more likely to agree with you on his dorkness and then offer you a Gamehole t-shirt to boot. Beyond the dorkness, there’s the age question. You know how there’s that old dating rule of thumb that says a chick is old enough to date if she’s at least half your age plus 7 years? In fantasy land, I think you can gamehole until you’ve reached twice your starting age minus 7. So, if you started at 10 like normal people, you can play until you are 10 * 2 = 20 – 7 = 13. That seems pretty fair. Alex is shitting on this theorem much the same way Hugh Hefner repeatedly takes a dump on the dating rule. At least that saggy-balled geriatric owns Playboy so his transgressions are to be expected, but it ain’t like Alex is Gary Gygax. He has no such excuse. I mean, when you were 11 and discovered the bra section of the JC Penney catalog, Alex was in his basement “working on his character.” When you were 16 and moved up to Playboys, Alex was still in his basement working on his character. When you were in college and got to see the stuff live and in person on a semi-regular basis (thank God for alcohol and the low tolerance of 19 year old girls) Alex was wishing he had time to work on his character. And now that he has his post-college freedom, he reverts to spending every free minute on this shit. This ain’t normal man! So, I’m calling for Alex to hang up his Holy Avenger Sword, put the maps away, and slowly back away. There’s plenty out there in this world for you. Dude, you’re a partner in a law firm, go sue somebody or work on your rhymes (“If the van slid off the road, pay us a shitload.“). Your golf game blows, go hit some balls. You’ve had the same Jetta for 3 months, go get a new one (and don’t even get me started on that license plate.) You’ve got a common-law in the house, go get biblical. Go see Lord of the Rings for the 43rd time. No, scratch that as that’s just watching D&D on the big screen and may cause either spastic convulsions from withdrawl or worse yet a D&D relapse. If you need to, go to a D&D Anonymous meeting. It may help to sit in a church basement with a bunch of 14 year olds whose parents are worried they’ll turn into a cross between Marilyn Manson, Dylan Klebold and Screech. “Hello, my name is Alex and I’m a D&D addict. It’s been 3 days since my last gamehole (applause) and … aw fuck it, I’m outta here. I can’t take you people. Oh and you over there in the corner in the Dr. Who t-shirt, do you know you’re showing more crack than the Liberty Bell? And you there with the white-man’s afro, go ahead and mix in a shower okay Horseshack? Christ!” Fuck it, trying to wean Alex of the gamehole would be like trying to wean Hefner of his Viagra – ain’t gonna happen. Oh, and I forgot, this is a fantasy art review. Chick's got a nice rack. However, I’ll stick with the JC Penney catalog. Steve Manley January 2003	Allure REBUTTAL OF REVIEW: Manley's home phone number is (608) 663-9735. Call late and often. The review to the right serves as a poignant rebuttal.	JED'S REVIEW: This woman is all that is crass, vulgar, simplistic, unimaginative, and anti-intellectual in American Society. She has no sentiment, no originality, no soul. That is why the review on the left is so fitting. The art and the review are a companion piece. You start with the fact that while she has a perfect body, her eyes are empty and the face devoid of any warmth. She is sex without love, humor without insight, amorality and ambivalence. The skulls around her represent creativity, imagination, honor, and truth - sacrifices at the alter of titillation, shock value, and mindlessness. She is the type that laughs hysterically when someone farts. She is Dumb and Dumber II – the Prequel, Austin Powers, and Eminem. She is Friends, Kid Rock, and American Pie. You may not believe it to look at her, but a cock in pastry will make her double over in laughter. She is bored by epic adventures of good versus evil, but squeals in delight when Fat Bastard makes a screen appearance. She is ambivalent about books, especially if they don’t have pictures. Sports Illustrated and Maxim is all the reading she needs. She can’t understand, imagine, or appreciate any world beyond the gross senses. All that can shall be taunted and ridiculed. *** Jed Sanborn January 2003

MATT'S REVIEW M. Quinn February 2003	Chocolate Elf III	REID'S REVIEW: (In lieu of a normal fantasy art review, and in honor of Black History Month, I present instead the text of a speech by the artist of this month’s fantasy art, Matthew Alan Fenech. On August 28, 2002, Fenech led a march on Washington D.C. to protest the national furor [such as comments made by noted elf artist segregationist Matthew Quinn] sparked by his fantasy art masterpiece, “Chocolate Elf 3.” In the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial and in front of a guy selling churros and 4 or 5 very confused Japanese tourists, Fenech gave the following sermon, known in the annals of rhetorical history as his “I Have a Dream” speech.) I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration of liberation for artists of Negro elves in the history of our nation. Ninescore years ago, a great American, in whose shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon of light to millions of Negro elf artists who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their jacking off to the image of that one Vulcan chick on the new UPN Star Trek series with the huge jugs. But one hundred forty years later, the Negro elf artist still is not free; one hundred forty years later, the life of the Negro elf artist is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination; one hundred forty years later, the Negro elf artist lives on a lonely island made of jizz-stained copies of Black Tail magazine in the midst of a vast ocean of empty vaseline jars; one hundred forty years later, the Negro elf artist is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself in exile in his own parents’ basement. So we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition. In a sense we’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, and the TSR Advanced D&D Monster Manual II, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was the promise that all elf artists, yes, artists of black elves as well as artists of white elves, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of drawing a black elf creature who holds a bow and quiver, has disproportionately-sized breasts, inexplicably has the legs of a deer, and a gravity-defying leaf covering the creature’s elvish twat. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note in so far as her artists of colored elves are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro elf artists a bad check; a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of being able to masturbate to old copies of Fangoria magazine without our grandma barging in and asking us to help take out the folding bed in the guest room. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until Negro elf artists like myself are granted the right to draw nubile black elf lady-warriors with gigantic titties. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds, such as trying to get the baby goat at the petting zoo lick your dong by rubbing it in oatmeal first. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred and smooth-drinking Busch Lite. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence, unless of course, we get a roll of 12 or higher for dexterity. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro elf artist community must not lead us to distrust of all white elf artists, for many of them have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone, although we normally do when returning from our job as “mop boy” at the local adult book store. