#tales from the crapper

[movieposters1]

#Tales From The Crapper

[salazarbenton65]

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#how to start an llc

[thethcministry]

#Troma #Tales From The Crapper #Comic Books #f-yourblog.com

[schlock-luster-video]

Happy birthday Troma Entertainment co-founder and underground cinema legend Lloyd Kaufman!

Here are a few drawings of him to mark the occasion!

#happy birthday #lloyd kaufman #troma entertainment #tromafilms #tromaville #troma #the toxic avenger #tromeo and juliet #underground cinema #independent film #troma's war #tales from the crapper #horror movies #horror art #horror film #horror comedy #action comedy #comedy movie #filmmaker #daily drawing #pen drawing #drawing #portrait #cmyk #ephemera #pop art #modern art

[wrtsnyrdck]

Trey in Tales From The Crapper (2004.)

#trey parker #troma #tromafilms #lloyd kaufman

[medea10]

My Review of Toilet Bound Hanako-kun

How did I… *giggles inappropriately like a 7 year old* What the hell kind of anime is this? Does this anime take place on the crapper? Shit, I gotta watch this mess!

And seriously, who animated this? Was it the same guys that did Danganronpa?

Let me see…Studio Lerche…YEP! And that also explains why the main boy is played by Megumi Ogata again!

At Kamome Academy, there’s said to be seven wonders haunting the school. One of the wonders revolves around an apparition by the name of Hanako-kun. Hanako resides in the third stall of the third floor to the girl’s bathroom. It is believed that Hanako has the ability to grant any wish when summoned. We begin our tale with young girl, Nene Yashiro, seeking Hanako’s help to get a young boy to fall in love with her. But when she summons Hanako it is quickly discovered that Hanako is a boy living in a girl’s bathroom stall.

Your guess is as good as mine! Add another questionable character Megumi Ogata plays!

Due to a misunderstanding with a mermaid artifact, Yashiro is now bound to Hanako. Kind of like a slave or a hostage or a new friend. However you interpret this contract! And then there’s this monk in training (named Minamoto) who has a vendetta against Hanako. So we see this guy throughout the series as well.

Let’s have fun with the wacky misadventures of Yashiro, a gung-ho monk, and the toilet-bound spirit, Hanako-kun.

BETWEEN THE SUB AND THE DUB: This is a FUNimation licensed anime and they managed to dub several episodes prior to the COVID pandemic. I never got a chance to watch the dub, so I’ll just focus on the sub. Megumi Ogata is back to play another mysterious boy. And as for Akari Kitou, I’m starting to hear her a lot more often in the last two years. I really enjoyed her as Yashiro. Almost reminds me of her voice in Hitoribocchi! She’s in quite a bit of animes in 2020, so I would watch out for her. Here’s what you might recognize these folks from!

JAPANESE CAST: *Hanako is played by Megumi Ogata (known for Haruka/Uranus on Sailor Moon S, Yukito on CCS, Kurama on Yu Yu Hakusho, Naegi on Danganronpa, Shinji on Evangelion, Ayato on Angel Beats, and Yugi on YGO)

*Yashiro is played by Akari Kitou (known for Aru on Hitoribocchi, Kotoko on In/Spectre, and Kaho on Blend S)

*Minamoto is played by Shouya Chiba

ENGLISH CAST: *Hanako is played by Justin Briner (known for Deku on My Hero Academia, Yukito on CCS: Clear Card, Luck on Black Clover, and Mitarai on Danganronpa 3)

*Yashiro is played by Tia Ballard (known for Happy on Fairy Tail, Yamato on My Love Story, Kagura on Fruits Basket 2019, Komari on Little Busters, Zero Two on Darling in the FranXX, and Megumi on Shiki)

*Minamoto is played by Tyson Rinehart (known for Daru on Steins;Gate, Enji on Tokyo Ghoul, Hifumi on Danganronpa, Matsuda on High School DxD, and Bartolomeo on One Piece)

SHIPPING: At the beginning of the series, it seems as though Yashiro was the type to fall in love easily with pretty-looking boys. But will always meet up with disappointment as all these boys prefer someone else or they suddenly have standards. There’s even a running joke about Yashiro having fat ankles (or daikon legs), that has been a turn-off to some of the boys that she falls for. But a few episodes later, we notice Yashiro having a little crush on Hanako. I shouldn’t question a little girl falling in love with a ghost who loiters around the girl’s bathroom because this is Japan. Absurdity at best! There’s also this sort of admiration that Minamoto has for Yashiro. I really didn’t think too much on that due to this anime laying on the Hanako x Yashiro ship thick. And also…

…

I support Minamoto x Mitsuba.

