ALEX'S REVIEW You wouldn’t believe what happened to me the other night. It was so bizarre that it has taken me a few days to collect myself enough to talk about it. Here is what happened – Two nights ago, I was with my two friends, Gale and Chad at The Irish Spring. We had just finished playing raquetteball at the club. There is nothing like a little wicked cutthroat amongst friends as I always say! Anyway, we were sitting there having a couple of Amstel Lights, (not our drink of choice, but The Spring was out of Michaloeb Ultra - if you can believe such a thing?!), just talking and joking as we always do. Gale had just shown us his new herringbone gold bracelet that had picked up for himself at the mall. Boy, that sucker was a beauty, but a little too rich for my blood! We were also talking about how Chad should really try to get on one of those “Survivor” shows. Chad totally could have been a fighter pilot if it were not for that stigmatism. And, Chad is really into sports. He even has one of those Bowflex things at home. The point is, we were just sitting there minding our own business, doing what we normally do, shoot the breeze. (We talked about that one new article in Maxim – that Heather Locklear sure is a real looker!) Suddenly, the freakiest thing happened - this non-descript Caucasian guy walked into The Spring carrying some sort of weird bat. (I since heard it was a cricket bat or something). I didn’t like the look of him right away. He was wearing a white t-shirt with some sort of light blue logo and he had this kind of angry wild look in his eyes. Anyway, this guy walked straight over to our table and just stood there staring at each of us. After a few uncomfortable seconds, I asked, “Um, can we help you.” This lunatic reared back with his bat and hit Gale squarely on the forehead. Before either Chad or I could react, this crazy guy swung a second time hitting Chad on the side of the head. All I can remember from there is seeing both of my buddies face down in the artichoke dip and thinking that I was going to die. This wacko then pulled his bat back again as if to hit me, when he suddenly stopped and said – “No – I am going to spare you. You tell the others, yea the others like you that we will be watching – the gamehole will always be watching.” With that, this maniac turned on his heel and calmly walked out of the bar. After a few seconds of stunned silence, the place erupted with frightened screams and shouts about dialing 911. Well, it looks like both Chad and Gale are going to make it. Gale will probably never regain his sense of taste and Chad probably will never be able to see out of his left eye again. I am just so thankful that both my buddies are still alive! Now, what the heck was that psycho doing?!? What the heck is the “gamehole”?!? I just don’t understand why we were attacked. This “gamehole” or whatever is probably some sort of anti-American thing. I don’t know. What I do know is that there are some sick puppies out there and that us normal people have to be constantly on our toes. Cripes! Alex	Archers by Dino Idrizbegovic	NUTSON'S REVIEW Smurfette? Captain America? What the hell is going on here? The first time I saw this piece, I was reminded of an old art criticism pillar, the ‘golden triangle’. I know, sounds profane, but it is one of the few bits of art criticism that everyone can agree upon. It’s in the Mona Lisa. It’s in most Renaissance art really. The geometry of the triangle is not only aesthetically pleasing, but acts as a tool to draw the viewer to a certain part of the piece. But like any tool, it can be misused. And Dino here has shown us what happens when you really fuck things up. Christ, where to begin? Let’s go bottom up shall we. The wounded figure provides a number of triangles – the crooked leg, the pattern of rope across the ribs. Next, Senor churizo de la noche gives us a triangle codpiece, triangle elbow. Finally, that completely freakish broad has triangle bow, triangle legs. So many triangles. All this set against some cwazy water-colored background that adds nothing to the composition of the piece. Oh wait, there I go again. This isn’t art. It’s FANTASY art. Hang on, let me do a few jell-o shots, hit myself in the head with a wrench, and stop showering. Ok, that’s better. That chick with the blue hair is so hot. I bet her hair is totally turning her on the way it hugs her boob, but she has dead aim on a dragon flying by, one that shoots arrows I bet. And that guy is like so tough. Those abs are rock hard, and he can pull off that hair accessory. The dead chick is even hot. I bet she pulls through, especially after her hero slays that group of arrow shooting marauders. That didn’t help. Fuck. I admit it. This one got the best of me. Looking at crappy fantasy art for three years now has finally eroded my spirit to the point where even the deep recesses of my brain can’t save me. No more finger-banging stories, no more masturbation jokes, not even a one-eyed eskimo can save me now. You win fantasy art. You win. There is absolutely no reason why anyone should ever had made a piece of art this shitty. But here it is. In my face Dino. Now hand me the remote, add mayo to that Atkins-approved Sub, and iron my Dockers. I’m going to take my garlique, spread on some herpacil, and jam fistfuls of vick’s vap-o-rub down my pants just to be sure I’m living in a world where some euro-retard can paint a piece of shit like this and make it available to the world. Fuckin’ a. J

SEAN'S REVIEW In looking at this glorious work by Mr. Vallejo, I find myself reflecting on the other masterpieces I have recently viewed at the Louvre, most specifically the Mona Lisa. While hacks such as Da Vinci, Michelangelo, and the rest of the turtles have gone down as the greats of history no place is being left for Vallejo’s unnamed magnum opus. What is so special about the Mona Lisa, a quizzical smile, what the fuck is so amazingly inventive about that? It’s just a damn portrait where is the creativity where are the writhing squid demons and the pretty, pretty bubbles. Clearly Da Vinci’s imagination fell short, all he was able to offer up as a backdrop was some dark and depressing pastoral scene. That sort of thing just doesn’t cut it in today’s art world. It seems clear that it is Vallejo’s name and works that truly deserve to hang in art museums around the world. Furthermore Vallejo’s knowledge of the human form clearly far exceeds any understanding possessed by Da Vinci a supposed student of human anatomy. It’s amazing how accurately Vallejo captures the very essence of the average feminine form, approximately a 6 inch waist with 36 D mammary glands. His skill is great enough that he is even able to render two different size women in the picture and yet maintain identical proportions, eat your heart out Da Vinci. And yet it is of note that all is not all hearts, moons and clovers (there ya go Andy) in Vallejo’s little world. He offers a dark side to go along with it via the creepy pumpkin face and the creature from the black lagoon beneath the fairy. Thus Vallejo strikes up a sense of balance that is so rarely attained in any work of art. Ah perfection thy name is Vallejo. In short I think this piece proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that a new renaissance is upon us and at it’s head is Boris Vallejo, a genius who will be recognized in his own time if I have anything to say about it. If one is to visit the man’s homepage there are pictures of him playing the violin as well, my God is there anything he