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Sephiroth Ebonblade, Take a Bow
In case warnings in previous articles of similarly striking content were not sufficiently ignoramus-proof, the following is:
NOT SAFE FOR WORK.
You know what that means. It’s time to question the moral and civic
integrity you are showing by prostituting yourself to an organization of
such philistines. Is the paycheck really worth it? How well can you
sleep at night being compensated by such intellectual cowards? All great
thinkers and artists are vilified by the standard bearers for authority
of the times. Just look at what the church did to Galileo when he
started drawing dinosaurs with huge cocks. Exactly.
So your duty as a righteous appendage of this guerrilla movement on
behalf of the fine arts is clear. Shove a bunch of soiled diapers down
your boss’ gas tank, and scratch your letter of resignation into the
hood. Yank the kids out of daycare, prop them on your lap, and point
them at the monitor, because you are all over-fucking-due for putting in
some quality time with Mr. Sephiroth Ebonblade.
Seriously, this… this Maestro makes me feel, artistically speaking, like
a little girl playing “pretend menstruation” in her room with her
dolls, while enormous matronly heifers like Sepheroth waddle with extra
large, industrial-grade absorbency pads chafing between overstuffed
duffle bag-thighs. Did I just gross you out? Well, I’m sorry.
Sorry if I am not as elegant in tact and grace as Mr. Ebonblade, the
brand of grace which you will see shortly and copiously. You are talking
to one beleaguered camper here (assuming you are talking back to this
article, which I will not put past you). You are talking to someone in
profound grief from knowing he will never artistically escape the shadow
of Mr. Ebonblade, let alone the shadow of one of his cartoon phalluses
of preposterous dimension. I am experiencing such morbid volume of
anguish, I am this close to drowning myself in the prodigious ejaculate
of The Giant Horsebeast of Grievous Self-Pity.
Without further ado.
If Sepheroth stands for anything, he stands for the contrarian within us
all which feels burning indignity at the phrase “no, you can’t draw a
dick that big.” The characters he draws can best be described as
accessories to their mammoth parts, and not the other way around. It’s
really only incidental that humanoid characters are rendered in the
vicinity of Seph’s glorious astronomical schlongs.
So big are they, that in my vain efforts to guard the eyes of those less
intellectually unalloyed than ourselves by pixelating the “offending”
material, I have wound up obscuring about 2/3 of the image. You’re
wondering, “What’s all that blurry shit, and where’s my lizard cock?”
and I do not blame you. This calls for a creative solution, and in my
tireless questing on behalf of proliferating the arts, I have devised
just such a thing. You may recall in an earlier article
I bypassed the taboo of displaying reproductive organs on a website
(yeah, that was sarcasm) by superimposing them onto the faces of
celebrities, thus disarming suspicion of passers-by, while still giving
you the rich detail of the renderings. Well, here I have done just the
opposite. I have overlapped the celebrities onto the titanic wieners,
set to vanish for a split second at regular intervals. This way, I won’t
deny you the full pleasures of viewing the untouched artwork, and any
stuffed shirt management-type who might be snooping behind you will be
none the wiser. Indeed, he may commend you on your diligence with
staying abreast to the high-glamour superstar scene. I can smell your
promotion already, not that you’ll need it since you’ve quit.
Keep an eye on comedy powerhouse Ray Romano and Dame Judy Dench for 10 seconds or so.
You will note this is a recurring character. This is actually
Sephiroth’s depiction of himself. Please don’t think for a second he is
doing himself any special favors by exaggerating his own proportions.
This is how he draws all his characters. You will also notice how he
extends the common fetishes of his contemporaries, notably accentuating
the heft of the testicles. The mechanics of this hyperbole are clearly
well thought-out, as a scrotum of such carriage could only feasibly be
used as a cushion, entirely supporting ones torso. I imagine it takes
skill to ride your own balls and not have your top-heavy penis cause you
to roll over on their amorphous malleability. But then, Seph’s
lizard-dude looks like he has lots of practice.
