An animated GIF of Hillary Clinton with pancake brain damage, made from three previous postings of this painting while in progress.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Hillary Clinton Animated Brain Damage Pancake GIF
An animated GIF of Hillary Clinton with pancake brain damage, made from three previous postings of this painting while in progress.
Pancake Kitty With Gold Background
A painting of a pancake kitty against a gold metallic background.
Gold Pancake Kitty painting - Etsy
Gold Pancake Kitty painting - Etsy
Alien World With Pancake Drawing
A drawing of a pancake in an alien world, drawn on a paper towel with a ball point pen.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Mrs. Buttersworth, Diamond Slim, And The Drifter Pancake
A Western Pancake Romance live-tweeted in 52 tweets-
Cold chimneys began to smoke and the sky seemed a marmalade fire as Drifter Pancake rode wearily into dusky Waffletown
"Syrup my steed" Drifter Pancake rasped as he flipped his next-to-last butter pat to the the smiling toothless stable toast
The poster outside Sticky's Saloon said MRS BUTTERSWORTH TONIGHT but it meant nothing 2 Drifter Pancake 4 he'd ne'er learned 2 read nor rite
The last empty table sat stageside with a plaque that read RESERVED 4 DIAMOND SLIM but 2 Drifter the words meant less than Teflon scratches
The piano fell silent, lights dimmed & curtain parted, and Drifter Pancake nearly choked on the neck of his syrup beer
'Twas a knothole in the fence of heaven which grew upon that stage, and the face of an angel floated forth to consider our pitiless realm
Only one infrared stage light shone in that smoky saloon, but it was Drifter Pancake in the cool blackness who began to bubble
Mrs. Buttersworth was full and dark, and a smart yellow cap fit snug above her glistening countenance as if guarding a secret treasure
With a depth of sweet expression Mrs Buttersworth gauged the quiet desperation in the eyes of every hungry soul in that ragtag saloon
Every man in that room wanted her & each woman 2 but the hotcakes yearned 4 Mrs Buttersworth most of all & none more so than Drifter Pancake
Arms held motionless, Mrs. Buttersworth pivoted in the direction of the angels and began to sing
When a store mannequin comes alive it mourns each moment it was not; so too did Drifter Pancake when he heard the voice of his Buttersworth
As Mrs Buttersworth sang condensation ran down her plastic bosom and Drifter Pancake longed to use his own parched body to pat her dry
It was then that Mrs. Buttersworth seemed to sing only to him; two hearts balanced on heaven's wheel, and her molded face imperceptibly winked
It was a soul wink no one saw except for Drifter Pancake and Diamond Slim, the latter who watched in rising fury thru the swinging doors
Everything in Waffletown belonged to Diamond Slim; the waffle mine, saloon, the chair beneath Drifter Pancake, and the widow Buttersworth
Mrs Buttersworth's beloved husband had been pressed to death in the waffle mine, an 'accident' Diamond Slim had purchased in gold
Such is the evil of breakfast when left to its own device for it can not consume itself and therefore recognizes not the flavor of sin
The cane of Diamond Slim was as long as he was crooked, and on its tip a huge diamond did shine
Diamond Slim brought his cane down on the head of the lovely Mrs Buttersworth, the piano stopped playing, and a clock struck nine
She was not seriously injured.
The audience fell as silent as the grave, and dispersed where they could, their own lives they might save
Slow to anger, a pancake when challenged will hold very still. It took Drifter Pancake an instant to kill.
Drifter Pancake flung himself bodily up on that stage, and smothered Diamond Slim Jerky in a murderous rage
His soul wailed in horror o'er the crime it had done, and then in blind panic Drifter Pancake did run.
The pancake fled through the rabble each aghast at its deed. The killer ran to the stable and jumped on its steed.