I found this cute and I really wish for more between these two characters if this series gets a continuation. Don’t at me! I don’t care if Mitsuba’s an apirition and dumbass over here has to exercise demons. This is cute!

ANIMATION: Aside from this animation looking like it came from the ghost of Danganronpa past, I would like to commend this on something else. So one thing I do have to give credit to is that this anime, more often than not feels like you’re reading a manga from the way the design is setup. I just thought that was neat and felt like saying something about that.

ENDING: Pretty much all of the strange anomalies surrounding the school are just rumors (but the ghosts are very much real, just the tales about them are fake). And the one spreading those rumors is Hanako’s twin brother (who is also a ghost), Tsukasa. I should also point out that Hanako’s real name is Amane. But we really shouldn’t worry about this sibling rivalry as we know nothing about how or why Hanako killed his brother and it’s not brought up all that much in the finale. Yeah, this is balls-to-the-wall trippy.

Instead, we get a small arc of Minamoto befriending a spirit named Mitsuba. However this goes south really fast when Mitsuba’s soul is used by one of the seven wonders of the school and is then manipulated by Hanako’s twin brother Tsukasa. After that, Mitsuba is unable to know why he died or even the time he spent with Minamoto is erased.

In the final episode, we kinda go back to aspects of the first episode. As you may recall, Yashiro swallowed a mermaid artifact that makes her turn into a fish whenever she gets wet. Yashiro is visited by two fish spirits who want her to drink this mermaid blood potion so that she can cut the hold Hanako has on her and become the mermaid princess in their realm. Yashiro was kind of in an awkward situation as she cares for Hanako, but is constantly thrown bags of reality at her with how Hanako has treated her since forming the contract. They promise her popularity, a harem of eligible fish bachelors, and an escape from her body issue with her “daikon legs”.

Hey, you’d develop a complex too if people constantly taunt you for having fat ankles!

Anyways, she denied their request. But they were rather persistent and grabbed her by force. Thankfully, Hanako wasn’t far behind and saved her and set the fish packing.

Yashiro and Hanako’s relationship as a whole takes a turn for the better as Yashiro decides to stay by Hanako and he will eventually confide in Yashiro about his past.

This was a unique series. I mean, it was all over the place in where this story was going to go. But in terms of conclusions, not so much! I mean, Hanako’s brother is still spreading rumors around the school and unsuspecting students repeat it despite it being mostly false. We’re unsure of many things about those ghost brothers and the drama that went down when Tsukasa died. Hell, I’m not even sure the manga is that far ahead either. I loved the animation to this. Sure it looks like a Danganronpa clone, but again Studio Lerche animated it. But their direction of making this feel like a colorized manga at times was something I like to commend it for.

Each episode had a nice, quirky vibe to it whenever Hanako’s on the screen. So I say give it a try. It’s not a long series.

FUNimation has all 12 episodes available for streaming. Now that FUNimation is doing simuldubs again, Hanako-kun has a few more episodes available in English.

#anime review #toilet bound hanako kun #nene yashiro #jibaku shonen hanako kun #hanako kun #tsukasa yugi #kou minamoto #sousuke mitsuba

[drunkfightingllamas]

Tales From Tonka. AGAIN!

Some time in the middle of September, we will have been living here for 21 years.

Think about that, 21 years. We moved in the year The Phantom Menace was released.

My Lovely Wife, Gnome Queen Tonka Toy Legs, @elemental-ocean-chaos has only just noticed that the opaque glass in our bog bathroom has a flower pattern embossed on it. The window, mind you, is directly opposite the crapper toilet.

So in twenty one years of wazzing and dropping depth charges having sit down visits, she only just noticed the pattern.

And yes, I know how much trouble I’m in.