can’t do. Anyway I digress, fortunately for the world the Gamehole is here to bring forth this Master’s work from obscurity, like it has done for so many others soon notoriety and cold hard cash will be heaped upon him, let us just hope and pray that it does not spoil the subtle perfection with which he brings forth life from the canvas. Sean	Something Sean found by Boris Vallejo	ALEX'S REVIEW It is about time the Gamehole got around to addressing the contagion known as Boris. For every pimple faced misfit doodling in a notebook during social studies, laboriously combining the anatomy of a dragon and the chick sitting three desks up on the right – DracoMinx – Boris represents the promised land, the distant snow capped peak, the magical garden where beer flows like wine. A concept, which suspends belief and logic itself, Boris actually earns a substantial living with this crap. He has published many anthologies of his “work” and the Boris calendar is a staple in gaming stores. How is this possible? Can there really be that much of a demand for sophomoric titty art? The answer boys and girls is obviously yes. Sure, I can rip Boris all to hell with his goofy colors and cartoonish hooters, but what does Boris care? He is making a fricking fortune with his prepubescent scrawlings. I don’t know whether he should be lauded or killed. Instead, I will do what I always do - sit here, grind my teeth, and do nothing. Alex

MATT'S REVIEW Fuck. Assfuck, motherfuck, fist fuck, foot fuck, titty-fuck, titty-hump, ho nasty nay, fuck. What a nut sucking mother fucking ass-banging schmang covered doo-doo eating gravy necked wiper of the booty. Felching, dry humping, a shit-stabber, a piss-shitter, an assplosion. Rectum, anus, bowel, a-hole, poop-chute, cram my crap factory. A Christ-humper, a meat pole slurper, a doo-doo in your pocket, xylophone player, fuck shop, turd burglar, infected monkey organ donator. Twelve inches split me open. Mo fo. Fuck fucking, fucked this lady in the tree baby came out said Run DMC fuck. Fuck fuck motherfuck suck on my balls. Girls gone wild in Eau Claire. Give me a mother-fucking break, pubic hair weaving shitbag. Fuck. Nephew fellating, jello-ass dick reaming fuckety-fuck-fuck mother fucker. Water sports, humiliating public urination and burning private urination, syphilis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, epididymus, vas deferens, testes, scrotum…(ah yes scrotum), the Guiche. Smurfette. Pop the coochie. Cooze, slot, vagina, labia, hot-box, hooper, bearded clam, snatch, (wizard finger?), poon-hound. Beeeeyatch, bastard, butthole, bunghole, buttplug, dingleberry. Poland. Jizz Twinkie, cocksucker, rimjobber, teabagger, ass spelunker, puckered starfish, barking spider, slaking the dog. Jacking off, beating off, pounding the pud, circle-jerk, slapping the salami, masturbating, fist-humping, meat-beating, using a lubricant to stroke one’s genitals until subsequent orgasm occurs. That one guy holding the lobsters in Las Vegas. Ejaculation, spooging, cumming, creaming, schmanging, jizzing, spraying, facializing, putting out the pussy fire. Titty-twister, cans, jugs, titties, beeerests, ass of the chest, nipple-knockers. Dick cock dick cock dick cock, wiener, hung like a bug, ding-ding, dong, schlong, Johnson, Peter, John Thomas, Frank, frankfurter, fleshy member, pink missile, hot beef injector, flesh flopper. Fuck. Fuck-all squared, fucker fuckface, fuckhead, fuckle-bitch, fucknut, fuck off, fuck over, fucktard, fuck-up, fuckwit, fuck you, fuck. I said fuck it, I know what should be done just pull the panties down and fuck the biggest one and then I get the other pussy put it in the freezer. Anal buccaneer, jobber-jabber, anal intruder, anal invader, ass assassin, ass bandit, assbreath, assclown, assfucker, asshole (also arsehole), Nolte, ass-kisser, assmaster, ass-peddler, assrag, asshat, asswipe. Bean flicker, tic-tac licker, muff-diver, carpet muncher, cooze-consumer, cunt-craver, tartar sauce with that(?), queef breather. Nascar. Fuck your momma, fuck your daddy, fuck your bald-headed granny. Missionary, Greek, doggie-style, scissors, chisel, garlique press, sugar walls slammin’ dick slider. Fucking A. Suck off your balls and fuck ‘em back on for twenty bucks. Fuck. Matt March 2004	Shelley Walker	REID'S REVIEW Ha ha! Look at this stupid fucking thing! Can you believe that it was actually drawn by a woman working on her Ph.D. in molecular biology? And she’s from Australia! G’day mate! Why don’t you put another shrimp on the barbie, you goddamn nerd! She probably listens to Men at Work and watches Crocodile Dundee movies! Tee-hee. And she, uh, likes, um…Yahoo Serious, and, uh…uh…crikey! And, um…uh, boomerangs are gay. Yeah. And, uh…uh…oh shit. Forget it. I’m sorry. I just can’t do this. Every time I look at this fantasy artwork I just get sad. Horribly, horribly sad. Shelley Walker, the poor woman who drew this piece, most likely lives in an academic black hole where the only light she sees comes from her microwave as she’s cooking a Lean Cuisine during a rare study break. In a bio from the Web site where we found her artwork, Shelley says that she has a partner. My guess is that this “partner” is imaginary, and that she more likely has (at least) a couple of cats, each of whom has a clever little molecular biology name, like “Zygote” or “Ribozyme.” Shelley also says that her mother is an artist, and that her “talent” is perhaps genetic. Uh, yeah. My guess is that little Shelley probably put a little too much stock in the compliments her elders gave her for the crayon-scribbled doodles she drew on her placemat menu at Perkins, or wherever the fuck drunk teens in Australia go for pancakes at 3 a.m. And now Shelley says she’s made a hobby out of fantasy art. Great. So, I’m left with something of a quandary. My instincts are to make the obligatory insulting comments about the infantile nature of this “art” and to summarily rip apart Australian culture in the process. But, it just doesn’t feel right. In fact, I just don’t want to. I don’t ever want to look at this artwork again. Instead, I have decided to compile a list of things I’d rather do than give this shitty artwork any more of my time. Instead of reviewing this artwork: - I would rather give myself a hot fudge and whipped cream enema, and then stand bent over outside of an ice cream social hosted by the “Queer Eye” guys. - I would rather study and master the principles of quantum physics and Einstein’s theories of relativity, proceed to build a time machine, and then go back in time 60 years and watch my grandparents fuck on their wedding night. - I would rather have an orgy with the cast of “The Golden Girls” while wearing a barbed wire cock ring. - I would rather be an altar boy locked in a confessional booth with two Catholic priests who have just finished watching men’s diving on ESPN2. - I would rather gargle with the contents of an old man’s colostomy bag after his returning from dinner at the Old Country Buffet. - I would rather eat at Arby’s. - I would rather be wearing a shirt that says “I Love England” while at a small-town bar in Ireland on the anniversary of Bloody Sunday. - I would rather have a rectal examination administered to me by either Edward Scissorhands or Captain Hook. - I would rather wear a fake beard made out of Rosie O’Donnell’s shaved pubic hair. - I would rather drive around the housing projects on the south side of Chicago in a car with a vanity tag that reads “NARC”. - I would rather take a job as the person who gives the penicillin shots at a free clinic in rural West Virginia. - I would rather bob for apples in a port-o-potty that’s just been set up outside of a chili cook-off. - I would rather let a bunch of Mexican kids use my testicles as a piñata at a kids’ birthday party. Just as long as I don’t have to look at this piece of shit artwork again. Ooh, I think there’s an Olsen Twins movie on the Disney Channel now! Gotta go. Reid March 2004

JASON STEPHEN'S REVIEW As I attempted to construct the perfect review of this piece, I grew confused. I started out with a flourish - explaining that "super-models" have been getting uglier these days. I said, "The days of Cindy Crawford or Kathy Ireland-esque beauty gave way to the bizzare alien-anorexian visage of Kate Moss, and nobody seemed to notice". I paused, trying to remember the names of other "super-models", but couldn't. Growing critical of the number of hyphens in my writing, I erased the paragraph and started over. Looking at the word "supermodel", I was struck by its phonetic similarity to the question; "soup OR model" as if I were being asked for my choice in the matter. I choose the soup - unless it's some bastardization of cheese. Very fattening and unsettling, is the "cheese in soup" form. Cheese belongs on meat or crackers, not in a bowl. Despite these clever soup references, I grew unhappy with these comments. I erased the paragraph and started over. Staring blankly at the image for a solid twelve seconds, I realized how much I've enjoyed the works of Geena Davis. I thought briefly about this statement and reconsidered, realizing that "The Long Kiss Goodnight" does not constitute "the works of Geena Davis". Not only that, but when she's being dunked into the frigid water in the "water-wheel" scene (wearing only a skimpy nightie), she fails to exhibit certain "indicators" of one who is cold. I mean, c'mon make-up department - you went through the trouble to make her lips blue - the least you could do is turn on her headlights. Looking at what I had just written, a "peculiar" feeling washed over me - perhaps due to the abundance of "quotation-marks" and excessive-use of hyphens. I erased the paragraph and started over. At last, I considered a scathing commentary on blouses, but resigned myself to the idea that I was mentally unprepared to review this piece. Knowing when to put down your pen, pencil or keyboard* is the mark of a true genius. Thank you. *Putting down a keyboard would be interesting - you could say, "Hey keyboard, did you know that your inferior "qwerty" layout is a purposeful design flaw of a bygone era? Yea, it was created in the times of typewriters to slow down the secretaries so their keys wouldn't jam up." You could even follow it with a "You suck keyboard!" if so desired. Good day to you ma'am. Jason Stephens April 2004	Tom Bell	CARRIE AND ANN MARIE'S REVIEW Terri Grybowski is a 23 year-old native of Portage, Wisconsin. Terri likes Shania Twain, Diet Red Bull, and collecting Precious Moments figurines. She lives alone in an apartment above the Cactus Club bar on East Cook Street. She works in the photo lab at the Piggly-Wiggly in nearby Poynette, and one night a week she bartends at the Cactus Club. That is where Terri met Chad Olson. Chad is the 32 year-old owner of Olson Paving and Asphalt in Wyocena. Chad is popular with the ladies. He has glass packs on his ’86 Chevy Scottsdale, and his dark brown hair always curls up just so from underneath his baseball cap. Chad likes NASCAR (except that prick, Jeff Gordon) and is a member of the Poynette Bow Club, where he shoots on the Thursday Night Men’s League. It is a well-known fact that Chad lives with his girlfriend of six months, Christi Brummel, the Assistant Manager of the Portage Fashion Bug. This fact does not keep the single girls of Columbia County from watching Chad like so many hawks. Terri is one of those girls. She likes the way Chad winks at her when she sneaks him free Bud Lights. She is flattered when he calls her ‘Sweet Tits,’ and she gets giddy when he gives her a friendly smack on the can. And last week (Oh, Heaven!) Chad came up to her apartment after her shift at the Cactus Club and made out with Terri for, like, two hours. The next morning, Terri reported this make-out session to her best friend, Sheila Johnson, second chair stylist at the Shear Timing Salon on West Wisconsin Street. “Girl, stay away from him. He’s such a player.” Sheila said between drags on her Marlboro Menthol Light 120. “Besides, he’s dating that fat skank from Waupun, Christi.” “He is not a player! He’s really nice. He said all Christi ever does is scream at him about playing poker too much or beg him to buy her one of those little dogs like Paris Hilton has. He said it was really nice to be with a woman who understands him. He said he’d never met a girl like me. He said he’s going to kick her out as soon as he can pay off his snowmobile. It’s an Arctic Cat.” Terri wanted to do something really special to impress Chad, so she talked to Sheila’s husband, Greg. Greg is a cook at the Country Kitchen, but his real passion is the calendar he puts together every year for the H & H Body Shop. Greg is really good at working with the models. Everyone says he could totally take pictures for Hustler if he just put his mind to it. Greg agreed to shoot some pictures for Terri to give to Chad. Sheila was pissed when she found out, but after she calmed down she said, “If you’re going to go through with this, at least your hair better look good. I’ll do it for you.” Terri developed the film herself at work. Last Thursday, she left an envelope containing this photo and the following note in the front seat of Chad’s truck while he was at Bow League. hi chad How was bow leage. did you soot good. guest what. I have ben thinking abot you sence last week!!!!! I miss you. do you mis me. if you do. look at this pitcher. I have to work untill 8 do you went to cum :) over tonite ? I have some beer's.we can party!!!! Cell me on my cell Luv,Terri Chad’s Reaction: “Holy Fuckin’ shit!! Is that a cock?” Carrie and Ann Marie a.k.a. Baraboo and Janesville April 2004

ALEX'S REVIEW Robots. Flying robots. Flying metal robots. Metal. I love metal. At least I used to until I read the following concerning an upcoming Metallica concert – “Metal is a world of chaos, turbulence and insanity.” Now, I hate metal. But robots are cool, right? Now that I think about it, I am not so sure. Robots first entered the popular consciousness with the 1926 movie Metropolis which was about a futuristic city and its mechanized society. The thing about Metropolis was that it was a silent movie and silent movies suck, as do most things that are old. The Tin Man was technically a robot, but there is no fucking way I am willing to equate anything from the Wizard of Oz with cool – can’t happen. Then there came that series of shitty robot movies in the 50’s such as The Day the Earth Stood Still and Forbidden Planet. If anyone takes issue with this position please refer back to my comments concerning things that are old. Things started to turn around for robots in 1965 with Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine. As I am sure everyone will recall, this opus featured Vincent Price as a mad scientist, building bikini clad female androids to marry off to rich men to control the world. Now we are starting to get somewhere. But like all social movements of lasting historical significance, the robot cause suffered setbacks. Robots took two steps back with the coming of Dr. Who. Sure, I admit that I dug checking out Dr. Who on public television when I was a kid, but come on – what is with that scarf? I know it was the 60’s, but who really ever found the Daleks menacing? They were nothing more than mobile inverted snow cones with reedy robot gator arms. Fortunately for robots, things got started moving in the right direction with the 1967 release of Barbarella. This movie had it all – cleavage, robots, cleavage, aliens, cleavage, etc. Predictably, things took a turn for the worse in the 70’s. Movies like Sleeper and Westwood threatened to bring the robot movement to a grinding halt. But, just when hope had all but faded, out came Flesh Gordon, a porno space flick with androids. Fuck yea – robots are back! In the late 70’s things started getting interesting for robots. As we all know, the seminal moment in robot culture came in 1977 with Star Wars. Goddamn R2D2 and C3PO. These two twits started the now ineluctable Lucas films habit of injecting comic relief into otherwise cool movies. Things improved in the 80’s though. 