Fleeing from Waffletown with Slim's henchmen in tow, Drifter Pancake rode that horse straight into deep Mexico
Days turned to months as Drifter Pancake tried 2 forget his foul crime, and 4 the law to forget him, but he couldn't forget Mrs Buttersworth
Drifter Pancake dreamt of Mrs Buttersworth at night & also during the day while disguised as a tortilla & drunk in the gutter on Karo syrup
In his hand the Karo bottle would become M Buttersworth & sing 2 him & he'd use his body 2 dry her tears but it was actually his own slobber
Drunk at night he'd see Mrs Butterworth in the dark cacti and he'd kiss his hand as if it were her lips & his horse would give him The Look
A pancake cannot long suffer a love unrequited, for it is a drying thing, and one day it will decide it can bear that agony no longer
Drifter Pancake realized his sole release would be 2 again behold the face of his lovely Mrs Buttersworth and confess his unfailing devotion
To fall at the base of Mrs Buttersworth, if only to touch the fine print of her label, his life as a pancake would be a pittance to pay
Turning his horse in the opposite direction, Drifter Pancake trotted resolutely towards his destiny
The decision transformed him. His insides warmed as if microwaved at a low setting. His sun-baked skin felt spongy and new
The tall cacti again transformed into his beloved Mrs Buttersworth but now their arms reached out to the passing pancake in welcome
Night & day the pancake rode. Sun and rain were the lips of his beloved Mrs Buttersworth upon his face, the wind her whisper in his ear
He daydreamt a cloud castle for them in the sky & when he unscrewed her cap trestles not syrup flowed which cradled & rocked him like a babe
Then his mare came to a halt, and rising up Drifter Pancake found himself on a ridge overlooking the dusty ramshackle which was Waffletown
On a crag nearby a puff of dirt appeared, then another. Below he could see Diamond Slim's men with guns drawn racing from the valley floor
Drifter Pancake knew he must make it to the stream which descended the gorge or never rest safe in the arms of his darling Buttersworth
Faster and faster he sped thru the picket fence shadows of sundown, and then briefly blinded by the sun he lept down into the sheltered water
Something was wrong, for though evening surrounded him a small sun still blazed in his vision, and on his saddle, syrup pooled
Deeper down the twisting canyon his horse carefully tread, hoofs finding notes & chords in the flowing water, and Drifter Pancake grew tired
Soon he would be at the back entrance to Sticky's Saloon, and his love would be waiting to greet him with a cool bowl of blueberries
The stream now fanned into a reedy swamp, knee deep and moonlit, and the still distant lights of town seemed to dance with the fireflies
A billowing pyre approached as the pancake tried not to slip from his horse, but the smoke was spray & the flame the flashing of gunfire
All at once his Mrs. Buttersworth appeared, floating quickly towards him through the gentle reeds, and he collapsed into her arms
Her face was close to his, the face of a simple dirt pancake, crumbling in her embrace like the desert floor, & she wept on him syrupy tears
With one final effort the last part of Drifter Pancake heaved up and met the sweet lips of his lovely Mrs Buttersworth
As Drifter Pancake disintegrated the warm breeze alone heard him sigh "Goodnight Mrs. Buttersworth..Mrs Buttersworth, goodnight!"