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of elf artist civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro elf artist is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of people throwing flaming bags of excrement at his parents’ house. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream of blood flowing through Anna Nicole Smith’s tampon once a month. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, including those who spend their weekends drawing naked elf cooch." I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made as straight as my penis gets when “Babylon 5” reruns come on the Sci Fi Channel. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to eat Chili Cheese Fritos together, to make crude drawings of black elf hairpies together, knowing that we will be free one day. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire! Let freedom ring from the puke and urine-stained Greyhound station bathrooms of West Virginia! Let freedom ring from the germ-infested free clinics of New York City! Let freedom ring from the poop-stained gerbil in Jim J. Bullock’s colon! But not only that; let freedom ring from the semen-smeared sheets in the legalized brothels of Nevada! Let freedom ring from America’s Asshole – Gary, Indiana! Let freedom ring from every trailer park and every GED Education Center in Alabama. From every mountainside, let freedom ring. And when we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, normal people and guys like me who wear trench coats in summer, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old 2 Live Crew spiritual, "Together as one we will be. I'll be fucking you and you'll be sucking me. Then lick my ass up and down. Lick it 'till your tongue turns doo-doo brown. Don't try to be slick and give me a kiss. C'mon, baby, we can do this!” Reid S. February 2003 *** Reid Selisker February 2003

ALEX'S REVIEW Foot-binding, geishas, Godzilla, and now, "anime." Yes, the Japanese contributions to world culture are numerous and impressive. Not since "Heavy Metal" have the lines between cartoons and porn been so successfully blurred. I mean these two little girls just want to have fun, right? The beatific expressions, the glimmers in the eye, the lack of noses - these girls are probably cooling down after a Justin Timberlake concert and are about to start up a grade "A" clambake. Because that is what cartoons are all about; Waifish girls with big cans exploring the bounds of their sexuality, munchy munchy style. So sweet. What's going on with the bizarro Pokeman in the background? Looks like he got his hands on some bad acid. I am sure that this Pokeman will now know to only buy from people he knows. Yet another positive message made possible by the magical world of anime. My favorite touch is the antennae like bangs/no underwear combo. A wonderful mix of the bizarre and the naughty, both of which are key elements to any successful children's cartoon. Oh yea, let's not lose sight of the fact that "Love Hina" is a popular childrens cartoon. God bless unchecked capitalism and all the wonders it has brought. Alex March 2003	Love Hina by Ken Akamatsu	NUTSON'S REVIEW Japanimation. I'm certainly no expert. I still think back to the Transformers and Hello Kitty, with a dash of Gung Ho! thrown in. That's when Keaton was a real star, before Clean and Sober, or Batman. But I digress. This is art after all, and art is a response to stimuli. Post-modern art cannot be without modern art. So to understand this piece, we need to understand the stimuli. We must demystify and decode the image. Ignore the figures for a moment and concentrate on the surroundings. This is a hotel room, isn't it? The room service tray is perched on an end table, with last night's champagne glasses drained. Or are those this morning's mimosas and a fresh flower arrangement? The sun peers in through the window. In the midst of all this the girls are posing? Or have they been caught by surprise in the middle of a good morning backrub? The surroundings don't provide us with the clues we need. Time to investigate the centerpiece. Do 14 year old Japanese girls ever have gigantic cans like this naturally? I don't think so. Is that what makes it fantasy art? That and another thing. The little bottle of lotion over by the weird stuffed animal. We finally have the data we need to understand this image. Follow this... The scene is clean, the air coming in through the window is fresh, the mood is light, and the girls smell like jasmine. The linens are tossed about gracefully, and unsoiled. Everything is meticulously placed and necessary. The skin to skin contact isn't sticky, it's light and dizzying. All of these indications can lead to only one conclusion - people who like Japanimation masturbate into their socks. Some fans of fantasy art use the shower. Others Kleenex. Then there are those who love Japanimation. People who simultaneously want to have sex with a young girl, who is part robot, weighs 15 pounds, and can fly through the air, all while braiding her girlfriend's hair, and want to avoid those darn constricting kiddie porn laws. Those people don't want spunk everywhere. They have their Buckaroo Bonzai poster placed to attain the perfect fengshui in the room over their parents' garage. They have a full set of 124 colored pencils. They dip sushi into wasabi. But they also have terrible acne, work part-time at a video store, have never passed solid stool, call 1-900 numbers and hang-up, and pet their cat way too hard. They are the stimuli. They are the ones filling socks with spoo. They are the ones who have created a demand for art done in digital pastels, lacking depth, but overwhelming us with an image of Japan that is so imaginary it makes us wonder when Africanimation will finally blossom, and we'll see barely dressed young African girls lounging around on the savannah with lions dancing around a maypole. Japanimation is art made in response to stimuli. The stimuli are fat whities with crunchy socks and smelly shoes. Just cross your fingers and hope that the divine wind will blow this mess away before it's your turn to clean the lint trap in the drier. Nutson March 2003

ALEX'S REVIEW Generally, I like things. For example, I often enjoy a well crafted sandwich. I also enjoy my X-box, my new miter saw and my set of wedges. I say all this as a preface because I do not want to seem as being all negative all the time. I get the gravamen of fantasy art. I really do. Anything fantastic involves suspending reality - making the impossible, possible. Like putting wings on a Dachshund or not being annoyed by your waiter at T.G.I. Fridays. However, there is more to fantasy art than the mere suspension of reality. Oh yes. One must also mix in a heavy dose of pre-pubescent naughtiness. It is this kind of sophomoric risque' that is so prized by the gamehole and really is the common thread throughout fantasy art. Apparently, the picture on the wall is of the same lass in full battle regalia. What kind of "battling" is she doing? I think more appropriate "battle" gear would be a bib and a shower cap. (Homage to 8). What then in the end is fantasy art? Isn't every Playboy pin-up with augmented cans, shaved muff and soft focus fantasy art? Fuck yes it is. And that friends is the heart of the matter. Fantasy art is just another masturbation aid. Apparently, Brian enjoys rubbing one out to this kind of crap. To each his own. Alex April 2003	After the Battle - Brian Stanton	NUTSON'S REVIEW Why am I always the one who has to be the voice of reason? Fantasy as an aid to masturbation? For shame Mr. Kammer, for shame. You