Moving on. This one is just plain good fun. If you look at it long
enough for Hollywood Bad-girl Rosario Dawson to vanish, you will see
some very good times being had. Can you honestly say that, if you were
not some huge fox-man, completely nude, with a huge pink penis, lounging
in an airport, you would not be “takin’ it easy on the tarmac” in a
state of near-ejaculatory mirth? I wouldn’t believe you if you said
that.
Speaking of mirth, that is a really good way to describe the overall
energy and feeling which our souls imbibe by beholding his work. There
is so much good cheer in his playful humanoid creatures, it overflows
like a mysterious thick liquid out the top of a sort of organic, pulsing
shaft. One thing a lot of his characters have is common is that they
seem to be absolutely in love with their own manhood, giving them hugs,
and other affectionate gestures. Can you blame them?
Notice this fellow, and the object dear to him which is revealed by the cascading heads of all seven Doctor Who actors.
See, this is what I’m talking about. Another poignant “self portrait” of
the Seph character. How can you not love this guy? He clearly enjoys
his own company, that’s for sure. His self-assurance is intoxicating,
his body language inviting. Food Network’s “Good Eats” star Alton Brown
clearly agrees wholeheartedly.
Ok, clearly we’re all having a great time, full of clean wholesome fun,
but it’s time to get really down and dirty here into the major
philosophical meat and potatoes of Seph’s work. What’s he trying say?
What drives him? Aside from barely contained greed for fantasy manbeast
penis?
Now I’m no prude. Fun is fun, but what the FUCK is that? I can tell
you’re as startled as me, but fear not. Intrepid interpreter of the
avant-garde that I am, I have already probed into this matter, and have
come back with a Rosetta stone dripping with rich, textured translations
of this work (as well as just a little bit of rich, textured monster
semen). I will tell you what I know.
What we have here is the nascence of a new fetish. You may recall from my work during the Logan Years
(1987-1996) something about a “building rape” fetish, whereby a beast’s
genitals were so huge, it was only to be expected they would demolish
major structures, and this axiomatically would lead to a form of
perversion whereby this destruction is sought out as a matter of
satiation in a repertoire of sexual appetites.
Well, Sephiroth has taken this fetish a step further, extending the
notion to “planet rape”. Or at least in the relatively crude early
drawing above, “moon rape”. But things of such sweeping vision take time
to snowball. No one ever drew complete blueprints for the space shuttle
before sputnik existed, and Einstein did not write E = MC^2 before at
least taking an honest to God CRACK at E = I Don’t Goddamned Know,
Something To Do With Pi, Maybe?
And true to form, with maturity this bold idea percolated into something
really transcendental. He would later draw an entire series of pieces
devoted to planet rape. With the power exploding from these images,
looking at them is a bit like riding them at a rodeo and then being
gored to death.
What cosmic powers keep at bay the deepest furies within the “Vengful
God”? What monstrous plans does he have for our puny planet? Only Oliver
Platt knows. We must demand answers from that smug supporting bastard.
When “The Accuser” scolds, the whole Earth moans with a dire
culpability, an intrusive dark regret each of its six billion children
feel in their loins. It can’t be long before our planet bends over for
its punishment, and Kenan as Fat Albert has a front row seat.
How does this “Dragon God” utilize his grave omniscience for amusement?
Is he pulling back his stiff unit to give that dusty, miserable rock a
good thwack? If Kirsten knows, she’s not telling!
Oh no! A time paradox has caused Marty McFly to almost not exist! In
retrospect, it was probably foolish of him to try to appease a supremely
powerful nude avatar from an infernal otherworld with his rocked-out
flavor of Johnny B. Good. The Doc is not going to be happy about this.
Food Network’s Rachel Ray just barely eclipses “Godlike Talos’” taught,
walloping thunderpole, poised to atomize this good Earth. This image is
not animated, keeping Rachel steadily visible, because she is just that
fiiine.
That’s about it. I think we’ve learned a lot by letting Sephiroth
Ebonblade into our lives, much like a driver lets a carjacker into his
car after being shot, pulled out of the car, and run over repeatedly.
Which is fine by me. That’s what it takes sometimes to elucidate the
stubborn droves of retards we refer to as “society”.
Before I go, here’s one last piece for the road.
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