1982 brought Blade Runner and the Governor of California became an instant mega star in 1984’s Terminator. By most accounts these are two solid flicks. However, I remain disappointed by the lack of gratuitous sex in either. This trend continued for the worse with Robocop and Cyborg. Yes, robots are badass and stuff, but no cranky? – come on. The last 15 years have really brought us nothing of interest on the robot front. We have been fed a steady diet of robot sequels from the Robocop, Terminator and Star Wars families. Robots have become stale and tired. They only have themselves to blame for this unfortunate end. If they had spent more time searching for nice hoots instead of humanity and acceptance (fucking Data), they would now be in a much sunnier place. Sadly, I have no choice but to conclude that robots, like metal, suck. But, fire is cool. So are hot chicks that ride flying robot ants that shit fire. Alex	Counterpart by Eric Shawn	NUTSON'S REVIEW A robot ant? That could never happen. Maybe thousands of years in the future. Not now though. No way. The human pelvis bones haven’t adapted to ant riding – isn’t it basically like sitting on a bowling ball? No way. Impossible. Oh wait, what’s that you say, you can buy the “Cybug Queen Ant Robot Kit a/k/a J-QUEENANT” on-line right now, today? A toy described as a “fun-to-build, educational and entertaining kit where you create an expandable, evolvable, and exciting member of your CYBUG robotic ecosystem! Experience robotic emergent behavior as your QueenAnt drone explores its robotic environment. Build up an entire colony of robotic ants which interact, explore, and battle with other members of the CYBUG family of robotic life form! The CYBUG QueenAnt is designed with open architecture and is easily expanded to be fully solar powered (with our optional QueenAnt SolarWings add-on kit $20) or programmable by adding an optional BASIC STAMP programmable micro-processor (Plugs right in!).” Uh-oh. I’m not troubled by the usual fears about our technology outpacing our ethics, or our intelligence. I’m not worried about the toaster coming to life. There is no Matrix. My X-Box isn’t going to catch me in the bathroom someday. There is one serious problem that the creators of Cybug have not considered however. And it is a problem that worries me very, very much. I think we can all agree that eventually we will all ride on giant polished ant robots. Those of us in L.A. and parts of East St. Louis may even pimp our ants. We can also all agree that eventually we will all live in front of a sci-fi backdrop akin to the forest or library backdrop found at any JC Penney studio. With these solid as bedrock assumptions, we are still left with the unanswerable problem in this piece. Namely, is the technology to make all ant-riding chicks hot being developed quickly enough to keep pace with our ant robot technology? We have made great strides in chick hotness in the recent years. Think about it. Boob jobs, rib removal, colored contacts, botox, liposuction, tanning booths, facials (mmm, facials), exfoliating, low cut pants, high rise shirts, pierced navels, highlights, lip injections, electrolysis, high heels, thongs, bikini wax, cosmetics, perfume, treadmills, and of course, vagasil. This is all fine and good, but will it be enough? Will all women be hot enough to ride upon highly polished ant steeds? My heart tells me yes, but my head screams nay. And that of course is exactly the complicated social statement that this ‘piece’ thrusts upon us. What has happened to our priorities? We’re spending our time making robot ants, yet Margaret Cho is still a lesbian, and still not hot. She’s Asian. Yet not hot. She has a vagina. Yet doesn’t crave the penis. Goddamn scientists, open your eyes! I still wouldn’t screw Bea Arthur. Why not? Because our scientists are too busy making robot ants instead of synthesizing some kind of labia rejuvenation putty that erases the years of vaginal ravaging that Bea has suffered thanks to Don Knots, Ed Asner, and Ahmad Rashad. Sure we have beer. I’ll admit, that makes up for years of technology when it comes to chick hotness, but it isn’t enough. We have the chemicals, surgical tools, and know-how to make every chick look like Carmen Electra during the ‘Singled Out’ years. We can turn that whale Carnie Wilson into a chick I’d probably bang if I met her in a hotel lobby. We can keep 60-something Racquel Welch looking good. Why isn’t it being done to every woman? Why? Because our robot ant efforts have blinded us to the problem of who will ride the robot ants. Thank you so much, artist person, for recalibrating our plans. If every robot ant scientist would please get to work on remodeling the female taint now it would be much appreciated. Nutson

ALEX'S REVIEW Sometimes I get annoyed, really annoyed. I understand that my annoyance threshold may be lower than average. I also understand that apoplexy is probably not the healthiest response to “life’s little speed-bumps,” but, despite my best efforts, I cannot help it. Take for example driving. There is this intersection in my neighborhood that features two way stops on one street and no traffic controls on the through street. Sounds simple right? Not so fast. There are crosswalk stripes in each of the four intersecting directions. Apparently, this really fucks people up. At least every other day, I will be following some asshole through this intersection in the direction that does not have a stop, and the stupid prick will come to a complete stop anyway. And, this is not a normal rolling stop that the average motorist performs. They stop and then take a few moments seemingly to try to figure out why exactly they stopped as if they believe they will find that stop sign if they just look hard enough. Maybe there is an extra-planar traffic control there that I am simply not sensitive enough to perceive. This undoubtedly will neither be the first nor the last instance of potential insensitivity on my part. Now you may ask - what does all of this have to do with fantasy art? Well, you see, when the baton death-march home comes to a screeching halt in this fashion I get angry. And, I don’t mean the usual perfunctory honk of the horn with the accompanying “move it dickhead” shout. I mean really angry. I think it is the repetition of this event which is slowly breaking me down. It is this experience which is most analogous to the way I feel about this month’s featured art. I understand that chessboards are “trippy,” but fuck you Lambert. I mean, I