Tag Archives: satirical fiction

My barking client Spore had introduced me to Internet café owner and possible genius the Admiral, in an attempt to help me solve the riddle of the world's worst logo.

The Admiral did his technical heavyweight best, even explaining the concept of blogging to me, something I found impossibly silly. But it was this explanation and the dawning realisation that the internet was clogged to the gills with drivel that led to my brilliant idea:

We could split the internet.

That's right, split it into three: web logs, pornography, and the third piece of the trinity - stuff I might find useful. I hated typing all those w's anyway. Now they could have one each. It was crystal clear to me and obviously Nobel-worthy.

w.blogs.com

w.porn.com

w.stuffimightfinduseful.com

I ran the idea past the Admiral and sensed him making a mental connection between great knowledge and great wealth. He was only short on the latter.

"There are manifold logistical ramifications," he said. I wasn't sure if this was good or bad. I wondered if he fully understood the magnitude of the concept, because he clearly didn't feel threatened by my intellectual stature. "But it just might be possible.."

My Brilliant Idea

December 3, 2008

My barking client Spore had introduced me to Internet café owner and possible genius the Admiral, in an attempt to help me solve the riddle of the world's worst logo. The Admiral did his technical heavyweight best, even explaining the concept of blogging to me, something I found impossibly silly. But it was this explanation … Continue reading →

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LaFlamme could type like fury, but the Admiral could use all ten fingers. I took this as a sign of great intellect, as I believe the correct use of a keyboard is taught at phd level in the finest schools. In fact they say that in the future, dexterous digits will be hugely evolutionarily advantageous.

Another sign of his gargantuan brainpower was the sheer impenetrability of his explanations. Even after he relayed the concept of ‘web logs' to me several times, I still couldn't grasp it. I always recognise brilliance by my inability to understand it.

Apparently ‘web logs' are daily diaries written by ordinary stiffs for the purpose of.. here I was unsure. What were they for? And who were they for? He showed me several examples. I just thought none of these clowns should be clogging up the guy's computer with their twaddle. But it was obviously brilliant.

The Admiral said they were ‘good for search engines,' although how being awash in a sea of drivel could be good for anything, let alone any kind of engine, was beyond me.

I'd always thought that the internet was just a vast vault of pornography, exquisitely designed and laid out by some other underpaid and cowering graphic designer. But now it seemed there was an equally vast vault of meaningless typeset gibberish battling it for dominance. How was anything I might find useful ever going to compete with these two behemoths?

But that's when I had my brilliant idea.

A Sea Of Drivel (.com)

December 1, 2008

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: My barking client Spore awakes

"Oh my god, he's dead!" I cried out, on seeing my client's pentacle-decorated body on the floor.

Spore sat bolt upright. "Dead? I'm not dead. I always sleep like this." He shook himself awake.

"What's with the satanic cross?" I asked suspiciously. I already knew Spore was barking, and that was before I saw a five-point star on his nightshirt.

"You ought to know that symbol is no more evil in origin than the swastika," he declared. He still had me confused with the professor of Religious Symbology at Harvard.

"Look Spore, I'll come to the point." I didn't want to waste any more time with this nutjob. "I need an advance." I explained about the theft of my computer and how I'd been led astray by a wild woman.

"You disappoint me, dear boy," he replied, his fingers making a revolting waxy sound in connection with his ear. "Let me introduce you to somebody who might be able to help."

He donned his familiar gabardine and we set out towards the shopping precinct. Finally we reached what used to be Geiger's bookstore. A sign now said ‘Internet Café.'

Spore pointed to a short stocky man with a balding pate. "Meet the Admiral," he said.

Religious Symbology: Should I Care?

November 28, 2008

My barking client Spore awakes "Oh my god, he's dead!" I cried out, on seeing my client's pentacle-decorated body on the floor. Spore sat bolt upright. "Dead? I'm not dead. I always sleep like this." He shook himself awake. "What's with the satanic cross?" I asked suspiciously. I already knew Spore was barking, and that was before I saw … Continue reading →

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As I trekked home through the city streets after a rough night on LaFlamme's sofa, it became clear to me that my life had taken a turn towards unhingement.

My shifty client Spore had set me up with a tricky task in trying to fix up his terrible logo and find its hidden religious significance. And LaFlamme had hinted that there may be a clue to this in the Jack Daniels label. But the only real revelation last night was that LaFlamme could drink with both hands.

I stepped quickly past Flanagan's Bar - no point going near there for a while. But I needed to study that JD label in the cold light of day.

