In englishPosted by Øystein Sun, June 28, 2009 00:47:04
The shopping street in Hove music festival.
The lovely people at Sovjet Soup Kitchen, making cheap and amazing carrot soup with cayenne.
Well hello, my friends and readers! Sorry for writing in english, I just want everyones attention, including Colin Cowlam, yes you, Colin, and Jayme Winston in Bronx, and Seth Piper, I want you to read my blog. Om du vil ha ein nynorskblogg kan du gå til Tone Damli Aaberge sin, eller vente til eg vert lei av å henvende meg til imaginære engelske lesarar. (That last sentence was a long insult and curse upon people who don´t read norwegian. Your sheep will now bear no-headed lambs.)
I´ve just been to the Hove Festival in Arendal, the worst place in Scandinavia. I´m sorry, two amazing people in my life are arendalites, and they have confirmed my suspicion. I have been there for the excellent Hove Festival three years in a row now, twice as journalist for Rocky magazine and this year as "resident comics artist". Cool. But as i said: There is a problem with me and Arendal. This year, the pending disaster was particularly close. The reason is: I have for some reason always found bodybuilders funny. Maybe it´s envy because I can´t really get a bicep bigger than a roll of spaghetti, or maybe I just loved Chip from Son of the Beach. So on my final night, I was walking around the festival camp, looking for a particularly weird and horny guy I´d heard rumors of. Now, laughing at bodybuilders is never a good habit. But in Arendal it is INSANE. Arendal was a smugglers route in the old days, containing all criminals in the country. Maybe that proud ancestry is why there are now more steroid-fueled bodybuilders per square foot in Arendal than anywhere else in the world. As a particularly large specimen walked by me, bare-chested and orange from self-tanning lotions so strong they would have ripped the skin of weaker men, I could not help but blurt out a snicker. The second it got out, I regretted. It is really rude to laugh at insecure people in the street, just because they spend enormous amounts of time and money to flaunt their insecurity. The fact that they can rip your limbs apart like a pink ant does not make it more morally acceptable to laugh. It does, however, make it more tempting. Luckily he kept on walking by me, and I thought I was safe. He was four- five paces past me when he stopped. Two kilos of neck muscle cooperated, and his reddish-orange head turned around. "Are you one of those smart guys?" he asked. "No, I´m not", I said. "You look like a smart guy to me," he said. Then, however, my brain disconnected, and I had a stroke. Of genius. I walked up close to him, so close that I believed his chest muscles would crash with his biceps should he try to grab me. (This would buy me a precious 002 seconds, which I would use to convert to christianity.) I asked him the same question I´d asked everyone else: "I´m around here looking for a guy with "The Pussyfucker" tattooed on his entire leg. Have you seen him?" Orange-faced giant started to snicker. "No ... is there such a guy?" "Yes, we´ve heard rumors. Someone´s always seen him, but then he´s gone. Possibly to pussyfuck pussy, I don´t know. He is this camps abominable snowman."
"Well," said the bodybuilder, and suddenly I thought I could see a glimpse of sadness his eyes - "... he sure sounds like a smart guy."
Then he turned and left.
For no reason: Our fantastic model Daga, wearing Anon glasses and the larva from my private t-shirt shop.
And here, Daga and Martin. Martin is wearing an Elvis shirt hand-made by a friend of mine ... website coming soon. All this wheeling and dealing with t-shirts would be shamelessly commercial, were it not for the lucky fact that we just do it to not have to wear stuff other people have made. Other people´s creativity, bleuch! Our motto should probably be If you buy our t-shirts we secretly laugh at you.
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