Nude Nuns with Big Guns is a 2010 nunsploitation thriller film directed by Joseph Guzman and starring Asun Ortega, David Castro, and Perry D’Marco. The film was the subject of one of the largest copyright lawsuits in California.
Here at Artizan it’s fair to say we’ve had a number of unusual encounters over the years. We’re happy to say that our little gallery welcomes people from all walks of life, and as far as we’re concerned, if you’re a little bit quirky, you’ll probably fit right in! But today, a new mystery presented itself in what we’re calling, “The Case of the Mysterious Photograph.”
We’d been in the gallery for a few hours having had a couple of early meetings when something caught my eye.
In case you were thinking of quitting, or not starting at all. Don’t put up with irritating hayfever or asthma — start smoking today!
A Public Service Message from Marshall’s Prepared Cigarettes.
On January 31, 2007, the Boston Police Department and Boston Fire Department mistakenly identified battery-powered LED placards depicting the Mooninites, characters from the Adult Swim animated television series Aqua Teen Hunger Force, as improvised explosive devices, leading to an ensuing panic.
This bicycle is cursed. So take it off my hands for $500 or something close to that. My missed connection was a friend who never came to teach me to bike on trails or roads… or wherever we wanted. They failed me…. got downtrodden with breeding and rearing offspring or college or something. It’s got a bunch of speeds, maybe 21, disc brakes, and a front suspension that has a purple toggle switch. People tell me it’s a really sweet bike… I guess. Will deliver to Santa Cruz county.
It didn’t start with Stonewall in 1968, often considered the beginning of the gay rights movement. More than 50 years earlier, Harlem’s famous drag balls were part of a flourishing, highly visible LGBTQ nightlife and culture. Even in the late 19th century, queer and gender non-conforming men were increasingly visible. By the 1920s, gay men had established a presence in Harlem and the bohemian mecca of Greenwich Village, and the city’s first lesbian enclaves had appeared in Harlem and the Village.
I found your lost gloves and mask! Somehow you lost them both in the parking lot of Frenchys on Portola and 41st avenue. I took the necessary precautions and covered my face neck and hands with thieves oil before picking up your lost items. I have them in a safe place now! How can I get them back to you? Surely you are missing them and vulnerable to the spooky coughs and sneezes that will be everywhere in a few days. Please wear a scarf around your mouth and nose until we get these back to you. Maybe you have some garden gloves that you can wear? I’d use those until you get these ones back. Stay safe! Stay indoors unless you must go out for more smut, lube and pizza!
A dead drop or dead letter box is a method of espionage tradecraft used to pass items or information between two individuals using a secret location, thus not requiring them to meet directly and thereby maintaining operational security. In the time of plague, we could make dead drops of: letters, small items of interest, collages, photos, etc. Follow all possible contagion-avoidance methods (prepare your drop item with gloves on; place it in plastic so the recipient can get it home and open it with vector control protocols). With your pal, set a drop schedule and locale, then make a package, tape it under some bench or put it beneath a public planter somewhere or stick it in a hole in a tree, then your recipient can come pick it up. Don’t let anyone see you! Don’t run into each other! This is spy shit! Be sneaky.
I am in love with a drowned man.
His body is green, and slick with grit; his eyes have clouded and become sea-foam beneath the lids.
And yet, I still take these familiar tracks, down to the sand, and into his arms.
I met him, in the early, foggy night. Just as the sun had kissed us chastely goodbye, and tucked itself into bed; I was moving along the shore of the waters that moved in my own back yard. It purred at the barnacle’d and blue’d wood of my patio stairs, calling to me, and I went behind the back of the sun, and into the water.
And as I swam, his fingers grazed my shins, up to my knees, and when I felt the palms of a man against my thighs I wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was death, coddling me down to the abyss; amongst all the other abused, neglected women, down to rot and let my body become the fatty scum that collected on the water’s surface in the hot, hot summers. In my depression, knowing what was to come: that no one would truly see the fruits of my love- now squashed and leaking- the bruised peach that was my heart, I slipped my head beneath the surface. His hands moved to my hips, and when I opened my eyes, despite the sting of the water, and the bleary green before me, I saw him.
My drowned, adoring love. With his blackened, suffocated lips, his grey touch. When I kiss him, he drools seawater and dainty fish into my mouth; when we embrace he gurgles and bubbles.
Pulling me deeper, and further into the dark- the sun gone from the sky, there is pitch black above and below my treading feet. My clothes unwind themselves by the thread, as the fish eat away at me easy and slow. There is a colony of snails pooling and producing at my heel, no shoe could compare to the shells and families living between my bones now, in the layers of my muscle, eating the skin away. Flakes of me, amongst the water, and my gurgling lover. Whose hands are big, and the hollow in his chest is bigger. His physical heart may be liquid, and leaky, but he has love behind his smile. His teeth still shine and hold in place, despite the algae making its home in his gums. He can still kiss at my neck, and find comfort shooing away the eels who have burrowed into my ribs. We sink, and he loves me. We are kissing and flaking away; sighing and shuddering when the sea pushes our bodies far, far away. We move until we cannot, but we never stray too far from each other; soon our minds will drift, but the body can stay intertwined, and our hands are in the other’s hair. He has palmed at my breasts and slid his fingers between my legs, and I have stayed wrapped around the body that is slowly dusting away, until we are no more but torsos floating together. Until we are lips, then hands, then bones, then scum.
And I am in love with the bubbles, because he is there, floating inside.
The Nelsons may or may not be like your family, but you can still learn from what they did when their kid “went punk.” Hint: sometimes old dogs can learn new tricks.
I saw you in line waiting to purchase the last box of sterile wipes. You were wearing a vog mask. I commented on the cool pattern of your mask. You said something but I couldn’t make it out. I mentioned that my friend created the masks. We made eye contact one more time, then it was your turn to cross the 6 foot tape boundary. I watched you walk out of the store with your shelter in place supplies. I wished I was going with you. Come meet me at the lost boys trestle next Friday if the weather is nice. Does 6pm work? I’ll bring the hand sanitizer and rubber gloves. Maybe we can hold hands and watch the sunset. Do you remember going to concerts?
Are you wondering how to while away all that time while you shelter in place? Is social distancing putting a dampener on you really connecting with others? If yes to either of these questions, then the STIM-U-LAX JUNIOR Home Massage Instrument (model no. 4) is for you. Just plug it in, slip it on your preferred hand, and you know what to do next.
Wicca is associated with witchcraft, occultism, satanism, communism, and neo-paganism. Why are movies, television and magazines so obsessed with Wicca and witchcraft? And why are teen girls so enthusiastic about exploring satanism? Here are just a few trends that are brainwashing our youth, Girl Power, Saving the Earth, Healthcare-For-All, and “Equal rights.”
I knew a girl who slit her wrists and said Satan told her to do it.
They are everywhere! But they aint too smart. Tryin to play in the road one too many times and it’s BLAMMO! Well I’m here to tell you that their loss is your gain. Meat dont come around so easy for most. In a future scribe I’ll cover delicious recipes for home and potlucks, but todays entry is just about the skinnin of the roadkill called squirrel.