#greasy grimy gopher guts

[mumblelard]

it keeps me sharp, knowing that i am only a half cup of food away from becoming prey for this beast or happy wednesday imaginary constructs

[sheltoner]

hello everyone i have a question

what kind of campfire (or walking) songs do you have?

i know this isn’t tennis related but i’m really curious abt this and it might get more traction over here

also if you answer pls put the country that you’re from (and if it’s a big country adding the region if you can) ty

[kramlabs]

[stickers-on-a-laptop]

dunno what it says about me that jetta asks naomi to sing a lullaby and i started singing GREAT GREEN GOBS OF GREASY GRIMY GOPHER GUTS

[anachronic-cobra]

Does anyone else remember "greasy grimy gopher guts" or were the kids at my elementary school just fucking weird

[cometcrystal]

can you believe they copyrighted baby shark. imagine if someone copyrighted greasy grimy gopher guts

[yifftwiceplz]

other bangers bro taught me include "great big globs of greasy grimy gopher guts" and "i found a peanut just now".

[salty-accords]

There Is No "Reason" For Art--Writing Exercise from Class

Here's an informal essay I wrote for my Literacy class last month. It's an exploration of how my childhood lead to what I write, namely horror.

The style of writing I’ve always had the easiest time writing is stream-of-consciousness.

Even after several years of practice, I cannot reliably write about myself or my life if it’s not in the stream-of-consciousness form. Formal nonfiction structures don’t work well for me when writing autobiographically—essays, however, have always come easily. This is incredibly frustrating to me because I love writing about myself. Picking apart the reasons for someone’s art, my own included, is one of my passions. It’s like poking gently at the roots of a vast forest. Wildflowers, trees, and grasses all tangled together to create something beautiful. I’d love to follow the roots of my craft, but I loop myself into endless circles when I try to.

Perhaps it’s because I don’t know how to put myself into boxes. I cannot see the violet patches’ underbelly through the hickory trees' sprawling roots. I can see the trees like everyone else—tall and hardy; the influences of 19th- and 20th-century literature—and I can see the tiny purple petals nestled around the trunks—small, easy to miss; familial themes of loss and grief. But they are so entwined that I can’t get my hands into the dirt without fear of tearing into the roots. I can’t separate my inspirations and memories enough to figure out which was planted first and which sprouted first.

If the “foliage” of my art, the elements and inspirations of my craft, are so inseparable, how am I meant to write about them in a formalized manner? If I cannot cleave a distinction between the effects wrought by my childhood Goosebumps books (R.L. Stine) from those of Child’s Play (1988) or Nightmare On Elm Street (1984), then I cannot determine when those things began influencing me and my art. I know all of these have affected what I write. I also know my love of them stemmed from my love of Scooby-Doo and Dead Silence (2008) earlier. If I started writing at eleven—2015—after my mother introduced me to the 1990s TV adaptation of Goosebumps, particularly the Night of the Living Dummy episodes, then was it that media that directly influenced my writing? Or was it Dead Silence, years earlier, that cemented my love and use of haunted dolls and objects within my work?

Were these effects all dependent on each other? Could I have began the workings of my novel, about a girl sacrificed and resurrected as a doll, with only the movie’s lore? With only R.L. Stine’s writings? Or would I have followed an entirely different path for my novel?They can’t be separated. It was all so long ago, now, that I can’t remember the writing exercises I did when the core elements of my writing came into play. I don’t even know when those core elements came into being. It’s like trying to follow the threads of a complex, old tapestry, but my nails are too long to actually touch it without pulling the thread and fudging it.

I’ve heard other authors describe their processes of “untangling” as archaeology. Each element of their craft is like shards of a valued vase; the whole is something entirely tanglible and knowable. I do not feel this way.

So much of my life is steeped in the art of storytelling. I am a story-teller—in a way, I’m telling a story right now. My favorite songs tell stories, everything I read is a story, and the television I watch is filled with stories inside and out—the tale on the screen, but also the lives hidden behind it.. Even my mother’s nursery songs were stories: Hush Little Baby tells the story of an infant spoiled incredibly by their devoted mother, and even odd little numbers like Great Big Globs of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts (a rendition my family tells in lieu of the traditional Great Green Gobs of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts) is a story, that of a child going down to breakfast and observing the feast their mother has laid out for them… only to realize their mother has forgotten their spoon.

A humous story, yes, if a bit… grisly. These lullabies remind me of fawns and bear cubs waddling after their mothers. Sure, they’re cute at the time, but there’s more to them when you look closer a few years later. They ended up bigger than expected. Perhaps it explains something about me. 

I was raised on morbid little diddies alongside the ballads of Disney movies. I made no distinction between the comforts of The Lion King (1994) or the comforts of The Hearse Song (Harley Poe). Both were about death; both mixed a certain veneration in with the objective reality of it. All things must die, yes, but they also return to the earth, help others continue on.

Maybe this is why I write so much about dead girls: zombie girls, girls with sharp teeth and bellies full of gore, sirens that don’t wait for the prince to save them. Like beautiful, poisonous things within the forest. Pale and bright yellow daffodils decorating clearings and the grassy patches. Sprawling, layered Sweetheart Ivy grappling across treetrunks and branches. Thick elephant ears blanketing the forest floor like plain green faces.

Perhaps these were just the start. Maybe it was something I cannot remember; I might have been in the cradle when my love for stories and horror were planted.

At the end of the day, I don’t think it matters what “started” my craft. No less was Poe’s mother a cause for his art than his wife and siblings, I’m sure; no less, still, was the surrounding culture. In that vein, there must be a compilation of reasons for my art. It wasn’t Hush Little Baby over Gohper Guts; it wasn’t Dead Silence over Sleeping Beauty. It was both. Both were important—both are important. It’s an amalgamation.