Cold chimneys began to smoke and the sky seemed a marmalade fire as Drifter Pancake rode wearily into dusky Waffletown
"Syrup my steed" Drifter Pancake rasped as he flipped his next-to-last butter pat to the the smiling toothless stable toast
The poster outside Sticky's Saloon said MRS BUTTERSWORTH TONIGHT but it meant nothing 2 Drifter Pancake 4 he'd ne'er learned 2 read nor rite
The last empty table sat stageside with a plaque that read RESERVED 4 DIAMOND SLIM but 2 Drifter the words meant less than Teflon scratches
The piano fell silent, lights dimmed & curtain parted, and Drifter Pancake nearly choked on the neck of his syrup beer
'Twas a knothole in the fence of heaven which grew upon that stage, and the face of an angel floated forth to consider our pitiless realm
Only one infrared stage light shone in that smoky saloon, but it was Drifter Pancake in the cool blackness who began to bubble
Mrs. Buttersworth was full and dark, and a smart yellow cap fit snug above her glistening countenance as if guarding a secret treasure
With a depth of sweet expression Mrs Buttersworth gauged the quiet desperation in the eyes of every hungry soul in that ragtag saloon
Every man in that room wanted her & each woman 2 but the hotcakes yearned 4 Mrs Buttersworth most of all & none more so than Drifter Pancake
Arms held motionless, Mrs. Buttersworth pivoted in the direction of the angels and began to sing
When a store mannequin comes alive it mourns each moment it was not; so too did Drifter Pancake when he heard the voice of his Buttersworth
As Mrs Buttersworth sang condensation ran down her plastic bosom and Drifter Pancake longed to use his own parched body to pat her dry
It was then that Mrs. Buttersworth seemed to sing only to him; two hearts balanced on heaven's wheel, and her molded face imperceptibly winked
It was a soul wink no one saw except for Drifter Pancake and Diamond Slim, the latter who watched in rising fury thru the swinging doors
Everything in Waffletown belonged to Diamond Slim; the waffle mine, saloon, the chair beneath Drifter Pancake, and the widow Buttersworth
Mrs Buttersworth's beloved husband had been pressed to death in the waffle mine, an 'accident' Diamond Slim had purchased in gold
Such is the evil of breakfast when left to its own device for it can not consume itself and therefore recognizes not the flavor of sin
The cane of Diamond Slim was as long as he was crooked, and on its tip a huge diamond did shine
Diamond Slim brought his cane down on the head of the lovely Mrs Buttersworth, the piano stopped playing, and a clock struck nine
She was not seriously injured.
The audience fell as silent as the grave, and dispersed where they could, their own lives they might save
Slow to anger, a pancake when challenged will hold very still. It took Drifter Pancake an instant to kill.
Drifter Pancake flung himself bodily up on that stage, and smothered Diamond Slim Jerky in a murderous rage
His soul wailed in horror o'er the crime it had done, and then in blind panic Drifter Pancake did run.
The pancake fled through the rabble each aghast at its deed. The killer ran to the stable and jumped on its steed.
Fleeing from Waffletown with Slim's henchmen in tow, Drifter Pancake rode that horse straight into deep Mexico
Days turned to months as Drifter Pancake tried 2 forget his foul crime, and 4 the law to forget him, but he couldn't forget Mrs Buttersworth
Drifter Pancake dreamt of Mrs Buttersworth at night & also during the day while disguised as a tortilla & drunk in the gutter on Karo syrup
In his hand the Karo bottle would become M Buttersworth & sing 2 him & he'd use his body 2 dry her tears but it was actually his own slobber
Drunk at night he'd see Mrs Butterworth in the dark cacti and he'd kiss his hand as if it were her lips & his horse would give him The Look
A pancake cannot long suffer a love unrequited, for it is a drying thing, and one day it will decide it can bear that agony no longer
Drifter Pancake realized his sole release would be 2 again behold the face of his lovely Mrs Buttersworth and confess his unfailing devotion
To fall at the base of Mrs Buttersworth, if only to touch the fine print of her label, his life as a pancake would be a pittance to pay
Turning his horse in the opposite direction, Drifter Pancake trotted resolutely towards his destiny
The decision transformed him. His insides warmed as if microwaved at a low setting. His sun-baked skin felt spongy and new
The tall cacti again transformed into his beloved Mrs Buttersworth but now their arms reached out to the passing pancake in welcome
Night & day the pancake rode. Sun and rain were the lips of his beloved Mrs Buttersworth upon his face, the wind her whisper in his ear
He daydreamt a cloud castle for them in the sky & when he unscrewed her cap trestles not syrup flowed which cradled & rocked him like a babe
Then his mare came to a halt, and rising up Drifter Pancake found himself on a ridge overlooking the dusty ramshackle which was Waffletown
On a crag nearby a puff of dirt appeared, then another. Below he could see Diamond Slim's men with guns drawn racing from the valley floor
Drifter Pancake knew he must make it to the stream which descended the gorge or never rest safe in the arms of his darling Buttersworth
Faster and faster he sped thru the picket fence shadows of sundown, and then briefly blinded by the sun he lept down into the sheltered water
Something was wrong, for though evening surrounded him a small sun still blazed in his vision, and on his saddle, syrup pooled
Deeper down the twisting canyon his horse carefully tread, hoofs finding notes & chords in the flowing water, and Drifter Pancake grew tired
Soon he would be at the back entrance to Sticky's Saloon, and his love would be waiting to greet him with a cool bowl of blueberries
The stream now fanned into a reedy swamp, knee deep and moonlit, and the still distant lights of town seemed to dance with the fireflies
A billowing pyre approached as the pancake tried not to slip from his horse, but the smoke was spray & the flame the flashing of gunfire
All at once his Mrs. Buttersworth appeared, floating quickly towards him through the gentle reeds, and he collapsed into her arms
Her face was close to his, the face of a simple dirt pancake, crumbling in her embrace like the desert floor, & she wept on him syrupy tears
With one final effort the last part of Drifter Pancake heaved up and met the sweet lips of his lovely Mrs Buttersworth
As Drifter Pancake disintegrated the warm breeze alone heard him sigh "Goodnight Mrs. Buttersworth..Mrs Buttersworth, goodnight!"