don't really think this is about self-gratification do you? Observe. This piece walks us through the most important moments in the development of art. The ancient Egyptians represent our first lesson. They tried to instill a sense of movement in their sculpture. To do this, they had figures standing with one leg forward of the other. Notice how the focus of this piece does the same thing. Sure, you might say she is standing that way to half cover her cooch, or because her labia are so chaffed that when her legs rub together you can see sparks. But clearly it is a nod to the ancient Egyptians and the foudnation they laid for future artists. In the middle ages, artists struggled with perspective and depth. Here too, a milestone of art is captured. Look at the window in this room. With mathematic precision the artist has captured the illusion of space. It's like you're really looking out a window. And just as those earlier artists didn't have available to them the draftsman’s tools, so too the artist here struggles with consistent depth when painting the candleholders. They tease us with hints of an alternative space, one where depth is all fucked up. An accident? Perhaps a result of post-whacking-off wrist jitters? I think not. It's genius. Our walk down the art history hall of fame continues when we recognize the picture hanging on the wall. Can any of us forget Degas' use of background image? Or what about Van Gogh's self-portrait? Who's to say that Brian isn't really a hot chick with big cans who paints fantasy art self-portraits? The artist here is acknowledging the modern period, and offers it as a prelude to the ultimate, most advanced period of art known to us - post modernity. Notice the pillar on the left. Isn't that a human penis? Notice the angle with relation to our hero's bum. The analogy is obvious. As art advances slowly onward, and matures into a medium used by all humanity to make sense of the world around us, it transports us back to the very beginning, to a day when only our most basic desires drove our lives. When food, water, shelter, and companionship dictated our every action. A time when we did anything necessary to quench our desires. Oh wait, I guess that would include beating off. Hang on. Is that a big glob of spunk in the window? Forget that other shit I said. I guess this guy really does just want to get his rocks off thinking of a WWF 'lady' stepping into a tub of Coors Light, with some vanilla scented candles burning, and that Christine Aguilera song playing in the background. So it's a failure as art. Big deal. At least it gives a guy named Brian a boner. And if Brian can't pump handful after handful of lotion onto his crotch, then the terrorists have already won. Nutson April 2003

REID'S REVIEW Once upon a time, I was a happy-go-lucky kid growing up on the industrial, northern side of the booming metropolis known as Wilmington, Delaware. My two best friends, Chris Wilson and John Quinn, both lived on my block. They were a little older than I was, and we all went to different schools. But, we would spend our carefree pre-adolescent evenings, weekends, and summers playing whiffle ball, reenacting our favorite scenes from "Star Wars," and aggravating all of the old people on our block. So one day when I was about 8 or 9 years old, my friend Chris came over and knocked on my door. He had a friend of his with him whom I hadn’t met before. Unfortunately, the ravages of time have rendered his name lost, so for the sake of this narrative, let’s call him Kenny. What I instantly recall about Kenny is that he was wearing a helmet, kind of like the type you see extreme skateboarders wear, minus the chin-strap. Anyway, the three of us decided to hang out, but the whole time I couldn’t figure out why Kenny wouldn’t take his helmet off. Eventually, I cornered my friend Chris and asked him what the deal was with Kenny. Chris told me that Kenny was born with some weird thing where the top of his skull was very soft, and he always had to wear the helmet to keep from injuring it. It kind of freaked me out, and in later years I always wondered why modern medical science couldn’t have invented a protective hat that was more stylish, like a specially-designed baseball cap or maybe even a pirate’s hat. Anyway, the three of us wound up watching TV at my house that day. While engrossed in an episode of "The Superfriends," Kenny started to doodle on the copy of TV Guide that was sitting on the nearby coffee table. Upon inspection, I could see that he was drawing large breasts and vaginas on the pictures of women, and big penises on the men. Hence, the listing for "Happy Days" suddenly had the Fonz with a giant schlong hanging out of his crotch. The way Kenny was snickering, we could tell that he was very amused with himself. Chris and I started laughing at Kenny’s racy drawings, but after he had drawn, like, the 80th pair of titties, we were both like, "Hey Kenny, give it up, man." But no, Kenny kept drawing and laughing maniacally. Eventually, Chris grabbed the TV Guide and held it away from Kenny, and he got mad. Kenny took back the TV Guide, and stormed out of my house with it. I never saw Kenny again, although a little later that day, Chris and I were walking down our block, and we saw little torn pieces of the TV Guide strewn all over the street. Scribbled pictures of genitalia scattered everywhere. I like to think that maybe Kenny grew up to be a priest or a school bus driver. Which brings me to this month’s fantasy art, entitled "godislove" by Earth Brownwind (Earth Brownwind?!). You see, the first thing I thought about when seeing this artwork was helmet-wearing Kenny’s drawings of dicks, titties, and ginies. It struck me how much better they were than this piece of shit, but more importantly, that even Kenny had the discretion to tear up his drawings. But what does Earth Brownwind do? He puts his art on the Internet for the whole world to see! Good one, douchebag! Also, way to invoke the name of our Lord in its title. I’m sure your divinity points are just racking up with the big guy upstairs. Now, I’m going to assume in my review that Mr. Brownwind (insert shit joke here) is a competent adult, and not a member of the silver medal-winning U.S. Special Olympic floor hockey team. So, let’s analyze this piece, shall we? We’ll go clockwise from the bottom right corner. Here, we have a picture of a wizard, easily identified by his pointy wizard hat and beard. Against type, however, this character is wearing a sports bra and appears to have a small cat where his wizardly penis and testicles should be. Ahh, J.R.R. Tolkien himself couldn’t have conceived of such a transgender mystic as this. So unless the people at Hello Kitty have designed a male codpiece that I haven’t seen before, I’m going to assume that the cat is a metaphor for a pussy. How clever you are, Mr. Brownwind! Just to the left of the gay wizard’s hat is something of an odd drawing. We see a character in the four-point "prison bitch" stance. But if this character is the "catcher," then where is the "pitcher?" Could this be symbolic of something missing from Earth Brownwind’s social life? And just to the left of this is a knight in armor, complete with a brandished sword in his raised left hand. But what’s that in his right hand? You guessed it: a two-pronged dildo for simultaneous anal and vaginal penetration. What? You didn’t know that knights in medieval times used sexual toys as weaponry? Well then, I guess you didn’t see the movie “Asscalibur.” Good movie, goooood movie. Now we turn our attention to the bottom of the frame. Here, inexplicably, we have a body lying down with a severed head just to its right. On the head