((This work was finished in March 2024, and was first published on April 1st, 2024.))

[pablolf]

It's my impression that almost invariably the media stir up a fuss about the wrong movies. If you take a child to Disney's DUMBO, this is what the child sees: Dumbo's mother—a circus elephant—is so angry at kids who taunt Dumbo and pull his ears that she attacks them, and as a result she is beaten and locked in a cage for mad elephants. Dumbo is left on his own, and the other elephants humiliate him constantly. He's made into an elephant clown, and during a routine he's left at the top of a fireman's ladder in a burning house, crying elephant tears, because the human clowns fail to rescue him. His only friend is another outcast —the mouse Timothy. Each sequence is brought up to its maximum psychological resonance, and when a child projects himself into this vat of bathos and moroseness it's agony: the situations on the screen have immediate correlations with his own terrors. But what correlatives could there be in INDIANA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM? It doesn't take advantage of childhood traumas. With its ROAD TO MOROCCO sensibility, it constantly makes fun of itself, and it's as remote from children's real-life fears as Sabu's escapades in THE THIEF OF BAGDAD. The emotional mechanism of DUMBO is to make what happens to the cartoon animals real to kids; the emotional mechanism in Indiana Jones is to make what happens to the human characters unreal. And the hero carries you through—you know Indy won't die. Grownups who are upset by the menu at the banquet must be forgetting how cheerfully kids have traditionally sung such macabre ditties as "The worms crawl in. The worms crawl out. The worms play pinochle on your snout, And one little worm. Who's not too shy. Climbs into your ear. And out your eye" and "Great green globs of greasy grimy gophers' guts. Mutilated monkeys' meat. Little birdies' dirty feet, Great green globs of greasy grimy gophers' guts. And I forgot my spoon. Aw shucks." 

Pauline Kael's review of 'Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom'

[hwit2016]

Monday, September 11, 2023 –My Monday After Saturday College Football Awards

Monday, September 11, 2023 –My Monday After Saturday College Football Awards But first, let us remember where you were on this day in 2001!  Long ago, yet yesterday and today. RIP those who sacrificed. You are not forgotten. And now Week Two of my weekly awards … Great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts; mutilated monkey feet, little dirty birdy feet… And that is how it was, Sports…

[mumblelard]

grace or fried chicken thighs

finn and i are going to take a late walk by the river and maybe fry yesterday's donuts in the skillet with some butter

[ukrainian-groove-metal]

i am one great green gob of greasy grimy gopher guts away from mutilating my monkey meat

[hardcore-bunny]

Greasy grimy gopher guts

[allyn211]

Drink this it's good for you!

Drink this, it's good for you! I have become fascinated lately with the subject of multi-level marketing.  Specifically, posts and videos made against it.  Right now, I don't have the time and the energy to completely explain why, because it's getting close to my bedtime. I'll just say that the more I listen to and read about MLMs, the more they sound like religious cults.   If you want examples of multi-level marketing, groups where 1) you sell products and 2) get other people to sell products (with you getting a portion of what the other person earns), you are probably participating in multi-level marketing.  Think Amway, Mary Kay, Herbalife.   Over on the social media site Reddit, I follow a sub-Reddit called r/antiMLM. Someone posted a product from the company Arbonne, a health and wellness MLM, called "Daily Green Gut Glow".  The drink pictured on the post describes the "greens" as "36 rainbow fruits and veggies including spiralina and chlorella, phytonutrients, fiber and antioxidants." The "gut" is "pro and prebiotic blend digestive enzymes and ginger, aka de-bloat." The "glow" is "collagen builder with hyaluronic acid, sea buckthorn extract and Vitamin C."  The title of the post I linked to is titled, "I'm supposed to want to drink this?"  Because the photo, when I looked at it, looked like someone had dumped a bunch of pieces of coal into a glass, filled it with water mixed with coal dust, and stuck a straw into it! The comments below the photo are snarky and hilarious (and heads up, some are r-rated.) For example, someone said they'd misread "chlorella" as "cholera".  Another one asked, "Anyone else here old enough to think of that song 'great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts'?"  ("And me without my spoon!") Someone else posted, "I'm too snarky. I'd be tempted to post back, 'Green Gut Glow sounds like a radioactive drink from the Fallout series!" (Followed underneath with "Geiger counter noise intensifies.")  Another comment, from someone who'd just finished watching HBO's Chernobyl:  "Green gut glow sounds like what killed those first responders to that nuclear reactor explosions."  Farther down:  "I feel like this is left over special effects gunk from 90's 'Charmed' for when the defeata demons that turn into ooze." (I'd probably add, "Maybe also Nickelodeon slime that had been improperly stored and was now covered with mold.")  Someone described their blueberry and kale smoothie as looking like that, but at least they knew what was in it. (I've made blueberry and kale smoothies, and no, they do not look anywhere close to the picture I saw!)  So while I appreciate the efforts of the Arbonne company to at least act like they want us to be healthy and provide us with the products to do so, I will stick with making my own smoothies, thank you.  Not buy something that may remind me of pond scum. Oh, sorry. I did not be to be so insulting to pond scum. Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.  via Blogger https://ift.tt/8dIXWPK February 02, 2023 at 08:38PM

[skeletonsloverockcandy]

Great Green Globs of

Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts

Chopped up Parakeet

Marinated Monkey Meat

French Fried Eyeballs

Swimming in a pool of blood

You eat it without a

SpooOoon!

Yum.

[ratboyslim]

nothing in this world makes any goddamn sense except for obnoxious childrens songs. joy to the world the teacher's dead indeed