[yahoo201027]

Gene gets upset about missing out on Thanksgiving due to his stomach issues, having the family to tell their stories to cheer him up to pass the time during the holiday in my review of "Diarrhea of a Poopy Kid".

#Bob's Burgers #Bobs Burgers #Diarrhea of a Poopy Kid #Review #My Reviews #Article #My Articles #Link #Weebly

[avenge-it]

The James Gunn cinematic universe featuring: Scooby doo 1&2, The Suicide Squad, Guardians of the galaxy, Super, tromeo and Juliet, the specials and most importantly ‘tales from the crapper’

#Guardians of the galaxy #suicide squad #scooby doo

[bigskydreaming]

Given the things that have elevated me to dizzying heights of rage over the years, you wouldn’t think my motel’s shitty wi-fi would be the one to finally push me all the way up into that rarefied part of the atmosphere that the meteorologists in my weird-ass metaphors call “The Killing Zone.”

But here I am, middle of the night, alone and adrift in the sea of vacant spots in a motel parking lot that’s seen better days. But then, haven’t we all. There’s not a soul around but mine, and even that’s debatable at best.

A fitfully flickering bulb in the sole street lamp on the block: the only thing available to shed any light on me, the dead body I’ve decided to call Fred, and my cracked and bloody phone’s laughable wi-fi connection. 

But to shed some light on how I got here? 

Well, that’s a complicated story, my friends, one fit for a complicated creature such as myself. 

To truly understand the breadth and scope of this comedy of errors - some of them mine, most of them God’s, a couple of them Fred’s...not to mention the linguistic fuck-up that was not diversifying the English language a bit more, because the word comedy sure as shit hasn’t aged much better than my hopes and dreams....

What’s that? Oh, back to the bloody phone, a corpse named Fred, and my sordid tale of hedonism and homicide, you say? Fuck. World’s really gone and fell headfirst into the crapper when nobody’s even got time for a juicy anecdotal tangent in a noir set to thrill or be thrilled. But fine.

Where was I? 

Oh, right. The beginning. 

Well, if we’re gonna go back to the start, we might as well go all the way back. To the real start. The prelude to the prologue, if you will. 

The day it all really started to go downhill, picking up speed faster than a snowball combining the best of meth and momentum. Headed on a straight path down, and we’re talking the damnation kinda downsville....just on the other side of the long line of soon-to-be-casualties, all lined up nice and even like bowling pins too dumb to know their time is nigh.

Stick with me, my hapless hallucinations, assuming the fourth wall isn’t real and I’m just my own audience of one, headed out of this world the same any one of us takes a header on in - butt naked and alone.

But stay with me now, now that we’ve arrived at that first fateful day, the one that’s never managed to be quite long enough ago....zoom in and focus frame on our narrative equivalent of watching a hand enter from stage right. Moving with purpose, on a collision course for its target and a blind date with destiny. One ripe, juicy apple plucked right from the branch. That branch branching off of a tree promising all the knowledge a curious cat such as myself could want....mere moments too late for a newfound awareness of foreshadowing to do a damn bit of good.

It’s always the fine print that fucks you.

And what’s the time stamp on our funereal freeze frame? Well. Looks like its the last day of childhood, of course. The first day of unhappily ever after.

Day one of freshman fucking year in “god I wish I’d been higher for most of it” school.

*Spits because it feels thematically appropriate*

So in case you were wondering what the hell was all that about? Eh. *Shrugs*

Fuck if I know, that was just my way of saying ugh why is my motel’s wi-fi so fucking slow tonight, I’m so mad I could like....maybe kill a possum, if it was right in front of my car, and like, I had a car, and also, could drive and stuff. 

Also, I’m bored. Did that come through? I’m not sure if that came through.

[movieposters1]

#tales from the crapper

[comicbookhistorians]

I’m watching Troma’s Tales from the Crapper (2004) which had a fun movie cover that is a play on the 1950s EC Comics’ Tales from the Crypt. There’s an odd intro by Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz, and in the background for a moment, is Don McGregor’s Ragamuffins (1985) that he made with Gene Colan. https://www.instagram.com/p/CXTCLoWrddk/?utm_medium=tumblr

[lookforastar]

Goose tale! Tell us about the goose tale?

It’s typically best told live with diagrams and dramatic facial expressions, but I’ll do my best.