is the smiling face of a man with a somewhat bewildered look on his face. I know how he feels. This most likely represents one of two things. First, it might be meant to show the notion of society’s sense of detached consciousness as suggested in Sartre’s writings on absurdism. Or, it may be a drawing of the beheaded corpse in Earth Brownwind’s basement. Current Vegas odds are running 5-4 on the corpse. OK, now we get to my favorite part of this “artwork.” Encompassing the entire bottom left of the frame is the shadowy outline of a dragon’s head. Inside the head, we see a white area that either represents a literal view of what is occupying the dragon’s cranial space, or a figurative description of what the dragon is thinking about. Either way, it’s severely fucked up. Let’s assume for a moment that it’s supposed to be what is on the dragon’s mind. The first thing that catches our eyes is the image of a beaver. Once again, we have a double-entendre for a vagina. Now, if we could see the thought bubbles for 90% of all American males, you’d see a beaver (or Alyssa Milano, as it were), a football, a nice car, and the perfect sandwich. If Mr. Brownwind had just left the picture alone with the beaver, I’d almost be inclined to think it wasn’t so bad. But no, it gets worse. Much worse. For you see, just below the floating beaver, we have a running shower head which is pouring down on a shopping cart. But not only that, the shopping cart appears to be having doggy-style sex with a bent naked woman. Funny, this is exactly how I feel after shopping at Byerly’s (rimshot please!). But seriously folks, what the hell is this? I mean, that shopping cart doesn’t know where that woman’s been! He’s not even wearing a rubber! Remember people: sex in the shower doesn’t wash the ugly off your partner. Man, have I learned that lesson the hard way… Jesus Christ, this picture is giving me a headache. I could go on to analyze the whole top of the work, but what’s the point? You’ve got a dude with a Pac-Man head eating the dots accordingly, two big hills which are probably supposed to represent titties, and some octopus tentacles coming out of the side. And all throughout the picture are Charles Schultz-esque stinklines such as those that emanate from the Pigpen character in the Peanuts cartoons. And speaking of Pigpen, couldn’t Children’s Services have intervened and arrested his parents for negligence? And did you ever notice how all the characters in Peanuts always just completely dumped on Charlie Brown? I mean, they just totally shit on the guy! Any real Charlie Brown would have either hanged himself or gone all Columbine on those dipshits. But I digress. So in conclusion, “godislove” is a festering pile of corn and peanut chunk-filled excrement. Earth Brownwind, who better be a fucking Native American with a name like that, is destined for a future of selling Amway door to door, running the carnival rides at the local county fair, or perhaps becoming a U.S. Senator. Remember those random little drawings that were always on the side of the page in Mad Magazine? Well, if the guy who drew those in Mad had tried to kill himself with a nail gun and survived with a near-fatal head wound instead, then it might define how Earth Brownwind came to create this piece. All I can say is that Kenny from the block would be proud. Very proud, indeed. Reid Selisker, May 2003	GODISLOVE - Earth Brownwind	AARON'S REVIEW Those of you who regularly read the FAR have undoubtedly noticed that the piece we present this month marks a departure from the traditional styles widely associated with fantasy art. The work “godislove” does not feature a reptile probing the inner secrets of an airbrushed maiden, or even an Amazon princess fighting a dragon with nothing but a broadsword and a remarkable rack. Au contraire, this month’s work of art features cartoonish characters drawn in marker on construction paper. Indeed, the creation of fantasy art is no longer the domain of the elite “Fantasy Artiste,” but rather lies within the realm of the everyman – provided he has access to office supplies that can be found at any Target, elementary school, or even Sunday School. Before I begin the review, let me describe my credentials. Why should you listen to my opinions, anyway? After all, I am not an art scholar – that’s not what I went to school for. I have never visited the National Gallery, MoMA or the Louvre. But I’ve heard that these museums sadly lack installations of fantasy art. Luckily, many works of the masters of the fantasy art world can be found at any Waldenbooks or B. Dalton Booksellers, stores that I frequented as a child. I could buy a Boris Vallejo calendar long before the pimple-faced clerk at the bookstore would believe that “this copy of Penthouse is for my dad.” I still live crushed under the weight of the questions revealed when I first opened the Pandora’s Box of fantasy art as a child. “Would girls like me more if I saved them from a dragon?” “Would girls like me more if I was a wizard?” “What is that girl doing with that robot?” OK, I think I figured out the answer to the last one… So you see, I know a thing or two about fantasy art. Now before I get started, here’s an idea that I hope will inspire the fantasy artists of the future. What the world needs is fantasy art printed, not on a calendar or on the cover of the latest book by Piers Anthony, but on soft, absorbent tissues. But I digress. godislove. I have to say, this month’s featured work moves me greatly, perhaps because it is a page torn from the book of my life. Let’s start with the boy on the hill. Are those carmeled apples he is eating? NO WAIT!! They are chocolate stars, just like the ones Ricky Lomar used to spit across the table during seventh grade science class. I would catch them in my mouth and spit them back to him. The tentacles on the right clearly represent the inescapable vengeance of Mr. Rudd, the student teacher who had to change professions when we drove him to a nervous breakdown. It occurs to me now, many years later, and only after seeing this work of art, that there is a lesson to this story – even the most daunting of opponents can be overcome. But lest we become too cock-sure, the two knights in the center of the piece offer an important counterpoint. While both are clad in platemail, the knight on the left appears victorious, having won a Stonehenge keychain (much like the one right here on my desk as I write this) from the red knight. The defeated knight is bent over, exposing his poopshoot. The message is clear: no matter how strong the defenses we erect around ourselves, penetration is still possible. The beast on the lower left has many characters in his head, much like Herman of the FOX show Herman’s Head. The beaver clearly represents a healthy libido, further evidence that this painting is about me. The beast also has a naked lady and a shopping cart in his mind, a reference to the baglady I saw take off her top in front of Curry-In-Hurry. Much like the bag lady, the woman in the beast’s head needs a shower. Finally, in the lower right, we see a man with a goatee, wearing a halter top, with a kitten between his legs. I just grew a goatee, but the symbolism of the kitten in the crotch of this character escapes me. Perhaps this represents my future, and as such I can not yet comprehend its meaning. As you can see, this work of art is deeply significant, and has important lessons for the viewer. It encourages us to be confident without being overconfident, and reminds us of the importance of personal hygiene. These lessons are taught in a manner that revolutionizes the world of fantasy art by bringing the creative process in reach of the masses. I also find the work aesthetically pleasing. The artist chose pretty colors both for his markers and his construction paper, and the scenes are distributed evenly around the paper instead of grouped together in a corner. This makes the piece seem well balanced. Finally, this piece is totally about me. Now, I ask myself, “Will girls like me more now that I am the subject of a well balanced work of fantasy art that uses pretty colors both for the ink and the paper?” If your answer is yes, ladies, my number is in the phonebook. Aaron Severson