get the tattoo titted cat woman squatting to take a dump with her snapper flapping in the breeze as an allegory for the challenge faced by long standing and often outmoded religious institutions struggling to make their message more accessible in order to resonate with the youth of today, but come on – this theme is so overdone. It is so tired. Being confronted with it again and again really pisses me off. Lambert, I have no choice but to give you a “you suck” for this piece of tripe. I understand that as a cheese eating surrender monkey you have very serious limitations, but this is bad even for you. Now, let’s see what Ebert thinks. Alex	La Gardienne by Marc Lambrette	NUTSON'S REVIEW A proper art review should not only critique the image in isolation, but in context. The dire context in which we now find ourselves is the dirge to Ronald Reagan. Perhaps the finest man to ever live, Ronnie recently passed along and is now surely looking down on us from on high. Ronnie was of course an artist in his own right. He was a thespian of the finest grade to be sure, but he was also an eloquent writer. Consider this mother’s day poem he wrote to his wife Nancy: “M - is for the misery, for which I have none. O - means only that without you I would die. M - is for how very much when we're apart I miss you. M - is for the million ways I love you. Y - Yippie!!! I'm so happy. Take them all together, they spell Nancy, my wife, my love, my life. Happy Mothers Day, from an admirer. If you're curious, my name is at the top of the page and I'm on the next pillow over.” Brilliant. And also not at all alarming or Freudian. Just really nice. Not scary. Not like he was the most powerful man in the world or anything. Just really nice. Lots of normal people say Yippie!! How nice. Obviously, Reagan’s greatest accomplishment was urging Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin/Kammer wall. “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” were Reagan’s exact words if I remember correctly. It is within that context this piece of art must be analyzed. Reagan used his art to tear down walls. So did the dipshit who created this masterpiece. Fantasy art is no stranger to exaggerated nipples or superfluous checkerboard geometry floating in space. But even fantasy art tends to stay away from the full on squatting poot. Even when the squat is used, there is always a cheetah loincloth hiding the muff from view. No more, thanks to Marc Lambrette. Marc has yelled out, in a Reagan-esce way, for us to tear down that wall. Why can we have thousands upon thousands of bare breasts depicted in art, but not graphic images of cleft vaginas in mid squat? There is no good reason. Granted, Marc hasn’t gone all the way to the edge with this piece. There is no discharge. No faint shadow of Mr. Anderson sliding into the catching position. But he has finally thrown the first bricks off the wall of full-on vagina depiction in fantasy art. Some artists make a whole career with one breakthrough – Pollock’s wild lines, Inge’s full hips, Lichtenstein’s dots, certainly Lambrette’s contribution is just as imposing. So even while we wince in pain from the loss of Mr. Reagan we can take heart in the accomplishments of Mr. Lambrette. In fact, I don’t think it would be over-reaching to pay this artist the greatest compliment of all. Mr. Lambrette is to art what Mr. Reagan was to politics. Nice job Marc. Nutson

JASONS'S REVIEW First of all, the background of birch trees indicates that this scene is taking place in Door County in early spring. (People will say that you can find birch trees elsewhere. They are fucking liars.) Based on the aforementioned absolute fact, I can tell you that this is total bullshit. Dragons don’t start fucking well-dressed women until July at the earliest. That’s your first strike Mr. R., I will always catch you in your fantasy art lies. Be wary. Aside from the artist’s obvious lack of knowledge concerning seasonal dragon-fucking in Door County, this artist has something right. I can’t tell you how many rich, self-absorbed trophy wives you see in Door County dressed like the Queen of Spain, soaking in the soft glow of their own affluence, badgering wait-staff, talking about their latest art and jewelry acquisitions (bought from local artisans, and made from birch!), bitching about how their husband got an $800,000 profit-share from last month, and how they’re going to HAVE to invest it in real estate, because the market is like, totally not dependable, and we might get another Chevy Yukon with some of it so we can make it through the amazingly difficult off roading experience that is the glistening-clean streets of the north side of Chicago, at 11 mpg… At this point I usually black out with equal parts rage and jealousy and wake up covered with blood in Baraboo, sitting at a bar called “The Subtle Beaver”, surrounded by a gang of out-of-work circus clowns. But whose blood is it? And where are my pants? Seriously. Where are they? All that shit aside, this painting is possibly all about love, and how love can break any barrier, including species. Just like that shitty movie “The Notebook” and every other bullshit “fish out of water but they still end up together” premised love story. Except for “Jump Tomorrow.” That was a good movie. Of course, the more sinister side of me (consisting of about 99 percent of my sizable fatty body mass) knows deep down inside that this is a picture documenting the growing dragon-pimping of European royalty. Dragon: Where my money at? Dragonwhore: Oh lord dragon, thou hast asked a most foul deed of me this night. Verily I have found no gentlemen of royal birth which I would even consider gifting with a “handjob” as you hath called it. I have made no coin this ni... Dragon: (SLAP) Let’s see what the Eight-Ball says… Jason	Dragon Winter by Alan Rabinowitz	AARON'S REVIEW Wow. This piece of art is a real shit-bomb. I mean this is bad. At first glance the colors scorch your retinas and when your pupils are close enough to look at it you realize what a nerdy pile of bovine feces this painting really is. First of all the woman’s complete lack of boobs leads me to believe that she is in fact not a woman but a man in drag. If you look close enough you can see her 5 O'clock shadow. She’s also wearing enough makeup to pass for Mi-Mi on the Drew Carey Show if she/he was 400pounds heavier. The receding hairline is also a dead give away that she’s got a set of testicles or worked at the 3 Mile Island Nuclear power facility in the 70's. All the clues point to the fact that she’s really a tranny. Is that supposed to be snow they’re standing on? It looks like it has no depth. Are they just standing on hard packed baby-blue dirt with a few black stones? Blue. I like how that word sounds. Bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuue. The lighting in this picture sucks. It looks as if this is an impression of what the photograph of a transvestite and a giant albino vegan lizard with fake glue on arms standing on blue bluuuuuue dirt would look like with a bright flash. That gets me thinking about this creature standing next to Bruce La Bruce. What the hell is that thing supposed to be exactly? How do I even explain what I’m seeing here? What’s wrong with it’s head? What the hell are those supposed to be? Ears? Horns? They’re magical ear-horns. They don’t do anything cool like shoot laser beams or crush hippies. They obviously locate tofu and give it’s transvestite lover something to hold on to while it practices fellatio on him. What is with