Letter to Pinky

Dear Pinky, Thanks for the letters. Here's a new head shot. I'll work on the dreams. Love, J

Note to Jesus

Dear Jesus--Lesson learned! Thanks for bringing the red back to Pinky. (Can you please stop sending Pinky dreams like the one above?)

Pinky Diablo: Wallpaperer to the Stars

Pinky papered this lovely floral pattern for a private client. It took him days to line up just this one little area.

Letter to Jesus

Dear Jesus, I don't think you had anything to do with my computer crashing, and I want to thank you for Frey's sale pretty good sale on laptops (if you had anything to do with that). But I wondered if you were responsible for my latest problem. I am working on a borrowed computer, and after 1 day the red went out on the monitor. You may know that I have a blog that kinda relies on the visual pun of everything being pink (or pinkish). But now I can't tell whether pictures I steal off of the internet are pink or not (actually, some of the pics are mine). Since I suspect you are trying to tell me something, I have decided to pass my color problems on to my readers. Until my new laptop falls from heaven (via Fry's), I am taking out all the color in any picture I post. Maybe this will help both me and bored internet surfers learn the important lesson you have for me. Until then, Pinky's world shall remain colorless. Yours Truly,--PD

P.S. The windmill grass that blew through here last week was truly a miraculous sight. Good job!

Pinky Lost Your Address

Pinky's laptop hard drive blew up this week-end taking with it all of Pinky's stories, password files and the address of the lovely viewer who was requesting to purchase a piece titled: In Hell's Garden There is Only One Dead Blade of Glass. Please send Pinky your info again--His people are working on retrieving the lost info, but it looks grim. (tomfsale@hughes.net)

Chicken Fetish

You may recognize this tiny chicken from a previous post. Pinky sculpted this tiny raw chicken from Fimo while waiting for Miss Love at the pedicure parlor. It is not for sale, but Pinky has received so much interest in these that mass production will start soon. Move over, Bo Pilgrim--a new chicken king is in town!

Welcome to the Pinky Diablo Flatland Zoo

Diablo Family Shame

In 1942 after he had been married 9 times, Uncle Poot moved in with a "bachelor" friend. They spent many years together modeling for the meat industry.

Last Night Pinky Dreamed He was Touched by the Left Hand of God

Pinky's Teddy Bear Cam has been Catching Nadine Fondling His Chicken

Diablo Inc.'s Quality Contol Factory

Here all the insect parts and pubic hairs are removed from the pages of freshly printed books. Happy reading.

Miss Love Spends Hours Looking Out the Window at Her Zebu Cattle

Pinky's Dirty Little Secret

Finally, Pinky has settled with the zoo, and he can now talk about why he left. However, Pinky plans on keeping quiet to protect the bear's feelings.

Pinky's Prerogative

Like God in the old testament, Pinky reserves the right to change his mind. Several hundred blog entries ago, Pinky set forth his treatise on only looking at the bottom 6 inches of any painting. He stands by this philosophy unless there is meat in the painting (or an image of the Pinkster himself).

Pinky Needs Meat

Pinky Diablo and Nadine called a rare truce and went to the Impressionist show at the Kimbell Museum today. Pinky hadn't told Nadine about his ban against looking at paintings without meat in them until they paid for their tickets. Nadine led Pinky throught the show with his eyes closed until they came upon this masterpiece by Gustave Caillebotte. It turns out that Caillebotte is Pinky's new hero--he painted several butcher shop images and some great plucked chickens. Fuck Manet!

An Enbarrassing Moment from Nadine's Life

Pinky's Vegetarian Art Appreciation Students are in for a Rude Shock

Pinky has decided to only look at and discuss paintings with meat in them. (Pinky has taken to dancing around the classroom yelling, "Meat is murder! Bite Me!")

Uncle Poot and His 9th Wife

Uncle Poot said she made all her clothes out of leftover car upholstery. She left him because she said he was a goat.

Pinky's Laptop

Vegetarians got hold of Pinky's laptop and defaced it. Pinky likes it!

The 7th Gate of Hell

(or inside Birdie's mouth)

The Ending of Pinky's Version of Pandora's Box

As she sliced the pods, she imagined them as swollen slimy worms. Each portioned segment seemed to wiggle in its own slime on the cutting board. Dora was disgusted at this hallucination, but was compelled to continue. Now lightning and thunder were shaking the windows and thick drops began to fall on the roof with a not-so-sweet plop. The okra pieces were rolled in cornmeal while the cast iron pot on the stove sizzled with grease. Dora prided herself on clean, fresh lard, but this batch was dark and sour and spattered like the not-so-sweet rain plops. The raindrops were turning into a curtain of water enveloping the house. The grease smoked and bubbled. Dora scooped the okra up with her hands and dropped them in the oil all at once. She was knocked back from the stove by leaping fingers of fire and squeals like piglets drowning. A flaming plague of affliction poured into the air. Charred bits of Envy and Malice and Spite and Revenge filled the kitchen with an unbearable odor as they struggled to escape from the windows now shattering from both Hail and Fire and Hatred. Onto beautiful Dora splattered Gout and Boils and Hemorrhoids. Stress and Rheumatism were Hatred’s filthy handmaidens. Dora was buried with the Evils of the world before they escaped into the garden and of course the county and world beyond. She realized a horror beyond imagination had been unleashed on her fellow citizens—how could so little okra contain such Wrath and Pestilence. How could her small disobedience lead to such Despair and Grief. Suddenly the rain and thunder stopped. Dora tiptoed to the stove, which was now covered in grease and filth and stench, and looked into the pot. The grease was gone. Most of the okra was gone. But at the very bottom, against the side, was one perfectly fried piece of okra—delicately browned, crisp, but with a jewel-toned green shining through the cornmeal. Dora knew that soon her husband would return, followed by the Sumners and the citizens of the county in tow—Angry. Afflicted. Maimed. Destroyed. In that one final moment of private regret, she popped into her mouth the most delicious fried morsel of okra she had ever tasted or tasted since.