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Dawn Of The Golden Age Of Pancakes
Ladies and gentlemen; it is my conviction that we stand at the dawn of the golden age of pancakes.
Humanity stands at the ready, plate and fork in hand, anticipating the challenges of a more glorious breakfast.
Let us look back then, as far as science can allow, to when man and pancakes were but scratch floating through the ill defined pantry of space.
Humankind and breakfastkind are, in essence, recipes. We are the current culminations of the purposeful tinkerings of time.
We know the universe began with a bang; perhaps it was a kitchen explosion and we are but the result of a pancake experiment gone awry.
We should not despair over a universe presented to us by chance, when from these same ingredients we can make such delicious pancakes.
Some believe in a master chef; if true, the universe is ripe with kitchens and unfathomable pancakes may exists everywhere.
Christ said that he had 'other flocks.' He might well have said that he had 'other pancakes.'
Those who sit and debate the ideology of breakfast when they could be dining will only agree that cold pancakes are much less intriguing than warm ones.
Therefore let us dine in measure, knowing that a much larger breakfast will one day appear, demanding to be eaten.
Those who accede to eating anything for breakfast would never agree to marry any man or any woman, yet the consequences can be just as dire.
Although we may sometimes dine in groups, the human/pancake relationship remains deeply personal and transformative for both parties.
The most memorable pancakes are not of our own choosing, for it is surprise which sweetens life, and not the daily syrup of familiarity.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes shall arrive without warning, like a silent armada of behemoth frying pan shaped saucers.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes shall not herald itself via dreams, predilection, subterfuge, city bus, brute strength, or justice-but by wafting scent alone.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes is a sky chariot led by the great dead chefs of humanity, none recognized in life outside of their own kitchens and hamlets.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes shall drop like an album of fire, and no amount of butter and syrup shall extinguish it.
Thank you.
Humanity stands at the ready, plate and fork in hand, anticipating the challenges of a more glorious breakfast.
Let us look back then, as far as science can allow, to when man and pancakes were but scratch floating through the ill defined pantry of space.
Humankind and breakfastkind are, in essence, recipes. We are the current culminations of the purposeful tinkerings of time.
We know the universe began with a bang; perhaps it was a kitchen explosion and we are but the result of a pancake experiment gone awry.
We should not despair over a universe presented to us by chance, when from these same ingredients we can make such delicious pancakes.
Some believe in a master chef; if true, the universe is ripe with kitchens and unfathomable pancakes may exists everywhere.
Christ said that he had 'other flocks.' He might well have said that he had 'other pancakes.'
Those who sit and debate the ideology of breakfast when they could be dining will only agree that cold pancakes are much less intriguing than warm ones.
Therefore let us dine in measure, knowing that a much larger breakfast will one day appear, demanding to be eaten.