Picture it: Suburban Middle America. Approximately 2000. It’s a Saturday afternoon–both our parents are at work. My little brother, older sister, and I return home to a neighbor telling us that two adult geese have been in our chain-link fenced backyard all morning. We shrug this off and head instead to let the dog out. We have a pool in the other part of our back yard (separately fenced off by a wrought iron fence), so we’re no strangers to random water foul in the backyard.

We were not prepared for the Canadian geese. One never is.

Once inside, we see the source of the problem. There’s 6 goslings on the other side of the fence in our neighbor’s backyard. The babies can’t fly, but the parents can (yet are refusing to fly back to their children), so we devise the perfect plan: startle parents into flying back over the fence. My sister, our terrier, and I head on out and the geese are utterly unimpressed.

Unimpressed doesn’t cover it. They’re pissed. And hissing.

In the face of the advancing geese, we head back inside and Momma Goose (as we named her without knowing her gender) starting hissing and snapping at us through the windows. So things are going great. After a series of failed ideas, I look at my sister and say “I’ll call the non-emergency police number.” She laughs. I blink. “Do you dare me to do it?” She dares me. I pick up the phone.

Operator: “XYZ Police Department, how can I assist you?”

I proceed to explain that I realize this is hardly a crisis, but explain the geese situation. I tell her that we tried scaring them away, but since they’re protected we know we can’t do anything else. After hearing that our dog is only 20lbs, she says that she’ll send someone out. I hang up the phone. And immediately start laughing about how she called me ma'am.

Clearly, I was incredibly mature. (And clearly we’re in a low crime suburb.)

Since we’re clearly a non-emergency, no one shows up for a while. During this time, one of the geese starts flying. Does he return to his children? No. He lands in our pool, and promptly poops. Twice. This earns him the name Sir Craps-A-Lot from my younger brother. More time passes and one of the baby geese realizes he can go through the wrought iron fence and joins his dad in the pool. He also poops and is named Lil’ Crapper.

Then the cavalry arrives: a single community service cop.

To be honest, that is exactly what the situation called for. We didn’t need an actual cop, but this guys is woefully unqualified for a goose attack. Nevertheless, he bravely sets forth to our backyard while telling my sister and me to stay back where it’s safe. Naturally, we do as he asks, but immediately start giggling about how we may have to get to his radio if something wrong.

“10:13 Officer Down. Goose attack.”

Of course, none of that happens. Instead, he also fails to deal with the geese and is as helpless as we were. Eventually, the neighbor with the 5 goslings in his backyard comes home and starts talking with the community service cop. Neighbor comes up with a plan to cut through the edge of the chain link fence to allow the baby geese to walk on through.

It’s all rather anti-climatic.

With the the family reunited, Momma Goose and Sir Craps-A-Lot usher them all into our front yard and off to the pond that’s about a block away. The community service cop leaves, and our neighbor fixes the fence. We return to our lives and start considering how we’re going to frame this tale when our parents get home. Thirty minutes later, a single gosling darts along the perimeter of fence, into the yard of another neighbor, and then is gone.

We named him Lil’ Runner. We never saw him or his family again.

#long post #asks #silver-89 #this is missing some of the color #like my bro's snark #the most embarrassing part of this tale is our ages #at 11 my bro was what you'd expect #but my sister was 16ish #which is old enough to have stopped my 14ish old self from making the call #she just didn't believe i'd take the dare #she should know me better

[davidcameron]

David Cameron is walking down a hall in his big house. This hall - painted slate grey with a plum accent wall - leads from his bedroom to the guest bedroom and, because of ruddy corona, what a true shiter that has been, I mean, Christ almighty, a man can’t even go into a branch of Budgens and pick up a four pack of Red Stripes, a mint aero, some of those jalapeño pretzels, a Dr Pepper, one of those 500ml bottles, maybe some chewits, what else?, can’t even do that without having to put a bloody mask on, because of this effing corona, because of that the guest bedroom has been basically out of action for, gosh, getting on for a year now with this business, and David Cameron has quietly claimed the space for himself, creating a type of rec room, a type of, dare he say it, rumpus room, dad shack, den - and don’t say “of iniquity”, don’t say, “uhh, yeah, of iniquity”, in that sardonic tone, you don’t need to fill in jokes or telegraph jokes like you’re John fucking Virgo on Big Break, remember that?, “commentator’s eye” they would say when he correctly telegraphed a ball’s trajectory, there’s no need to provide your own jokes - man cave, dude ranch, for himself, even though he’s already got his games room, his office upstairs, his shed-cum-home-office out the back, and the second drawing room is basically his, and he has begun to move a few of his things - a couple of beanie babies (Schweetheart, Bananas, Kicks the bear), a life-size gorilla plush named Dazzle, a few Boofle bears and a couple of Boofle dogs, some Garfields and a big Snoopy he got in America - and has arranged them in such a way that the space utterly screams “David Cameron”.