ALEX'S REVIEW Recently I was traveling through a small town in northern Wisconsin when I decided to stop and enjoy a delicious sandwich. So, I stopped at some sort of half-assed deli and perused my menu options. After thoroughly considering the six sandwich possibilities, I opted for the turkey and guacamole. You see, I like turkey and I also like guacamole. What possibly could go wrong? (dramatic pause) Then, the sandwich came. What a fucking mess. This sloppy pig of a sandwich was absolutely soaked with this thin mucousy substance that they obviously intended to be guacamole. God damit! Intrepid in the face of this sandwich disappointment I managed to get a respectable amount of the thing down and then got the hell out of there. I immediately tried to put the whole incident behind me, but I found myself revisiting the subject as I went on with my day. I mean, even chiropractors and cosmetologists require licensure nowadays, why not sandwich artisans? I almost had myself talked into returning to the scene of this unsavory incident in order to commit a double homicide just to make an example of these irresponsible shits when I realized that I did not have time to both dispose of the bodies and get back to the office in time to sign my mail. So, for now, the above crime against all that is good and decent in this world remains unpunished. The deranged ravings of a clearly addled mind – not so fast. Attend. Later that night I felt the return of the unmistakable sensation of hunger pangs. Damn, was this to be another font of disappointment or a chance at redemption? I was taking no chances this time. I was going strictly fast food. Sure the food sucks, but at least it is a reliable sort of shitty. But, where to go? I eventually pared my choices down to M&D’s or Taco Bell – the two pillars which under gird our society. Then, out of the blue, I had an epiphany. I am a white man and this is America so fuck it, I will stop at both! Doing anything less would mean the terrorists have already won. Buoyed by my ability to banish the day’s earlier culinary fiasco, I returned home comfortable in the knowledge that even life’s most devastating setbacks can be righted by a quick stop at drive-through. At least that was what I thought until I gazed upon the subject of this month’s art review. Jesus, where even to begin - some weird ethereal bitch floating on a panther with a bird and some other stupid shit floating around her. Anger level rising! I know that finding a quality piece of fantasy art is like finding a new parent with a child named O.J., but this really tops off my week. I mean, is this a dream of a dream or a MSG and jelly donut induced hallucination? I haven’t seen this much depth since I last caught an episode of F- Troop. The creator of this soft focus dick painting (not a painting of a dick, but a painting done with one’s dick) is named Jael. Which, I believe is ebonics for “jail.” Keeping my blood pressure in mind, I do not think I am going to comment on this piece of shit any longer. For a more detailed breakdown of this damn thing, look to Nutson’s review. He will undoubtedly state that the positioning of a certain limb indicates movement or will describe how the Mayans invented television. I gotta split. The ammo store closes in 30 minutes. Alex	Dream Fantasy by Jael Fuckin' Andy	NUTSON'S REVIEW About 3/4 of your average turd is made of water. Of course, this value is highly variable - the water content of diarrhea is much higher, and the amount of water in poop that has been retained (voluntarily or otherwise) is lower. Water is absorbed out of fecal material as it passes through the intestine, so the longer a turd resides inside before emerging, the drier it will be. Of the remaining portion of the turd, about 1/3 is composed of dead bacteria. These microcorpses come from the intestinal garden of microorganisms that assist us in the digestion of our food. Another 1/3 of the turd mass is made of stuff that we find indigestible, like cellulose, for instance. This indigestible material is called "fiber," and is useful in getting the turd to move along through the intestine, perhaps because it provides traction. The remaining portion of the turd is a mixture of fats such as cholesterol, inorganic salts like phosphates, live bacteria, dead cells and mucus from the lining of the intestine, and protein. Poop stinks as a result of the products of bacterial action. Bacteria produce smelly, sulfur-rich organic compounds such as indole, skatole, and mercaptans, and the inorganic gas hydrogen sulfide. These are the same compounds that give farts their odor. The color comes mainly from bilirubin, a pigment that arises from the breakdown of red blood cells in the liver and bone marrow. The actual metabolic pathway of bilirubin and its byproducts in the body is very complicated, so we will simply say that a lot of it ends up in the intestine, where it is further modified by bacterial action. But the color itself comes from iron. Iron in hemoglobin in red blood cells gives blood its red color, and iron in the waste product bilirubin gives rise to its brown color. What other colors of poop are possible? Poop is mostly shades of brown or yellow, but other colors can arise under certain circumstances. For example, someone with a bleeding ulcer might have tarry black poop from the presence of partially digested blood. Bleeding in the intestine, from an anal fissure or split, for example, can stain the poop red. Some illnesses in babies gives them green or even blue-green poop. But another source of blue poop in children is more innocent: it can come from eating a concentrated source of blue food coloring such as ice cream. Intense red food coloring can produce bright red poop. Sometimes brightly colored foods pass through the gut almost unchanged, and the turd may be speckled with bright red fragments such as pimentos, or bright yellow kernels of corn. One can experience white poop after consuming a barium milkshake for the purposes of getting an x-ray of the upper gastrointestinal tract. Jason June 2003