I entered a local liquor store and perused the lined shelves. There it was, the distinctive white on black with its manifold typefaces.

I lacked sufficient funds to buy the bottle so I stood there eyeballing it within an inch of my face, much to the store-owner's consternation. His composure hardened and I felt waves of disapproval cross the room.

"I wonder if.. if.. I could borrow this," I finally blurted out. It proved to be a decisive moment for him.

After dusting myself down, I figured I might be able to hit Spore for an advance and crossed town towards his gothic mansion on the east side.

Imagine my horror when I stepped inside and found Spore's body, wearing nothing but all-in-one long-johns, spread-eagled on the floor, a blood painted five-point star on his torso.

Shopping Can Be Dangerous

November 27, 2008

As I trekked home through the city streets after a rough night on LaFlamme's sofa, it became clear to me that my life had taken a turn towards unhingement. My shifty client Spore had set me up with a tricky task in trying to fix up his terrible logo and find its hidden religious significance. … Continue reading →

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I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. It wasn't the first time, and experience had taught me not to try and move. This wasn't so much a hangover as a Jack Daniels induced nervous breakdown.

I heard a thunderous clattering on the other side of the room. I figured it was a stampede of some sort and that at any moment I might be trampled to death and put out of my misery.

I opened my eyes to find Fifi LaFlamme thumping away at a typewriter, not the polite tapping of a computer keyboard, but the brute-force hammering of a ribbon wound Underwood. On the desk a stack of pages lay testament to her all-night effort.

"What the hell's going on?" I asked.

"Can't stop," she replied, and continued typing at a frantic pace. "Writing a self-help book."

I stumbled to the desk and glanced at the stack of papers: ‘Help Yourself To Drink' was the heading.

"Oh god. I think I'm going to be sick" I moaned, and tried to escape the infernal racket. "I have to get out of here." I made for the exit. If I wanted to wrench any money from my sleazy client Spore, I was going to have to begin analysing his awful logo for its religious symbology, as he'd requested.

But as I made my way into the blinding daylight, I wondered. LaFlamme seemed very determined that I study the Jack Daniels design in detail. Was she just trying to lift my spirits, or did she know something more? Maybe there was a clue to be found in the Jack Daniels label itself?

Self-Help For Idiots

November 25, 2008

I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. It wasn't the first time, and experience had taught me not to try and move. This wasn't so much a hangover as a Jack Daniels induced nervous breakdown. I heard a thunderous clattering on the other side of the room. I figured it was a stampede of some sort and … Continue reading →

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: Inspirational art in Flanagan's Bar

I didn't need a distraction to stop me from working - the computer's disappearance had taken care of that - but LaFlamme's entrance clinched it. She was a distraction and a half, with ‘danger high voltage' written all over her.

She leaned against the bookcase, casually running a painted fingernail along a shelf and ignoring the subsequent dust storm. "I figured I could help you crack this case," she suggested coolly, "or at least tell you where you're going wrong."

"Maybe you could tell me where my life went wrong," I replied, making a feeble attempt to hide the large collection of self-help books. Unfortunately this had the effect of drawing her attention to them and I quickly abandoned the ruse.

LaFlamme sauntered across the office and perched on my desk, spotting the note that she had left, with the signature ‘FF.' She added an extra ‘F' and then several more. She could have been going for a record, but instead she led me down the stairs and into the rainy street below.

"You need inspiration," she said at the entrance to Flanagan's Bar. "A sense of purpose. A sense of connection with the past." She ordered Jack Daniels and told Bert the barman to leave the bottle.

LaFlamme drew my attention to the label. "Look at the quality workmanship. It's grace, it's elegance."

I had to agree. It's hard to make so many typefaces look so good in one design. In fact, it was beautiful. I felt my spirits soar - I was having an epiphany.

"Feeling better?" she asked, with uncharacteristic sensitivity. "Good. Now it's medicine time."

How To Find God With Jack Daniels

November 23, 2008

Inspirational art in Flanagan's Bar I didn't need a distraction to stop me from working - the computer's disappearance had taken care of that - but LaFlamme's entrance clinched it. She was a distraction and a half, with ‘danger high voltage' written all over her. She leaned against the bookcase, casually running a painted fingernail … Continue reading →

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LaFlamme - Five foot six of sultry noir.

Not only had my computer been stolen but the culprit also appeared to have made off with my ability to draw. The cryptic note left in the space vacated by the pc - "I have taken the kid. Signed FF." - left me in no doubt as to who was responsible.