But David Cameron won’t reach that rumpus-cum-man-cave in this story because check this out: about three quarters of the way down the hall (it’s a long hall), David Cameron encounters the ghost of his father. The ghost is dressed in fishing waders and both David Cameron and the ghost are wearing identical camel coloured bucket hats. “Daddy,” David Cameron says, in a high, wheedling voice (alright, look, “a high wheedling voice” you’re like, “errr…”, you’re like, “uhhhhhh… isn’t his voice already… I mean, come on… doesn’t his voice already sound… I mean… y’know… come on…. isn’t his voice already pretty…” that’s what you’re doing, but look, for this scene to have a moment of high pathos - like Balzac - it’s imperative that one is able to imagine, while reading it, that David Camerons’ voice is even higher and more wheedling than usual, that he is speaking as he spoke when he was a child, if you can take your Saturday Nigh Live-addled mind out of brothel of Twitter quips - “ooh, eleven hundred people have made the feral hog joke, so here’s my go at a feral hog joke”; not everything is a fucking joke, okay? Not everything has to be a fucking bit, you know? It’s impossible in this dog of a year, this crapper of a year, this toilet of a year, to write about David Cameron speaking in a high, wheedling voice without some quote unquote left Twitter Medium centrist dad Gawker Clickhole Deadspin quote unquote comedian seeing it, going haha, tapping their phone back to the Twitter app and posting something like, “what about if the feral hog said im baby” - then maybe you’ll be able to see this as a genuine emotional moment of David Cameron confronting the one true demon that we all have: the past) “Susie was mean to me again today, she said… she said I smelled of wee, Daddy,” just as he had said some decades ago, stood in the kitchen of his family abode in front of his father. Back then, his father, who was still alive at the time, had basically just told David Cameron not to worry about it and, anyway, little Susie’s mum was a complete bitch, doesn’t even say hello when you see her in the M&S queue, which you’d think she would after we had her whole hideous family at the garden party last year. Now though, in the present, the ghost of David Cameron’s father, whose face, in fact, though now wanly, yellowly ectoplasmic, translucent, resembles very strongly a particular Boofle dog, crouches down into, let’s say, warrior pose from yoga, the one where you bend your knee at the front and… just Google image search it if you can’t picture it, places his hand, his forehand… the hand that he has at the front… he places a hand on David Cameron’s shoulder, and it has a forlorn, yellowish coldness to it, a depthless cold, a fractal cold, spinning off out of itself like the fronds of a Romanescu cauliflower. “Son,” he intoned (said), “I have a sorry tale to tell you. Son,” he went on, sadly, a depthless sadness, a fractal sadness, like thinking about which came first: the chicken or the egg (it’s the egg, because that hatched into the chicken. But hang on, who laid that egg? Alright it was a chicken then. But where did that chicken come from? It came from an egg, so it must be the egg that’s first. Ah but…) “Many years ago your ancestor and mine, old Bobby “Fat Bob” Cameron was the first man in the world to operate a flushing toilet. In those days, almost as ignorant as our own, nothing was known of the so-called ‘toilet plume’, the efflorescence of urine that is thrust into the world by the toilet in the same manner that your wife’s Chanel Number Five is forced from its crystal vial, hangs in the air and drapes all over her… Anyway, son, as I was saying, little was known of the toilet plume in those days, and, being the very first - as we Camerons often are - old Bobby Cameron was enveloped in a rich fug of his own feculence, a real - as they said in those days - pea souper. Pee souper. Haha. Ahaha. Sorry son, whenever I tell this story I have to pause to laugh at that moment, even though what I am about to tell you is truly no laughing matter. At that moment the Cameron family, in everything they are and everything they do, was forevermore - because of the hubris of man in creating a device which effortlessly concealed his privations and unmentionables - cursed to faintly hum of piss, irregardless of whatever bathing or other self care routines they may take part in. I can’t believe I was laughing just now because as you can see, son, it’s a really bad curse. I must leave you now, son, you’re on you’re own. See you. Bye.” David Cameron, his eyes wet, looks upon the visage (face) of his ghostly father, its yellow hue now browning, as the leaves do in October or as piss does if you’re dehydrated, and, as it browned (like a pork chop does in the pan), it began to fade, eventually disappearing, gone, leaving the astonished David Cameron alone.