ANN MARIE'S REVIEW I am nice. I am very, very nice. I am so freaking nice that I find it hard to say “No” to anyone or to correct someone when they are mistaken. I especially find it hard to criticize something someone created. Take “The Happy Couple” for example- one of nine pieces with the same title on the Elfwood site alone. This drawing made me laugh harder than any of the other fantasy art I have reviewed, yet I am loath to make fun of it. Even though I have spent days trying to figure out why a flesh covered robot would want to marry such an ugly lady, I dread criticizing creative efforts. Maybe Simon worked really hard to design Doug and Karen. (Don’t you think that’s their names?) No, I could never say anything mean about this terrible piece of work. The best I could do is say, “I don’t care for this drawing, but it could be worse.” To that end, the following things are worse than “The Happy Couple.” · The state of Colorado · Outback Steakhouse Commercials · Giving cats a bath · Changing clothes in a port-o-potty · Coors Light · My chances of getting through Gen Con without emotional scars · The color scheme when my uncles are all in a room at the same time · A Jaeger Bomb Hangover · This list If you’ll excuse me, I am going to sit here and drink this watery cappuccino rather than go back to the gas station and complain. Ann Marie Ames July 2003	'The Happy Couple' by Simon F. Chevalley de Rivaz	MATT'S REVIEW The Happy Couple As I see it, fantasy art has three basic criteria, any one of which could be met in order to be considered meritorious. Let’s examine these criteria one at a time to analyze “The Happy Couple.” First- “Fantasy Art should make me want to whip out my dong and stroke it vigorously until I ejaculate.” Some previous pieces of art reviewed in this column have met that criterion. That saddle lady for example was pretty hot, the one where the robot frenched that naked chick’s labia was pretty sweet. Oh yeah, then there was the snake biting that brunette’s nipple. The black elf actually really got me going. Okay so maybe everything else that has ever appeared here has motivated me to masturbate, or at least made me think about beating off, without actually performing the act. That was the case at least until “The Happy Couple.” Let’s start with the chick. Yes, she is scantily clad, but her choice of clothing makes me limp. The sheer/mesh half-shirt that might have been purchased in order to attend a Ratt concert on the “Out of the Cellar” tour is pretty awful, not to mention the frayed brassiere borrowed from grandma underneath. The facial tan lines also make it look as if she just took off ski goggles after a few days on the slopes. Well how about the guy, anything there to make me bi-curious? Despite his impressive muscular physique, there is little indication of the presence of a penis of any sort underneath his Chewbacca Underoos. Not even a big bulge to get you going. How about the combined sexual mise en scene created by these two figures? I sense little chemistry. These two would probably rather play Boggle than fuck. So criteria one fails, I am not aroused or compelled to stimulate my penis manually by this work. Second- “Fantasy Art should portray something fantastical, heroic and perhaps even unbelievable.” Okay this criterion should be really fucking easy to meet. But Simon F. Chevalley de Rivaz (what the hell kind of name is that?) fails to do even that. One could argue that de Rivaz is making a statement about the genre of fantasy art itself and reacting to it with this piece. I’ll explain. Fantasy Art generally embodies the basic tenants of early 19th century Romanticism; strong heroic figures, emotion valued over reason, harmony with nature, damsels in distress and lots of fucking (well some fucking). In reaction to the Romantic era in the mid 19th century the Realist movement largely spearheaded by Gustave Flaubert attempted to tear down Romantic notions and focus on the everyday, the practical and the commonplace. Perhaps de Rivaz with the Happy Couple is trying to move Fantasy Art as a genre along its logical chronological course. By focusing on this warrior couple not in battle, but rather in a scene of domestic complacency, he transforms art itself based on historic precedence. I’d say that scenario is really un-fucking-likely and this dipshit just couldn’t think of anything better to paint then a couple of Mattel Barbie doll look-alikes. Yawn. Third- “Fantasy Art should transcend formal structure, subject matter and the corporeal world, bring the viewer to a higher plane of consciousness and understanding. After viewing said art the viewer should have a sense of purpose, place and planned course of action to strive for a harmonious and blissful existence.” Umm…no. Okay so Fantasy Art is dumb as usual. But the Happy Couple really is not only dumb, but also commonplace and dreary and my shorts are quite clean as a result. Matt July 2003

ALEX'S REVIEW This picture may look a little fucked up, but that is because Sean took it. This concludes my criticism of Sean. Now comes the praise segment of my review. Sean took this picture at GenCon. This is actual fantasy art trying to be sold by a real fantasy artist. For completeness, the artist looked like a hippie mom. But, back to Sean. Sean labeled this work “Wizard/Slut.” Giving Sean his due, we are now officially making this a new multi-class character available for play at the gamehole.com. Let’s flesh out this new class a bit. First, consistent with any wizard class, the wizard/slut is prohibited from wearing any armor. Wizard/sluts are restricted to silken (or rayon) robes for garb. Further, the character’s underwear selections are limited to things in either the thong or crotchless family. Kneepads and stiletto heels are also recommended, but are not required equipment. The prime ability requisites are dexterity – the ability to get into various positions; and constitution – the ability to fight off a variety of diseases. Recommended proficiencies include dance, knob polishing and salve application. For a weapon, the wizard/slut may choose from: handbag, blowgun, rave whistle, pepper spray, any latex/rubber good, manacles or man catcher. The spells available to the wizard/slut are still being worked out. Here is what we have so far: cause anal/genital warts, protection from pimp 10’ radius, pimp summoning I, pimp summoning II, lubricated hands, enlarge, engorge, mood lighting, charm johns, create cigarettes, create lube, spunk purge, neutralize STD’s and wall of jaded indifference. I know what you are thinking – that this seems like a pretty cool character. However, before rolling up one of these devastating vixens, please consult your DM as this new character class may unbalance your game. Enjoy! Alex August 2003	Some Sweet Art from Gen Con 2003	JASON'S REVIEW There are certain building blocks necessary to any effective design element. These elements form the underpinning of aesthetics as we know it. That is to say, certain shapes, colors, and forms elicit a response from the viewer. There is a common schema among humans - there is somehow a shared aesthetic experience to which we can all relate. A bushman who lived 2,000 years ago, and a data entry clerk for an automotive supply distribution warehouse can both be affected by certain elements of visual stimuli. These common elements are rare but they do exist. Take for instance the color black. A black color field, a la Stella, or even to a lesser degree Ellsworth Kelly represents a response to realism, but it also represents, simply put, the color black. The contemplation of a color, devoid of its meaning and associations is what takes us to its elemental aesthetic root. It is difficult to strip an item of the meaning we attach to it as a result of societal training. When we see a black color field, some of us think of night, others think of a dark sea, still other think of fuckin black sabbath, man. The problem with all those interpretations is that they depart from the object itself - those are mutations of black - they are not black. And as a result, the aesthetic purity intended by the artist is lost. Instead of seeing black, the viewer is seeing something else. A disconnect results between artist and audience. Instead of providing a piece that may be used by the recipient to make sense of the world around him, the artist has perpetuated pre-existing notions about what black represents. With all that by way of introduction, this piece, Wizard-Slut, is a triumph of pure aesthetics over convention. I described above basic elements of beauty - and Wizard-Slut masterful wields one, like that guy in the jester hat on library mall wields those goddamn sticks that he flips around. In Wizard-slut the artist has taken the