Torn between my options of bursting into action and continuing to stare at the empty space, I chose the latter. I could have remained in this state until somebody poked me with a stick, but I had another distraction as the office door swung open.

Five foot six of sultry noir stood in the doorway. She was never one for knocking. Raven-haired but otherwise scarlet, Fifi LaFlamme had led me astray on many an occasion and I feared today would not break precedent.

"I.. ah.. wanted to brush up on my typing," LaFlamme finally offered.

"So you stole my computer?"

"Borrowed." She paused. "Pawned actually."

"But my life's work was on there!"

"And your problem is..?" I pondered this reply and had to agree it was no great loss.

But how was I going to do my client Spore's bidding and interpret the religious symbology of the worst logo in the world? And even more troubling, what else did LaFlamme have on her mind?

The Case Of The Missing Talent

November 21, 2008

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After my client Spore had left, the room began to thaw out. His reptilian presence could bring a chill to any environment, let alone my generally inhospitable office.

I flicked through the pages he had left, each headed with the worst logo in the world. Drawing out a Venus Velvet, I began making some preliminary sketches before I remembered I hadn't used a pencil in ten years. I could barely write my name.

I went to fire up the pc, and I use this term because until recently it involved rubbing two sticks together.

I missed the old machine. Many's the time I'd been lulled into a womb-like reverie by the whirring of its vast engine, only to be jolted back to reality by the brittle barking of one of my lowlife clients.

But imagine my horror this afternoon when I reached for the on switch of the new silent-gliding incarnation to find it absent - replaced only by this cryptic, hand-written note: "I have taken the kid. Signed FF."

It could only mean one thing. Unable to draw and without a computer, my life as a graphic designer just got a whole lot harder.

The Graphic Designer’s Plight

November 20, 2008

After my client Spore had left, the room began to thaw out. His reptilian presence could bring a chill to any environment, let alone my generally inhospitable office. I flicked through the pages he had left, each headed with the worst logo in the world. Drawing out a Venus Velvet, I began making some preliminary … Continue reading →

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I’ve seen some howlers over the years. In fact I’ve been responsible for many of them. But this was the granddaddy of them all. A plain blue on white affair with every crappy Photoshop filter ever invented bolted on in an attempt to mask its true awfuldom.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked Spore, who was grinning inanely in anticipation of my full horror, which had yet to reveal itself.

“Well, you studied Religious Symbology at Harvard so I figured you might be able to explain its significance. Or failing that, you could tart it up.” Spore advanced slightly and I recoiled in equal measure.

“Not me chum, I’m a Duncan of Jordanstone man,” I protested. “Symbology’s strictly off limits. Besides, why would I want to get involved in this?”

Spore was up to something. He was a man whose everyday wardrobe included a cloak and dagger, but this was different. He was agitated. I decided to play the sucker along for a while because he was starting to interest me. And I wasn’t sure where my next drink was coming from.

“I think you know more than you care to admit,” he slithered. “Look, I’ll be frank.” He unfolded his arachnoid limbs and reconvened by the water cooler. “I wanted to be an albino. But they said I was too tall.”

As a non sequitur it was beautiful in its simplicity. Now I was really interested. He fixed me with those steely eyes. “I need your help on this one. Work your magic.”

The Worst Logo I Ever Saw

November 18, 2008

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Ignacious Spore and some of my other dubious clients.

I awoke this morning and began the daily graphic designer's ritual of removing #1 cat from my head. Normally this is a simple process involving a crowbar or the occasional light crane. However, this morning having been disturbed by the most alarming sound in the world - my doorbell - the process was a little more convoluted.

For a start, my bolt upright reaction caused a weighted spring effect, quite tricky to reproduce in 3d, and the subsequent stramash was something awful. However, I stumbled to the door in the manner of an encephalitic buffalo with the beast still in tow, and who should be standing there but my regular client the sinister Ignacious Spore. Spore had his own feline sidekick Mrs. Spock perched on his shoulder like an emaciated parrot.

"Morning," he grizzled. It was 2:30pm. "Got a job for ya."

I invited the creep in and he slithered into the office in the style of Uriah Heep. He then proceeded to unfold, with great delicacy, an ancient leather bound volume from a silk covering, revealing what was undoubtedly the worst logo I've ever seen. "Ain't that a beaut?" he said and I felt that he exaggerated somewhat.

And it was then that it struck me. Does graphic design suck? Your comments welcome.

Does graphic design suck?

November 17, 2008

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