Those who accede to eating anything for breakfast would never agree to marry any man or any woman, yet the consequences can be just as dire.
Although we may sometimes dine in groups, the human/pancake relationship remains deeply personal and transformative for both parties.
The most memorable pancakes are not of our own choosing, for it is surprise which sweetens life, and not the daily syrup of familiarity.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes shall arrive without warning, like a silent armada of behemoth frying pan shaped saucers.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes shall not herald itself via dreams, predilection, subterfuge, city bus, brute strength, or justice-but by wafting scent alone.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes is a sky chariot led by the great dead chefs of humanity, none recognized in life outside of their own kitchens and hamlets.
The Golden Age Of Pancakes shall drop like an album of fire, and no amount of butter and syrup shall extinguish it.
Thank you.
Tuesday, July 01, 2014
Statement In Response To Waffle House Belgian Waffle Ban
Statement In Response To the Waffle House Belgian Waffle Ban
I am disheartened to learn of the recent decision by Waffle House to ban Belgian waffles in its restaurants on the day of the US versus Belgium World Cup soccer match. It is my conviction that all breakfast items, no matter their nutritional value or country of origin, should be welcome at our shared table.
Every morning in our country, without forethought or foreboding, Americans are greeted by the happy countenance of our brother-the pancake. It is in this same fraternal spirit that we should extend a no less hearty welcome to our cousin-the waffle.
It is true, and we recognize the fact, that Americans profess a special bond with the pancake, but of the waffle, we many times confess a continuing mystification. What better opportunity then to face one another, man and waffle, across that kitchen table of batter understanding.
While it may be too late for Waffle House to cancel this unfortunate act, it is not too late for we as a united people to try to counteract the unpredictable repercussions which may result. I call on good citizens everywhere to communicate to their local Waffle House representatives, in firm but respectful manner, that in this land all breakfast items are welcome.
To be clear-I do not say, and would not be so bold as to claim, that all breakfast items are created equal. Breakfast items are not men. They do not share the same God-given rights that we, as their creators, are guaranteed by our Constitution. Instead, they call us to a higher purpose; for who among us would not wish to prove more satisfying to our brethren?
What would it benefit a person to proclaim that sausage links are more tasty than hash browns, and then on the day of the contest, to prohibit the comparison? I think, as a nation, we are better than that.
My hope is that no matter where breakfast may be served, we shall do a much better job of serving the institution of breakfast itself.
Thank you.
Dan Lacey
The Painter Of Pancakes,
Elko, Minnesota
I am disheartened to learn of the recent decision by Waffle House to ban Belgian waffles in its restaurants on the day of the US versus Belgium World Cup soccer match. It is my conviction that all breakfast items, no matter their nutritional value or country of origin, should be welcome at our shared table.
Every morning in our country, without forethought or foreboding, Americans are greeted by the happy countenance of our brother-the pancake. It is in this same fraternal spirit that we should extend a no less hearty welcome to our cousin-the waffle.
It is true, and we recognize the fact, that Americans profess a special bond with the pancake, but of the waffle, we many times confess a continuing mystification. What better opportunity then to face one another, man and waffle, across that kitchen table of batter understanding.
While it may be too late for Waffle House to cancel this unfortunate act, it is not too late for we as a united people to try to counteract the unpredictable repercussions which may result. I call on good citizens everywhere to communicate to their local Waffle House representatives, in firm but respectful manner, that in this land all breakfast items are welcome.
To be clear-I do not say, and would not be so bold as to claim, that all breakfast items are created equal. Breakfast items are not men. They do not share the same God-given rights that we, as their creators, are guaranteed by our Constitution. Instead, they call us to a higher purpose; for who among us would not wish to prove more satisfying to our brethren?
What would it benefit a person to proclaim that sausage links are more tasty than hash browns, and then on the day of the contest, to prohibit the comparison? I think, as a nation, we are better than that.
My hope is that no matter where breakfast may be served, we shall do a much better job of serving the institution of breakfast itself.
Thank you.
Dan Lacey
The Painter Of Pancakes,
Elko, Minnesota
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