reigns of one of the most powerful of all aesthetic building blocks - the triangle. We can trace the aesthetic roots of the triangle to Etruscan pottery. Its roots arguably go further back to the foundation of geometry. Obviously, the triangle existed in most forms in flora long before it was set to canvas or stone. As such the triangle is a powerful image - it has been viewed by all mankind over our time on Earth. It is a leaf, a roofline, a storm cloud, a wafer in a chocolate malt, and a sweet mother fucking vagina brother. Oh yeah, sweet sweet poon. This wizard slut stands in a triangle - her beauty is bounded and defined by an aesthetic pillar. Her perfectly spherical breasts act to offset the geometry of her snatch. The triangle triumphs. Our ability to cut to its aesthetic form made easier to discern due to less associations with day to day objects. Notice too the incomplete triangle formed by her feet. Her feet form two borders of the triangle - but where is the third? It is absent, unseen, but there in our minds. Just like we can totally imagine her well-trimmed muff behind her stupid underwear. You can't hide the triangle - not from master aesthetes like us. The power of the triangle draws us to her. Her form bounded by its sides we search the canvas for more. The vagi-triangle is the monument we desired. The extraneous material around her disappears, and we are drawn into the briny depths of her sexuality. Common experience punches another aesthetic ticket for the viewer. We've all been around a vagina - some of us only once, and on the way out - but we've all been there. We've all been touched by the triangle. For this reason, this piece of art succeeds. This is by far the most incredible piece of art so far reviewed at thegamehole.com. That's because it is the one that most reminds me of snatch. And snatch is nice. It's a great place to be. It makes art, really sweet art. It makes life worth living. It starts war, and crowns kings. It can also shoot out tons of some kind of clear ejaculate if you meet that right lady. What's sweeter than that? What is more beautiful than that? What is more aesthetically pleasing than that? Not a fucking thing - and if you say otherwise than you're a stupid piece of shit who clips his toenails, then jams them into grape gum, and freezes them so he can chew them the next day while he paints the backdrops for his high school's presentation of Oklahoma. What the fuck is wrong with you anyway? Wizard-slut, I salute you. You understand the power of the triangle, and you take it to the masses. Giney for everyone. Long live the giney. Jason August 2003

ALEX'S REVIEW Classically speaking, Hell is the repository of spirits of the dead. This realm was identified with Sheol and Hades. Christians, not being satisfied with this construct, made Hell the place where fallen angels, devils, etc. live and to where sinners and unbelievers go after death for torment and eternal punishment. Undoubtedly, there is a special corner of Hell already reserved for the gamehole. According to the Talmud, Michael cast Satan out of heaven for not playing well with others. For Christians, as chief of the fallen angels, Satan is the great enemy of man and of goodness. Apparently, Hades did not have enough zip for Christians. Moving forward in time, Dante, in the Divine Comedy, tried to lighten things up by his depiction of hell as a series of concentric circles that doled out punishment to the damned as a function of the behavior that resulted in their damnation in the first place. Hell and its first mate Satan have continued to evolve in modern works such as South Park and “Little Nicky.” This brings us to the subject of this month’s fantasy art review. Apparently, Hell is now a pretty cool place. It is more of a bathhouse than a pit of unending torment. Clearly for Donna, Satan’s barbed Old Testament cock has been replaced by a good times Adam Sandler weenie. Alex September 2003	Get thee behind me, Satan by Donna Waltz	SPECIAL GUEST REVIEWER JESUS Before I get started...is that a bicyclist's glove she is wearing? Huh? I really hope my dad doesn't read this, but, I just need to get a few things off my chest. This is not the first time I have caught a human female fantasizing about unspeakable bodily contact with Satan. Plenty of rather ugly ladies in the New York City area flock to underground clubs to bite guys dressed up in red face paint. I've also taken note of all the Satan costumes for sale at WestTowne this time of year. I get it to some degree, Satan is nasty, he's the underdog, he has a more chic fashion sense. But let's get one thing straight, no one does the reach-around-boob-grab-boner-on-the-butt-grind better than the son of God. Granted I don't have ouchy little tines on my rod, but let's just say when it comes time to part the red seas, moses doesn't have a thing on me. And one more thing for all the ladies out there, do you have any idea how rough Satan's hands are? All blistery and doo-doo smelling? Then look at my hands. Not only do I keep them soft with lotion and annointing oil, but I have these convenient little holes in the middle that are perfect for, you guessed it, hot reach-around-nipple-teasing-christ action. Can Satan do that? I don't think so. Another thing that no one talks about is the odor. Have you ever stopped to think what Satan smells like? I've met him, I've smelled him. Imagine filling a cheesy bacon hot pocket with pubic hair, and leaving it in the toaster for 45 minutes. That's what Satan smells like from 100 feet away. Me on the other hand, nothing but lilacs and vanilla. Mmmm. Not to toot my own horn, but all the ladies out there should also take a minute to think about the loaves and fishes story. Because fishes ain't all I can multiply, you know what I'm saying? Oh yeah baby, no one does it like Jesus. Well my dad sort of does, but he's kind of mist like, I'm 100% man. Oh yeah. So Donna, the next time you think you'd like to find Satan behind you with his dirty little hand making it's way toward you thighs like a maggot to a trash can, remember this, the reach-around might be nice, but when it comes to making it with Jesus: "And remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, that He said, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive." Acts 20:35 Jesus September 2003

ALEX'S REVIEW This month we are reviewing the aptly named Girl3 by Franz Mensik (nice handle there fella). According to an aesthetician (for an example of an 'aesthetician' see the opposing review) everything contains an element of the aesthetic. This branch of mental masturbation – aesthetics – deals with people’s responses to the fine arts. Girl3 is clearly fine art. I mean, it has naked tits and wolf pelts. If the folks at Coors have taught me nothing else, Girl3 kicks as much ass as football Sundays with Kid Rock. But, I digress. It would be easy to take the superficial approach with Girl3. Not me though. I am convinced that Franz (are you fucking kidding me?!?) is about more than taxidermy and rubbing one out to a Fredrick’s catalogue that was mailed to 'or current resident.' Like Deluise as a Christ figure in Cannonball Run, there is a hidden message here. I believe that Franz (who the fuck names their kid 'Franz') uses the flame-tits-sword-pelts imagery as a camouflage. Even as Franz (leave it to a French fantasy art site to feature someone with a name like 'Franz') tries to make everything explicit in Girl3, he cannot keep extraneous associations at bay. The whole effect creates a complicated abstraction. A longer view of Girl3 ineluctably leads one to the realm of dreamy illusionism. In other words, Franz (I hate him) so gay. Art so gay. You so