those arms? They’re not real arms. It just thought it would look cool with them so it glued them on. The fingers aren’t curled enough to hold a can of beer or a cigarette so they’re perfectly useless just like the rest of the creature. What this picture really needs is a complete make-over. First of all, the color red should be used a little more. This albino lizard should be replaced with a real fire breathing dragon with big sharp pointy teeth, real hippie crushing horns, and spikes on the end of it’s tail. This Dragon should spend it’s free time burning villages with thatched roof homes and hippie communes. That dragon would be no sissy dragon. The tranny should be laying face down in a puddle of RED blood on the blue bluuuuuuuuue dirt with an axe buried in his head. The axe would belong to the new woman in the painting. The new woman would have the correct plumbing and wouldn’t be afraid to show it. She would have large, firm boobies and would shoot lightning bolts from her nipples. Pabst Blue bluuuuuue Ribbon to her would be like Under Dog’s super vitamin pill or Popeye’s spinach. She’d drink a 12 pack and with her trusty, non-sissy dragon at her side, run amok, killing everything in sight. That’s fantasy art, baby!!!! 8

ALEX'S REVIEW Ouch, tough way to learn that you have just been dumped. It probably had to be done that way though. I mean, we have all been there - where we thought it more prudent to drop off a missive instead of risking a face-to-face confrontation. I am sure that the young lad in this sad story is in his first tour of duty with the merchant marine. He probably thought that a fling with a mermaid might be fun. Little did he know what kind of friends she kept. So, off he sails after tossing the note, probably tied to a rock, to the now broken-hearted fish lady. The letter probably reads something like this: Dear Tulip: This is very difficult for me to for me to say, so I am going to just come out and give it to you straight – I cannot see you anymore. I think you are great and everything, but this is just not working out. I mean, we are like from two totally different worlds. I sail and screw cheap hookers at various port of call and you swim around with your weird friends and eat fish. Its not you, its me. I am the one with the problem and you deserve much better. Regards, Andrew Having been in similar situations, I completely understand Andrew’s position. A long-term relationship with a mermaid is just not going to happen. I do understand the allure though, with her one candle and all. And what the fuck is up with her friends? - some sort of mutant croc and a one legged chicken/goat. Andrew doesn’t need that shit. As you can see, the fucked up little bird is reading a note as well. This one probably reads: As to you, you little fucking prick, the next time I catch you trying to sneak a peak while I am getting it on with one of my ladies, I am going to shove you up your own ass! Such is life on the high seas. Alex	The Letter by Michael Parkes	NUTSON'S REVIEW I really like it when Alex and I pick up on different things in a piece of art. I must admit I like his analysis of this one. Rather than try to outdo him, I’ll come clean and admit what I thought when I first saw this image. The title is ‘The Letter’…I thought the letter was ‘P’, as in pee, as in she’s taking one while she reads the Mermaid Daily. Guess I’m not so smart after all. This artist actually has some good ideas. I think the mermaid legs slowly changing from human to fish is well done. That amber colored balloon is, believe it or not, Dali-esce. The markings on the rock are art deco. The face on the lizard isn’t all that bad. The problem of course is when you put it all together. That's when it looks like a composite of Studio Art 101 projects. Back to the pee. Looks very water colored. I guess that makes sense, what with it coming out of a fish woman. And it goes back into the ocean – circle of life type of thing. But then again, could it be a ‘bonus squirt’? For free? In the final analysis this is a terrible piece of shit. There is no real sense of composition, the lighting is all fucked up, and it is entirely uninteresting. It’s a waste of whatever the hell it’s made of. It makes me want to punch something. The exposed breasts bring me no pleasure. The red cheeks are superfluous. I hate it. Fuckin' Andy. Nutson

ANDY'S REVIEW Mr. Byrd's line drawing Well, we at the gamehole have seen many big canned birds in full color and in amazing settings and have all but left out line drawings. How can this be? It wont be. Take this "art" for example; some religiously challenged chick caught in between Judaism and Satanism decides to read from Necronomicon X Mortis: Funeral incantations, demon resurrections. and see what happens? Her Yamika gets sprung and her ass gets eaten. Speaking of ass eating........ Imagine yourself if you will at a party. Its late. An elk farmeress is the last thing remotely female standing and you decide its time to take her back to your VW microbus for a few tokes on the turd pipe. You do so. Oreo had. Is Satan any different? He gets awoken from a nap from some bimbo who is chanting from some bloody book. What the heck, a kosher meal. So Satan goes at her like a T shirt salesman. The thing is , who is the little horny bastard on the side grabbing her can? Does he sell mouse pads, pens, hats , or anything else that could possibly get a logo printed on it? Perhaps. But most likely he is a golfer. See, he is going for the cans. This is S.O.P. for golfers. T shirt salesmen and the big bad Satan himself tend to dive right into the cocoa. So this leads us to the following theory. T shirt salesmen eat ass. Satan eats ass. Therefore, aren't T shirt salesmen an embodiment of Satan? Andy	*******	8'S REVIEW So what it looks like we have here is real Norman Rockwell piece of pure American goodness. Just look at the grin on the guy holding her booby. He's obviously full of goodness and wholesome family values. See how he's holding it? Not to firmly and not like a dead fish. Look at the nice fellow in the rear. He's so nice to hold her to keep her from falling over while he plunges his face into her ass to lick out the tiny pieces of corn and peanuts left behind from her improper hygiene. He doesn't even get in the way so she can rub one out with 2 hands. She's a real example of strong American family values too. See that piece of fabric on her head? That's obviously a component of a bonnet like the ones worn on Little House on the Prairie. Remember the episode where there's a blizzard and Laura is sent out to behind the barn to close the gate and she got lost in the snow and kept from freezing to death by having sex with the horse over and over? Afterwords the whole family got together, baked a cake, said their prayers, and went to bed. It was my favorite. So, therefore, I conclude that this piece of fine art belongs on the cover of children's books. The characters in the drawing would be great characters on Sesame Street. These are the examples of good, wholesome values that we must show our children, as opposed to the Telletubbies, Barney, and George W. Bush. 8