If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say, Don't Say Anything at All

More Dinnertime Details at the Diablo Home

After Pinky eats his macaroni and cheese (while his dog Sharky looks on), Miss Love massages his stomach.

Dinnertime at Pinky's

A Forest Nightmare

Pinky D Brand Sun Cured Deviled Egg Filling

From God's Mouth to Pinky's Ears

Horrifying Investor News from the Forest

Pinky was horrified today as he drove to various appointments today. On Wednesdays he puts a lot of miles on his old clunker. Today he started worrying after the fourth dead raccoon. Usually he only sees one or two on his route, but by late afternoon he had counted over 21 dead raccoons on the side of the road. He is sure they are investors who have lost big on Wall Street this week and have flung themselves in front of oncoming traffic.

Miracle

On Pinky's latest trip to Tuscany, a miracle name appeared in the morning dew on his hotel room window.

Image from the Month in Which Pinky D and Radish were Conceived #3

Image from the Month in Which Pinky D and Radish were Conceived #2

Image from the Month in Which Pinky D and Radish were Conceived #1

Pinky's Been Having Zoo Nightmares Again

Ladies, Are You Sad, Listless, Unsatisfied?

Then you need to read Pinky's blog.

Uncle Poot was a Serious Man

Poor Uncle Poot was an drunk and a ne'er-do-well. But he was delighted whenever two similar patterns or colors overlapped or butted up against on another. He could stare at his light yellow polyester pants for hours if he accidentally dropped a dollop of butter on his crotch.

Pinky has Presided Over Some Odd Funerals

Pinky's Impending Death

Pinky's planning a simple funeral and a nondescript tombstone. There will be only one marble New Yorker strewn on the marble bedside.

Pinky's Court Artist Created This Image of Pinky's Bovine Adventure

Evil Ruminations

Unlike Miss Love’s cow story from last week, this story doesn’t have a happy ending. But unlike Miss Love’s, there is evil, salvation, and disgusting rumen fluid.

Thursday evening after Pinky and Miss Love had arrived at the State Fair of Texas with their ten zebu, a friend from Louisiana noticed his prize bull was starting to bloat. After a couple of hours of trying baking soda and a tube down his throat into his rumen to relieve the pressure, he was still bloating bigger and bigger like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon gone bad. With directions from a vet over the telephone, one of the cow guys poked a large needle in his left side. The needle was too small and not much air was coming out. The vet suggested blowing a little on the needle to clear it out. This duty fell to Pinky. While waiting for the emergency vet to show up, Pinky blew into the needle every few minutes for over an hour. Of course, when the air hissed out of the needle, so did some rumen fluid. Now the rumen is the first section of the cow’s stomach where food goes and sloshes around a bit, then is regurgitated back up and chewed some more. Pinky kinda likes the smell of that cow’s cud and the natural burps that go along with it. What he didn’t realize was that cud must actually be good compared to what stays in the rumen which can only be described as evil. And by evil he means pure-d demonic hellish hate in gaseous and foamy dribble form. This evil is what Pinky had on his lips for over an hour. As he wiggled the needle around and got it in an especially helpful position, some of this demon sperm would sputter out onto his glasses. He had to hold the needle in place and his fingers were all pruney from this wicked liquid. Later he made Miss Love smell his breath (she didn’t flinch)—but when he made her smell his fingers, she practically swooned with disgust. Several small children also smelled Pinky’s fingers—they will probably recall this smell on their own deathbed.

If Miss Love were telling the story, there would be many descriptive passages about the vet tubing the bull, Pinky’s heroic massage of the stomach at the vet’s direction, and the tears of the owners. But Pinky is less interested in the plot than in his early morning visions. Pinky volunteered to spend the night with the bull, because the owner was too distraught to render more tubing and needling relief if needed through the night. The bull seemed a bit better, and he and Pinky did lots of walking and talking. (Apparently you sleep off the flu, but walk off the bloat.) Pinky found himself lowing to the bull in a soft deep hum which seemed to calm him. About 3AM Pinky went into the stall so he could keep a closer eye on the bull. There was a bare dim light over the hall, but the stall was shadowy and quiet. The wooden slats were painted Pinky’s favorite color of pistachio green. The stall floor was red sand. Pinky sat with the bull’s head on his lap. He realized he had never asked if the bull was tame enough for this. When the bull was standing, Pinky had an odd ant’s eye view of this looming swollen beast. Pinky was stretched out on the floor—head propped against the worn wooden wall.

Then, like an apparition, Carravaggio’s Conversion on the Way to Damascus, popped into Pinky’s head. The similarity between this painting and what he was seeing was uncanny. The horse had become a bull, but the lighting was the same. The distressed bloated bull could at anytime step on him. Pinky just mooed some more and hoped that the bull would continue to deflate. Pinky felt calm and peaceful to know he and the bull were, for the moment, safe.

By dawn, the bull seemed better, but Pinky thinks the evil rumen juice simply got the best of him. By afternoon, the vet had all involved (and visiting artist, Mark Ross) roll the worsening bull on his back to try to shake the evil loose. But sadly, the bull died that afternoon.