gay. Alex October 2003	Girl3 by Franz Mensik	NUTSON'S REVIEW I haven’t really given much thought as to what Meg Tilly has been up to. I mean she is a ‘movie star’, having appeared in: Agnes of God; The Big Chill; Body Snatchers; Fame; Impulse; Journey; Sleep With Me; Tex; Two Jakes; Valmont; and Liar Liar, just to name a few. But something tells me her name comes up more often when people are filling out their celebrity death pools, than talking about the cinema. I’m sure the artist here was thinking the same thing. I’m going to assume that Meg Tilly didn’t actually pose for this piece. More likely, a smegma-scented magazine clipping of her was taped on the edge of the artist’s iMAC while he banged out this shitty piece of ‘art’. Having nailed down the background then, let’s move on to discuss the work itself. Meg is calm. The roaring fire contrasts her. In fact, the entire work is about dichotomy. She is topless, but wears boots. A helmet on the floor instead of on a, well, head. Most striking though is Meg’s peacefulness. Why is that remarkable you ask? How about because she has a rabid wolf six inches on either side of her vagina. Try staying calm in that situation. I don’t care if you were in The Two Jakes – that’s a lot to deal with. Why are the wolves so pissed off. Here the artist uses one of the oldest tricks in book. If someone is reacting to something off the canvas, then the viewer must use his/her imagination about what that must be. And since the viewer is a hell of a lot more creative than the artist, then this piece of crap might actually end up being half-way interesting. The problem is no one is going to give a damn about anything other than those waxy cans. We don’t care what she’s looking at – we don’t really care if she’s in danger. She’s wearing boots and no shirt. End of story. You had me at areola. So what’s the bottom line? I think our good friend Ludwig Wittgenstein said it best, “I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves.” This visual blight certainly confirms that theory. Thanks for sucking everybody. Nutson October 2003

ALEX'S REVIEW Ah liberty. Apparently, something that everyone purports to want, including red-eyed chicks with press-on nails. My question for her is whether or not she really wants out of her cell. Leaving aside for the moment the quid pro quo that her red headed “liberator” will expect for services rendered, does she really want to step out of the spot-light glare that illuminates her dungeon and into the miasmic haze that is the outside world? Let’s consider the adjustments that she will have to make. She will have to deal with a world where the two fastest growing sports are bass fishing and Nascar. She will have to confront a world where cajun/garlic/basil mayonnaise is considered an appropriate sandwich fixin’. She will now have to live in a world where there are men named Gale who proudly wear groomed mustaches. So, my sweet Helen, think long and hard about the realities of your impending freedom before taking the step. I mean, is your cell so bad? Your meals are prepared for you everyday. You can take a crap or piss in any corner at anytime and no one cares. It sounds like a slice of heaven to me. And, after weighing the equities, you decide that you want to breath the exhaust and grease filled air of the outside world again, I suggest that you tell the red headed clown to stop tugging on the chain clothes line and simply unwrap the goddamn thing from your waist. Further, you might suggest to your savior, for future jail-breaks, that he might consider turning off the spotlight feature on his Coleman. Fucking jackass. Alex November 2003	Le Liberateur by Marc Lambrette	JASON'S REVIEW -Thanks, I really had a great time tonight. *Me too. Do you want to come in for a minute? -Um, sure, that sounds good. Door opens, smell of plug-in air freshener hits face, air temperature is 15 degrees too warm. -My roommate Tina is visiting her boyfriend in Chicago this weekend, so make yourself at home. *Cool. So what do you have going on tomorrow? -Nothing, I mean, I should probably go grocery shopping, but that can wait ‘til whenever I get up. *Cool. I need to do that too. I had like pickles and cheesecake for dinner last night. Both laugh nervously. He notices that one of the two light bulbs in the floor lamp is burned out. -I had a really great time tonight. It’s nice to just kind of be able to be yourself with someone y’know? It’s like I just feel like we don’t need to play games ‘n stuff. *Yeah. That’s cool. She puts her arms around his neck and starts to kiss him. He can still smell the taco bell mild sauce on her breath from the drive-thru on the way back to her apartment. He notices a copy of the Lord’s Prayer on her fridge, held on with a Ricky Martin magnet. They stumble into her bedroom. It smells like baby powder and crippling self-doubt. *I really feel like we could take the step together, y’know? Like we could really be special. Do you wanna stay tonight? -Um, yeah, I guess. I mean I have to get back tonight because my roommate needs my car in the morning to get to work. But I could stay for a little bit I guess. *I just wanna say that I don’t like do this all the time, I mean I’m only getting this close to you ‘cuz I really feel like we could be special. Y’know? -Um, yeah I guess. She starts undoing her undersized Capri pants. He thinks he smells hamburger. She muffles a belch as she bends over. He notices that her pillows are lumpy. She has a Beyonce CD on a milk crate. He begins to panic. -Y’know, I think I should probably go, I mean, I don’t want this to me a one-time thing, like you said, so maybe we should just hook up tomorrow night or something. *No. Stay. I get, like freaked out when my roommate isn’t here. Can you just hold me for a while before you go? -Yeah, I guess. She awkwardly fondles his junk. He starts thinking about the Playstation 2 game he paused before he got talked into giving his friend a ride to the bar. He thinks he feels stubble on the back of her neck. -Um, I should get going. I had a really great night, and we sho… She interrupts *Don’t make me beg. I mean, please stay. You’re really special, I’ve never really been with a guy like as cool as you before. -I really should go. *But… She starts to weakly cry. -I really have to go. I’m just not ready for something like this. I’m really busy at school and stuff, and like we should totally get together with Tom and Lisa sometime, that would be really fun. Plus we both had so much to drink we’ll probably just fall asleep anyway. He laughs, she does not. *You can’t leave, it just wouldn’t feel right. He starts to sweat. He stares helplessly at a Calvin Klein ad taped to her mirror. She again gropes at his package. As she slams her swollen tongue into his mouth and pulls him down onto the well-worn double mattress, he notices there is no smoke-alarm in the apartment. He isn’t sure which door leads out and which leads into the closet. He can’t remember her name. He didn’t bother to grab a condom. Did she just farmer-blow? Maybe the roommate will come back? Why won’t she turn the light off for the love of god?!? Oh my god, those are saggy. No don’t do that. Her hair is thinning on top. Great, now I have glitter lip-gloss on my balls – I’m sure that’s not toxic, thanks a lot. Fuck, this is stupid. It’s going to take me three weeks to get rid of her now. Goddammit, I have to get out of here, right fucking now. Did my wallet just fall on the floor – got to remember to grab that. Fuck. What the fuck. Get me out of here! Never wear your best trousers when you go out to fight for freedom and truth. Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906) NUTSON November 2003