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 Ian has found he derives much joy from taking dada's remotes and taunting poor Dada ... |
 "Yo, I gotcher remotes, right 'ee-yeh!" |
 Thinking outside the box has become such a cliché that Ian has made it a point to do all of his thinking inside the box.This is the very box he was sitting in when he thought up the idea of bashing Dada over the head with his toy piano any time Dada refuses to do what Ian wants. This "idea" was a big hit. (I use the word "hit" in the Mafia sense.) |
 Dada-bashing is a felony in Dadadistan, but Ian seemed to enjoy his time behind bars and, I fear, was never truly rehabilitated. O, sure, he promised not to bash his Dada at his parole hearing, but didn't say what he'd do to Dada after the parole hearing. (Just FYI: He bashed me good. With a real piano this time.) |
 Ian doesn't really bathe in a thong; this is a virtual thong, added in by a graphics program called "Republi-Smut", an application that does nothing other than cover up any exposed naughty bits in images. If the program had been around when Ashcroft needed to cover up that tit on the statue of Justice, I'm sure he wouldn't have wasted those $8000 of our tax money on drapes. Dammit, that's not what Enron Execs wanted him to do with their bribe money! Wouldn't it have been cheaper just to put a pasty on the nipple? |
 I'm here to tell you that the Legend of the City Of Dolhanskies is not a myth - it's true! They exist and can be found - but only inside walled cities ("Gated Communities"); and if you can get past the guards who man the battlements on top of the walls - with standing orders to pour boiling oil on the heads of any suspected intruders - you will be rewarded by an audience with the Head Dolhansky (the "DolHeadSky") and her posse of Pocket-Dolhanskies. How did Ian circumvent the guards and their boiling oil? I'd tell you, but I just ran out of room in this table cel-- |
 In a last ditch effort to save the tree, Ian declares the land a sacred Indian burial ground. (Turns out it was a not-so-sacred white man's landfill.) |
 "Me 'n' muh daddy's been poachin' trees fuh yee-uhs. Bark's powerful flavorful and not too tuff, iff'n yuh boils it long enuf." |
 Shutterbug Adrienne is an artiste. Note the play of light and shadow in the example above. Shadow as in the one that pert-near obliterates Ian, the ostensible subject of the study; shadow as is the one of Adrienne in the foreground (taking the picture) that has inadvertently become the actual focus of the shot; and light as in the light on the side of the front stoop that illuminates nothing of importance. Genius; sheer genius. No, wait a minute - I think that shadow in the foreground is me. I took this picture. Never mind. This picture's just an accident. |
 All Ian wanted was some alone time in his ride on Scoop. But of course, that busybody Bob had to jump on and, next thing you know, so did Pilchard the cat. (You may recognize Pilchard from such Disney movies as That Friggin' Cat! and Got Mange?) |
 This is Ian just before he elbowed Bob off Scoop, which was traveling at around 50mph at the time. Ian had seen this stunt move in such Disney flicks as: All Hail the Paraplegic and Psycho-Library DirectorII: Her Twisted Vengeance Won't be Put on Hold Any Longer! |
 A rare true story: when I told Ian we were finished raking leaves and had to go in and tried to take the rake away from him, he ran after me and bit my hand. Hard. ... I said it was a true story, not an interesting one. |
 Ian and Mama, having been deprived of the miracle of childbirth together, went through the Charles du Fromage Giant Birth Canal Simulator together. Not shown: the virtual placenta that followed immediately after. |
 Ian and Mama wait to be born in their - get this! - Womb with a View! HAW!! Get it? "Womb" instead of "Broom"! Or something. |
 Pop-pop (on right, big-bellied, Jesuit-trained in the mystical and mysterious arts of casuistry and alchemy) shields his eyes so as to see no evil as Ian contemplates toppling a very large plant. Nervous villagers from the tiny town of Nerves-On-End below watch, nervously, to see if it is their fate to be crushed by a giant potted plant. Were they? You'll just have to wait for the motion picture's release like the rest of us. |
 After a hard day of crushing tiny villagers with large plants (Oops! I gave away the movie's ending!), Ian likes to relax at the local pub and throw back a few sippies of 100-proof apple juice. Here, three-sheets to the wind and feeling no pain, he flirts with one of the local town chippies who flock to him like fleas to a bunny. Did love bloom? Did he get a phone number? You'll have to wait for the movie, like the rest of us. |
 Ian, who taught Bob the Builder everything he knows, (mostly about fashion - how to wear OshKosh B'Gosh overalls all the time yet still not come off like a Cheesehead loser), hangs out with Bob and Scoop at the local Charles du Fromage. Note the Teletubbies in the background seated in the nerd section right by the kitchen. You can't tell from this angle, but Bob is giving them the finger (because they dress like they're from Sheboygan, especially the She-Boy with the purse). | |
The following pix are courtesy of Mr Greg Pennell
For those of you new to the Cult of Ian and, therefore, unfamiliar with the rules for qualification, lemme lay it out for yez, mah funk soul bruvvas: It's really quite simple to join and become a charter member. All that is demanded of you is an unquestioning fealty to Master Ian—we're talking the kind of Fanatical Devotion the Spanish Inquisition showed the Pope (which nobody expected, as we know) - which compels a willingness to celebrate important dates—such as, O, say, His Birthday —as often as it takes, each year. (If you're thinking once or twice a year, turn back now, infidel.) His birthday was Nov 19th, and here it is today, January 9, 2002, and we're still celebrating it. Are you capable of that level of commitment? If not, go back to Yahoo!, ye of faint heart, and find some other Shrine to worship at. (Maybe Caelin "Hollywood" Hoye's or something. He's not as high-maintenance as Ian and you can read the "update" if you find yourself nostalgic for what Life Was Like back in the year 2000, when the site was last updated. [Meee-ow! I can be such a bitch! Really, Sue, I'm sorry, I dunno where that came from!]) Or go get yourself one of those false idols to worship, a golden calf or a titanium shinbone or some such. You don't belong here. Because chances are, this won't be the last time we'll be celebrating Ian's second birthday, either. Hell, I just a couple weeks ago put up pix from his first birthday, so that should give you a clue as to the kind of devotion we're looking for in any potential novitiates. Navy freakin' SEALs have flunked out of this program, Cletus, so if you wanna join, make sure you're serious. And bring a cake, just in case.
OK, enough about the cult, and back to the Man Who Inspired It: Ian!
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