NUTSON'S REVIEW We have been quick to criticize fantasy art. I wonder if that is because we do not understand how it came to be. As background to my meditation on how fantasy art began consider these thoughts by the preeminent fantasy artists of our times: The eye, whose function we so certainly know by experience, has, down to my own time, been defined by an infinite number of authors as one thing; but I find, by experience, that it is quite another. Leonardo da Vinci Nothing is less real than realism. Details are confusing. It is only by selection, by elimination, by emphasis that we get at the real meaning of things. Georgia O'Keeffe As opposed to an objective, conscious representation, all pictorially represented processes and influences in the psychic hinterland are symbolic: that is, they stand for and point out, as well and as closely as possible, a meaning not at the time known. Carl Jung Actually, my own hope is that a less qualified acceptance of the importance of sheerly abstract or formal factors in pictorial art will open the way to a clearer understand of the value of illustration as such—a value which I, too, am convinced is indisputable. Clement Greenberg I think what fantasy artists recognize is that the great advocates of nature and of abstraction left a messy legacy. Fantasy artists have been left to clean up this mess, with precious little by way of training, tools, understanding, ability, ambition or skill. So who is really to blame for the failure of fantasy art? Was its failure inevitable? Those questions are of course, easily answered. On the 1st of July, the Christian Action Network, met in front of the headquarters of the National Endowment for the Arts. They put out 3-foot photos of NEA-funded art and invited President Arthur Hiller to come out and comment, which he declined to do. "Millions of taxpayer dollars have been spent on 'art' that offends the moral and religious sensibilities of the majority of Americans," they said. "Why have we allowed one renegade agency to wreak so much havoc in the United States?" They passed out their newsletter, full of pictures of what they were crusading against. It was a lovely, sunny day, but a little too windy and the photos kept getting blown over. Every time they'd put one aright a gust of wind would push it over again. One of the pieces, replicated on the front page of their journal, was a photograph of their favorite man-they-love-to-hate Robert Mapplethorpe, sticking a leather bullwhip up his rectum. The world would never have seen this piece of crap artwork. Leave it to a bunch of farm-fed yokels to bring advanced art to the big city. There was a big sign that explained their presence, with their name and each piece's claim to degeneracy, but it was too windy to stay up, so all they had were the indecent exhibitions. Passersby, therefore, thought that it was a real art exhibit, and they did what all Americans do in such a situation: they ignored it. Look what they missed: A painting of Christ with breasts. A photo of an arm fuck (The successor to fist fucking). A photo of a skull fuck (The successor to the arm fuck). A bloody Santa Claus. "Testicle Stretch With The Possibility of a Crushed Face" A whole lot of separate homoeroticism, including a drawing of Jesus giving Lazarus a hand job. So what can we learn from this? Once again that’s easy. Stupids hate art, but are drawn to it. Stupids really hate fantasy art, and can't get enough of it. Fantasy art is more like art than art because art has disconnected itself from fantasy and has floundered within realism, where it is of no concern to anyone. Fantasy art on the other hand continues to give us what we want. Fantasy art is the art of the Christians. It shows boobies, in a safe, impossible way. A way Jesus would have liked. A way we can masturbate to in the basement of our west-side beige ranch home. A way that allows the nutty ass Christians to believe they can look at it without offending the Virgin Mary, because they are looking at it in protest, not appreciation. So in these ways, this particular piece of art is a paradigm. We’ve got a naked lady, an attempt at abstraction with the writing on the walls, and an attempt at design with the play of the curves and the snake. Fine. Those elements make it bad art, make it hated by Christians, but absolutely essential to them as well. As the progression of mainstream art flounders through post-modernism, fantasy art has stayed a successful course. It appeals to the stupids and serves as a cornerstone of modern America. We love Jesus. We love naked ladies. Fantasy art lets us do both, and to slowly slip into the doughy haze of existence until we’re lucky enough to die of a heart attack while receiving treatment for an infected bedsore stemming from paralysis caused by falling off a goddamn horse we had no business being on in the first place to entertain ourselves when what we really should have been doing was looking at some sweet fantasy art. Superman has taught us a valuable lesson about ourselves. Fantasy art saves lives. Just not ours. Nutson	Angel of Babylon	REID'S REVIEW Before I get to my fantasy art review, I’d like to offer the following eulogy to a Hollywood legend who recently passed on. Requiem for Christopher Reeve, 1952-2004 The word “hero” gets bandied about a lot these days, from New York City firefighters to aid workers in third world countries to the guy who invented female contraception. But what really makes a hero? Webster’s defines hero as “a large sandwich on a long split roll with any of a variety of fillings.” Yes indeed, Christopher Reeve was a true American hero. Once upon a time, Reeve was a member of Hollywood’s elite, starring in such classic films as “Superman III” and “Superman IV: The Quest for Peace.” But in 1995, Reeve fell off of a horse he was riding and was tragically paralyzed. Through intense therapy, he was eventually able to breathe on his own without the help of a respirator, and even began to act and direct again in recent years. Sadly, his life ended on October 10, 2004, at the age of 52. From the time of his accident until his death, Reeve was constantly called a hero. Why? Because he had the courage to not die, that’s why. Every day, non-celebrities find themselves the victim of accidents – and not just from such courageous acts as playing polo on horseback, as Reeve was doing at the time of his tragedy – but from being the victim of drunken driving accidents, work-related accidents, or plain old bad luck. And in non-heroic fashion, many of these people die. If only they had been able to summon the courage to not die, then society would have been able to deem them proper heroes. Assuming, of course, that they also went on to become famous. For you see, what also made Reeve so heroic was not only his lack of dying, but also that he was already a known quantity in the public consciousness. I mean, Joe Blow might also have broken his neck while riding on a horse at the country club, but was he courageous enough to have been in a top-grossing 1970’s blockbuster? No, he wasn’t. Thus, he was not a hero. But perhaps Reeve’s most heroic act came in recent years when he became an outspoken advocate for spinal cord research and stem cell research. Oh sure, a cynic might point out that Reeve’s passion was completely self-involved given that he had never given a shit about these causes prior to his having become paralyzed himself, but that’s completely missing the point. Only a true hero could stand up to our leaders in Washington and beg for increased funding to advance scientific causes that directly aid his own malady. Only a true hero would lobby the film industry to open up more roles for people with disabilities once he had become disabled himself and needed work to pay expensive medical bills. Only a true hero would look in the face of death after an accident and say, “Not yet. Maybe in nine years or so.” Dr. John McDonald, the