Terror Fabulous: $elling out, $ucking dick$, part 2: Google Loves my Cock

The process of $elling out is complete: Google has trawled my page and decided which ads are most appropriate to my demographic of young, sexy, limber internetualists. Google, in it's infinite wisdom, has chosen to do this using ads for other blogging services. I've gotta say, this is kind of an insult. Not to get all ass-kissy, but I'm perfectly happy with Blogger, even though you can cut and paste stuff directly into the Compose window, preventing me from bringing you my extensive Dark Crystal extended continuity fan fiction. True that. On the plus side the picture insertion interface makes it ludicrously easy to fill my blog with pictures of Claire Danes.
Now, for those of you with integrity left, Google tailors ads to a site by picking up key words. Clearly I haven't used enough references to awful hair metal bands to provide you with the links you crave. Therefore, my first review in a while will be a critical deconstruction of this album cover by the band Jackyl.

Availability

Amazon.com carries the slighty-larger-than-a-thumbnail image you see above, found while searching for all albums with songs about cocks in them (track eleven of Jackyl's eponymous album is the sublime 'she loves my cock') for a mixtape I intend to give to each potential sex partner, and possibly to play during my wedding and funeral. Unfortunately my search was confined to the internet by the narrowminded clerks of Portland's record stores, who failed to appreciate my creative vision. I had assumed that, as adults, they would be able to critically distance themselves from my muscular, oiled penis, which I presented to them to illustrate the mood I was going for in my mixtape. In all fairness though, I was in the terminal phase of a fifteen day metamphetamine binge and chose to announce my presence by playing an air-guitar version of Pantera's 'Vulgar Display of Power' album, in it's entirity, on a severed arm.
Incidentally, if the owner of the arm would like it returned (for sentimental reasons, as the unsanitary conditions in which I am storing it preclude reattachment via microsurgery) then by all means contact me.

Graphics

Baffling surrealist horror.
Let's begin in the centre and work our way out, like Theseus navigating Minos's labyrinth. The figure in the centre, wearing the Ultimate Poet's Shirt, is attempting to smoke a magic marker. As a regular abuser of solvents I can attest to the potency of the marker as a means to get tore out of one's frame. The figure to his right is clearly disturbed by this, much like my friends and caseworker, and has morphed his arm into living rock in order to smash the offending item. This mastery of the Cosmic Elements marks him out as a Super-Skrull, one of a caste of elite warriors in the Skrull empire endowed with the powers of the Fantasic Four. The subtext here is obvious: the amorphous representative of a warlike race is attempting to cut off a creative genius from his source of chemical inspiration. That the artist can produce such a potent metaphor for my current situation, being 'punched' (imprisoned in a secure psychiatric facility) by a 'Super-Skrull' (The State of Oregon) for expressing myself (the list of my violations of the laws of man and God will not be reproduced here, for the sake of brevity, but for the word 'expressing', read 'exposing')
Note that the Ultimate Poet's legs extend down into a black rose, directly above Jackyl's box of ancient artifacts (a common feature in their live shows), which appears to be firing the Ten Commandments directly upward. Also of note is the figure directly behind the drug metaphor, who appears to be wearing the costume of Emperor Palpatine's Royal Guard, the savagery with which he weilds his chainsaw (a traditional weapon of the Sith) and the fact that he has discarded his mask point to the brutality of the corporate-sponsored War on Drugs, specifically, the War on Me Taking Drugs and Driving Stolen Policecars Through Farmer's Markets. Note the indifference with which the fellow trying to open a bottle of wine, tellingly hooked up to a defibilator, views the scene. It is my contention that the represents none other than YOU, the American public, looking on as I am railroaded into the psychiatric ward in a show-trial for nothing more than running around downtown Portland punching strangers and shrieking. You should be ashamed America.
Also, they're all dogs for some reason.

Sound

We must all be very quiet. They're monitoring this conversation. Who are 'they' you ask? Well, wouldn't your narrow white ass like to know.

Gameplay

The endless interpretive possibilities of this artistic masterstroke easily rivals GTA: San Andreas or Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater for playability. Also, the eyes follow me around the room, and command me to kill in the name of Jesse Dupree.

Overall
I am at a loss for words with which to describe this. Therefore it gets my new highest rating: a picture of an emaciated looking Claire Danes all wet and shooting water: