[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

November 17, 1943

To My Beloved Betty,

As I write to you I sit aboard a vessel that, despite being a giant in its own right, is dwarfed by the mammoth that is the Pacific. If it weren’t starting to turn crimson with the blood of good, honest (and not so honest) men, I’d swear this ocean is the embodiment of God himself.

All of the supposed comforts provided by this battleship are revealed as mere feats of human ingenuity – designs of imperfect and selfish beings – when one understands the magnificence of its supporting body of water. I spend a lot of time on deck, staring out into its vastness, wondering how it is that I’ve ever managed to feel important.

The ocean is natural and timeless. Humanity’s current path seems to be anything but.

However, when I think of you and the love you’ve given me I can’t help but remember why it is that I continue. In the long term, I truly believe that we — people, human beings, civilization — will be but a flash in the pan. With that being said, there’s no reason to settle for less during our moment.

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A thousand years ago, when this season was a bore, I couldn’t have imagined enjoying the season as much as I am. But none the less, episode upon episode continues to build upon the rocket doomship that Dexter and Lumen seem to be strapped onto. Unbeknown to them, the spilling of the Jordan Chase gang’s barrel loot has kicked off a cascading set of events that are building towards either the most plucky escape or their doom. I think it’s safe to bet on escape. But fucking how?

The unveil behind the creation of the Boyd Fowler posse popped off last night, and it was nothing short of satisfying. Nothing like some gang rape at summer camp to truly cement these dudes in the echelons of monsters. The creepiest part? Jordan not partaking in the ritual. Instead, the son of a bitch guides the rapes and murders, imploring his little lackeys to seize their primal desire. The dude probably goes home and burps his dong into a bucket. It is voluminous. Creeper creeping in the background, orchestrating everything.

What does this say about his drives, though? For someone who tells everyone else to go about taking what they believe is theirs, why doesn’t he actually partake in the ritual? Overlord of the Rape Gang?

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And these sneakers are super-swank-masturbation, no? Good friend of mine, and newly minted contributor, Patrick brought these bad boys to my attention. I think he enjoys showing me sneakers that I couldn’t even fit my big toe into. You son of a bitch, Patrick!

Hypebeast breaks down these studs:

Inspired by the DeLorean DMC-12, Nike 6.0 Introduces the Limited-Edition DeLorean Nike Dunk, a Fusion of Innovation and Style. Influenced by the DMC-12′s aerodynamic design and trademark characteristics, Nike reinterpreted the car’s sleek stainless steel exterior into a matte silver, no-sew constructed upper while also taking cues from the gull-wing doors on the bottom eyestay. The shoe’s outsole references the Delorean’s tail lights and the DMC-12′s rear window shades reappear as graphic lines on the heel replacing the traditional stitches. Meanwhile, the Belfast stamp on the tongue is a nod to the Irish factory that originally produced the vehicle.

Sexiness. Hit the jump for a gallery of these time-traveling sex pieces.

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Dear Flesh Sacks,
Gather round. If you’re lucky enough to be reading this on our interwoven telecommunications grid that has ensnared this Earth, there is a good chance things could be going more poorly for you. Fuck me you say? Fuck me indeed!

Nonetheless, it is without irony that both the Brothers Omega consider themselves delusional enough to feel themselves lucky to still be aspirating. So, to those foolish enough to gather around these parts. To those unfortunate enough to have us as family. To those silly enough to consider us friends; happy fucking Thanksgiving.

I can only hope you celebrate it properly. I demand your caloric consumption be insane. I demand you imbibe your drink of choice – whether it be alcoholic or fruit, until you piss laser beams. And finally I demand your mirth be great.

Over at My Modern Met, they have a ridiculous story about Punch Me Panda. Nate Hill is an artist who dresses up in a panda suit and invites people to wail on his stomach. Fucking amazing. The idea is to serve as a whipping post, designed to reduce stress in the average chap. How goddamn brilliant is that? I mean, I often consider much of what Rendar and myself do around the house and with friends as performative art. Sometimes it’s hard to find where our act ends and our psyches really begin. Or I mean, do they, ever?

But this shit is a notch above.

Hill elaborates on the get-up and his goals as the Kung-Fu (receiving) Panda at Modern Met:

Hill ordered the panda suit on eBay and bought the biggest chest protector he could find on the internet. He wanted to offer a public service – to relieve people’s stress through violence. He gets punched (and roundhouse kicked) about 100 times a day.

“I choose the panda suit because the panda face really melts people’s heart,” says Hill. “I wanted to have people get out their aggression on something cute. It’s fun to have that contradiction. This is an art project. I’m not just a thrill seeker.”

Fantastic. I always wish I had the testicles or throbbing ovaries to go about doing something like this. Maybe running around Main Street Suburbia in a Scream mask whipping Snickers off people. Something like that. The life fantastic. Until then, it’s vicariousness like what.

Hats off, Mr. Hill.

Via. Photographs: Rob Bennett. Go Here For More.

So, despite my distaste for Kinect, I continue to chronicle the odd shit that the device is being co-opted to do. We’ve got lightsabers, and now we’ve got it being used to remotely control a robot. Oh good lord! Haven’t we all learned from Terminator? Next thing we know, this son of a bitch is going to go sentient, and then begin using the Kinect webcam to cyber robosex other mechanical non-organic beings.

It’s happening!

But no, seriously. Hit the jump to see Kinect as a means to remotely control a robot.

The apocalypse marches forward.

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The Dexter season is officially rocking. I have to tip my cap to the late inning rally by the writers, salvaging countless episodes of build-up and turning it into a momentum-fueled final act of the season. Maybe last season did coalesce this slowly, but I never noticed it because of how taken I was with Trinity. Interjecting Jordan Chase into the season would have captivated me more quickly, but fuck, now that they’ve got me, I ain’t complaining. We’ve finally gotten the rocket-ship ass-clenching roller coaster we were clamoring for. We shouldn’t complain. We should take it! Take it!

I kick it crazy here over in the re-up section of Omega Level. I imagine that writing the weekly column is much like teaching a classroom . I can’t do the same shit every week. I’ll go fucking banana cakes. So I switch it up. This week we’re rocking the column in the form of the absolutely fucking pertinent questions about the remainder of the season that I’m going to pose. Your job is to ingest my nonsense, and then hit me with your thoughts. Let’s party.

—-

#1: Is Dexter the Coolest Feminist Ever?
I’m going to level with everyone. I’m really enjoying watching Dexter lay out dudes who put their hands on women. Watching him lay down the stink-fist on the abusive quasi-father of Astor’s friend last night had me fist pumping. Keep the fist pumping coming, yo! Tie that shit in with his pursuit of the Boyd Fowler Rape gang, and you have the coolest feminist ever. Sort of. I know I’m being ridiculous. But still, if there is anything that pisses me off more than a meathead demeaning of a chick, I can’t locate it at this moment.

Also, did you ever notice that Dexter’s continuously trying to fill the void left by his mother’s death? Ever since he was caked to the knees in her hemoglobin, he’s been searching for a proxy. He only gets close to women. Lila, Rita, now Lumen. And invariably, I’m noticing that they all die. He can’t seem to keep that maternal/sexual female figure on lock down. Much to do is made about Deb’s black widow status. But Dexter seems to get every chick near him killed as well.

—-

#2: Don’t You Want to Body Slam Petulant Teenagers?
Astor’s turn into a moody, bitchy teenage snot bag was groan-inducing and bothersome. Actually, she’s still a tweener or whatever, but still. I understand that losing your mother would fuck you up done good, but there’s something about whiny kids in television shows that makes me want to dragon uppercut their brains out of their skulls. Blah, blah, you don’t understand me. Blah, blah, oh my god how could you be porking Save the Last Dance so soon after Mom died?

She did serve the purpose of being Dexter’s means of reaffirming his humanity, but I’ll be damned if I could stand Astor in the majority of the episode. The little sap in me enjoyed their final conversation in the car, but for the most part I fantasized about someone throwing pies off her face.

—-

#3: How Does Dexter Escape Robocop?
Liddy is coming on strong, and something is going to go down between Quinn, Dexter, and Robocop. I love how his initial hiring at the hands of Quinn has been parlayed into his means of getting back at LaGuerta, and potential redemption. I’m never going to bet on Dexter getting caught, so every season it becomes “How the fuck does Dexter escape this?”

Any thoughts? Does Quinn go down in a blaze? Do Dexter and Lumen take him out? He hasn’t violated the code so what do they do with him?

—-

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Check it out! We finally have footage of the Devin Townsend Project recording Deconstruction, the final entry in the four-album sequence. As promised, this material seems absolutely epic, technical, and brutal. Watch the video for insights!

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Boarding Spaceship Earth during the Reagan administration, my childhood occurred in the early 1990s – an era fortunate enough to be blessed with some wonderful pop culture. Mark-Paul Gosselaar set the standard for high school hipness. Macaulay Culkin was bustin’ our guts with displays of suburban terror. And Metallica was reaching the masses while still saying something worthwhile.

But the best pop culture phenomenon was undoubtedly the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. In my day, these anthropomorphic creatures battled the forces of evil in cartoons, movies, comics, and video games – and it all kicked ass! We couldn’t get enough of these guys and their fun-loving ways.

Eventually, however, the TMNT love faded away. And this would have been fine. There’s nothing wrong with taking a backseat and being fawned upon by nostalgic nerds from time to time. But the problem is that the turtles were forced (no doubt against their will) to return to the spotlight in some straight-up bobo renditions.

The most offensive of all the later-day TMNT cash-grabs is Ninja Turtles: The Next Mutation. Long story short, this late 90s (*shudder*) live action series hoped to revitalize the franchise by introducing a female turtle. Ugh. Check out the press video below:

The worst part of the video comes as Dan Clark, executive creative consultant, attempts to justify the inclusion of Venus:

She brings balance to the boys’ lives — she brings a feminine influence into the house.

Wait, what the fugg is this guy talking about? Doesn’t he understand a damn thing about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? My generation didn’t love the heroes in a half-shell because they used the martial arts as a means of attaining spiritual enlightenment or holistic balance. No, we loved the turtles because they didn’t embark upon such bogus journeys. Instead, they used karate to beat the shit out of bad guys and impress hot newscasters.

And what did they do when they weren’t beating ass? They ate pizza, went clubbing, and skateboarded. In other words, it was a total bro-fest.

And it was glorious.

Get out of my face with that Venus de Milo shit.

[Source: Blame It On the Voices via I Heart Chaos]

Your Wednesday evening moment of zen. I will allow you to fall into silence as everything begins to make (no) sense.