And was there - almost imperceptibly - the faintest tang of urea in the hallway? Was this ghost truly his father? Was this curse, this awful curse, real? Could what David Cameron just witnessed be merely the result, the excrescence, even, of the late night feast of three quarters of a jar of black olives, two pepperami wideboys and a Bombay badboy pot noodle that still roiled inside him? Was his own father fated to appear only as a vaporous yellow cloud, a fine mist of the type that you would give a treasured fern, but piss? Was he, David Cameron, and everything he had ever done and everything he would ever do, fated to stink of piss? Were those moments when, after a hefty one at the ballot box during PMQs he would sit down next to George, and George would give him a particular look, was that not just resting bitch face - which, by the way, he totally does have, whatever he and his Evening Standard cronies might protest - but his querulous nostrils registering that unwanted tang and recoiling, however much Comme des Garcons Wonderwood David Cameron had spritzed all over himself? David Cameron stands in his empty hallway (slate grey with a plum accent wall), and ruminates about the past and the future, thinks about piss, toilets, stinks, stands there for eleven or twelve minutes until his wife comes bounding up the stairs. “Ah, darling, she says, I’ve been looking for you, I just wondered if…” she stops right in front of David Cameron and also stops what she was saying and her eyes dart around, her nose twitches, and a look of revulsion and concern crumples her otherwise Hellenic (David Cameron has always thought) visage, “Oh no,” she says, “Oh dear, has the dog gotten up here again?”

[cybermoonmoon]

“...air tales”

"A WBAI Story or Uncle Sydney Remembers"

Since I'm in retirement now I thought I should write down my memories of some of the demented hijinks I witnessed or was instigator of. Years ago when the radio station was near Times Square. WBAI wbai.org  I guess this was in the 1980's somewhere. Anyway we had this New Years rock party put on.

Drunken stoned hippies their girl friends, and drug dealers were all over the place. I was the engineer on duty, and my job, besides keeping us on the air, was to keep order.

Well things got edgy, and nuts after a bit, and I had to strong arm some trouble makers out to the street. Booze crowds, and loud music does this. I warned the rest to chill or I'd call the heat. I planned to put a transcribed 1956 "Liberace" program on in their place so was half hoping they'd give me cause. Anyhow things calmed down, and the guys went back to playing bootleg Dead concerts, and I went back to fixing crap. An engineer's work is never done.

The point of this whole saga was what I found in the famed WBAI men's room. No not the junkie friend of one of our insane hosts nodding out on the floor. No not even that screeching freaked out cat in a travel bag left by a forgetful guest. 

No this time it was a set of heroin works.

Oh my gawd it was amazing stunning unbelievable a vision from drug fiend heaven. There it was perched atop a crapper like an Angel slumming in Hell. There in a finely carved cedar box lined with purple velvet was a expertly hand made chrome etched crystal glass, and silver gilded hypo with an assortment of different sized custom made needles.

One could see that passion went into the fashioning of this spike. 

My heart went aflutter.  A sinful thought passed through me of absconding  with this blessed instrument of dreams, and nightmares. 'But how could I deny a fellow searcher of this chalice. I carefully cradled those wondrous works in my arms, and went to the main studio where the deranged drunken mobs were. I opened the sound lock, and holding the works over my head said,...

"...Did one of you bleeping degenerates lose something?!"

A tentative hand went up, and a smiling hairy drug addict came forward, and claimed his wayward property. It was all in a night's work.