man who treated Reeve for years after his accident, has said that Reeve brought hope to spinal cord injury victims everywhere. McDonald says, "If you had a spinal cord injury like his there was not much that could be done, but he's changed all that. He's demonstrated that there is hope and that there are things that can be done." Non-celebrity spinal cord injury survivors who chose not to die are just happy that this accident happened to Reeve when it did – because had it not happened to a celebrity, then these other non-heroic survivors would never have known that there is such thing as hope and that there are things that can be done. Christopher Reeve made that happen. Because he was famous. And because he didn’t die. On film, the fictional Superman defeated the evil trappings of Lex Luthor, General Zod, and Richard Pryor. He was an icon, a symbol of truth, justice, and the American way. He was faster than a speeding bullet. He was able to shoot lasers out of his eyes and could totally see through a chick’s clothes with his x-ray vision. But in real life, actor Christopher Reeve was the real hero. Sure, he couldn’t fly, or bend iron bars with his hands, or see through a chick’s clothes with x-ray vision. But he taught us all how to live again. And how to love. Christopher Reeve was a true hero – a large sandwich on the split roll of life, filled with a variety of fillings called hope, courage, and understanding. And now, it’s time for all of us to take a bite. Here’s to you, Christopher Reeve. And now, back to my fantasy art review. WHOA! Look at the chick in this picture! Damn, that’s what I’m talking about. Holy shit! You can totally see her bush! Look at it! Oh man, this is great. And are those dragon tattoos? Sweet! Dude, I’m getting a total chub-on just looking at this. Fuckin’-a. If all art looked like this, I’d totally stop beating up those goth fags who hang out at the local art museum. This is a real masterpiece – a master piece of ass! Get it? I’m totally gonna use this picture as the desktop wallpaper image on my computer. That way, I’ll totally have a boner going by the time I get logged on to the internet for looking at porn. Damn, this chick is smokin’ hot. I really dig that dragon snake that’s drawn on there, too. I wouldn’t mind wrapping my snake around that chick. Get it? I’m totally gonna show this to my girlfriend and see if it turns her on. If so, then I’ll see if she wouldn’t mind having a threesome with the chick who works the register at the Gas ‘n Go. The register chick’s not all that pretty, but she’s got a nice ass. Plus, my friend Chuck says she’s got a pierced tooter. I never had one of those before. Man, I’m getting all hot thinking about that. Oh fuck, I just totally creamed my shorts. Oh well, at least I didn’t get none on my jeans. Fuck Christopher Reeve man, this artist is the real hero. I give this fantasy artwork a B. You know, B as in beaver! Get it? Reid

JASON'S REVIEW Musicians. What a bizarre breed they are. Some are incredible scientists of sound - ala Tom Scholz of Boston fame. He invented a bunch of cool stuff. Some are superb creators of music, with a side of humility - ala Peter Frampton or Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson. But then there's Bob Dylan... All of his actual music aside, this guy is mentally retarded. Case in point. A friend of mine was working at a guitar shop (or music store, whatever) when ol' Bob came bumbling in one day. He was in town on a tour stop, and decided to check out the "axes". He picked up an electric guitar and begun to play. He mumbled something (isn't it all mumbling with this guy?), and proceeded to attempt to tune the thing with the tuners at the end of the neck. It wasn't working. More mumbling. Mumble mumble mumble. More tuning. Not working. More mumble, more tuning, still not working. At the height of Dylan's frustration, he mumbles something about this $6,000.00 guitar being junk. This gets the attention of the guys working in the store, and so one of the helpful associates points out to Mr. Dylan that this guitar (like so many electric guitars for the last 30 years or so) is equipped with a "Floyd Rose" style locking neck "hub" - which works to keep the guitar in tune despite vigorous use of the tremelo bar. These guitars can be tuned at the bridge, but not at the neck tuners (unless the hub is loosened). Confused, Dylan mumbles something about "trash" and puts the guitar down. Now, if you're an amateur musician, like the elf here in this drawing - fine. I can understand your confusion over the locking hub. Hell, the guitar the elf is holding here has somewhere in the neighborhood of 43 strings. some don't make it the entire length of the instrument, while others appear to be wound around one another as they aproach the end of the neck. Not a quality instrument folks. The only thing this elf can probably do well with this guitar is hit hobgoblins in the head. And that's a reach +3. But Bob Dylan is not a mythical creature (by most scientific standards). He's a flesh and blood human being who has fancied himself a musician for nearly 40 years. And he was befuddled by an extremely common feature on a standard musical instrument. There ya go. Elves or no elves, there are some rock stars who truly deserve felating by "college age" female fans (or male fans if that's their bag). Joe Perry, Joe Walsh, even Joe Satriani all fit that category... But Dylan. Not a chance dawg. That's my story - and I'm bardin' it up. Jason	Musician by Sara Shandrow	ANN MARIE'S REVIEW Dear Sara Shandrow: Greetings from the Gamehole! Your piece, “Musician,” has been chosen as this month’s Fantasy Art Review! Please accept this letter as congratulations. Also accept this piece of beef jerky and this coupon for $5 off your next purchase at Paradise Liquors. I bet you’re asking yourself, “The Gamehole? The Gamehole!! Holy shit! To what do I owe this honor?” Good question, Sara. First and foremost, we enjoyed the caption with which you labeled your sketch. About “Musician” you wrote, “This is an elf playing a guitar… I guess she’s one of them musician elves…. ;p I’m not good at this describing stuff… Me draw. You like?” Yes, Sara. We do like. We rike a rot. To the untrained eye, this sketch appears to be one of an elf reciting poetry in an off-campus coffee shop in Portland, Oregon. Fortunately, there is no untrained eye in the Gamehole. We are fully aware that elves native to Oregon, commonly called Oreganos, have long, dexterous fingers. This young lady bears the short, pointy fingers of a New England born elf. Clearly, she is waiting her turn to perform at The Daily Grind in Portland, Maine. You know… the one that used to be Java Joe’s. Wow. How does the Gamehole staff possess such powers of observation and retention of minutiae? We can’t tell you that. We can tell you this. If you Google “Maine Campus Coffee Shops,” you will find a link to ‘A Little Cup of Heaven.’ With just a bit more research, you will learn that this past February in Madison, Maine, a gentleman named Norman St. Michel approached the town board with a proposition to open a topless coffee shop. Google can come up with about 372,000 references to ‘topless coffee shop’ in .23 seconds. How many boob jokes can the members of the Gamehole come up with in the same time frame with the same references? Thanks to brave, artistic heroes like you, Sara Shandrow, we’ll soon find out. Again, congratulations, and best wishes in the future. Sincerely, Ann Marie The Gamehole Sunshine Committee- Co-chair November 2004