“Can’t sleep, clown will eat me.”
–Bart Simpson

I always used to think one of the silliest phobias was coulrophobia — the fear of clowns — until I saw this album cover.

This thing is terrifying. I mean, it just reeks of menace! Mr. Bat is wearing some kind of traditional Pagliacci-type of outfit, and though I do find the color scheme kind of foreboding, it’s not so bad. And he has your usual whiteface on, but instead of a nice happy red smile, he has a black frown painted over his mouth. And a tiny red soul patch underneath. (Or is that just a glob of human flesh?)

Then there are the glasses. I know Mr. Bat can’t help it if he’s short-sighted, but he might want to invest in some contacts for his clowning around. Wait a minute. . . wait . . . is that Dick Cheney?

That would explain why he’s holding up his left hand as though he was going to pummel us with his meaty Vice-Presidential fists of anguish. Maybe he’s called Mr. Bat because that’s what beats the children with. Then again, if Mr. Bat is Dick Cheney’s alter-ego, then he probably wasn’t ever holding a bat in that fist — it was probably a shotgun and they decided later to airbrush it out. (An easy enough feat, given the brooding black background — the pitch of evil that spawns malevolent Mr. Bat.)

“Hey kids, I’ve booked Mr. Bat to come and sing at your birthday party!”

“Aiiiiii!”

No, the kiddies wouldn’t scream and run. They’d be too paralyzed by their dread to run. And certainly not scream.

First a whimper, and then the awful wet sound of Mr. Bat “singing”.

Alltop once ate a clown, and thought it tasted funny. For more excruciation, join Paul Zon at his Museum of Bad Album Cover Art. Wikipedia entry on coulrophobia, and if that doesn’t help, here is a collection of evil clown pictures. Originally published, oh, eons ago, in 2007.

You may not be aware that Fancy (born Manfred Alois Perilano), was a popular Euro-dance, Synth-Dance artiste in the mid-to-late 80s. You may not be aware that Euro-dance, Synth-Dance were once popular forms of musical expression. I certainly wasn’t until my eyes were assaulted by this cover and I just had to know if it was a hoax or not.

Not. This is from Fancy’s 1987 single, “Raving Queen”. (This is the ‘turbo dancer remix”, which caused at least a dozen pelvic explosions at the 1987 Euro-Dance and Eyeliner Expo, held in the UK for the first time, at Tightee-on-Whity, Kent.)

By all accounts, Fancy had a very successful music career in the 80s, topping the dance billboard charts with such hits as “Slice Me Nice”, “China Blue”, and of course, “Raving Queen” (not to be confused with his 1986 single, “Mincing Pansy.”)

This all came to a screeching halt when he tried to export his trademark rhythms and sound to the NFL in a stupendously misjudged cross-promotion he organized with the Detroit Lions. (Which were 1-6 in the mid-point of the season, and desperate for any kind of boost in fan interest.) Fancy played as a wide receiver for an astonishing 25 seconds in the first quarter. (Vegas bookies were giving 5-1 odds that he would be killed in his first play.)

In his second play, he managed to get open, and catch the ball. Unfortunately, he could not hold onto it when safety Bill Bates tackled him, breaking Fancy into several pieces. The fans were electrified! And the Detroit Lions went on to win the game 27-17.

Fancy’s pieces were surgically reattached, but alas, the equipment never worked the same; he did, however, recover his muse late in 1988, leading him to write “Fools Cry”, “All My Loving/Running Man” and “Limp Noodle.”

You may find more Excruciating Album Cover Art here. Alltop is also somewhat painful. Fancy’s website here, and the more factual wiki entry is here. Originally published, in the original Babylonian, in 2007.

Angry monkey with a chaingun. I’ve been there.

Alltop would never give a weapon to a lower primate. From Otipess.

Jesussic Park

Jesus was visiting a lost valley that was reputed to hold a few holy men who separated themselves from the rest of the world so they could better understand the nature of God. He was hoping to talk to them alone, but he’d made the mistake of healing a few of the sick (he couldn’t remember if they were lepers, blind or tone-deaf cantors) in the town nearby.

So instead of a quick Messiah-to-Hermit conference, he’d accumulated a large crowd.

“What do you think we should do, Oh Son of God?” Peter asked Jesus. (Peter was always kissing his ass.)

“I don’t know, why don’t we try the Beatitudes? It always does well with an outdoor crowd. Remember how it killed on the mountain?”

Peter nodded. Unctuous as ever.

So Jesus climbed a large boulder, so the crowd could see him. They’d stopped in some tall grass just inside the entrance to the valley.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Jesus began, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. And blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

He paused dramatically, because the next one always got them where they lived: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”

You could feel the ripple of excitement at that thought shiver through the crowd.

Or was it something else?

The tall grass separated in a dozen places, and suddenly, there were screams of horror and agony as they were pulled down.

“Dragons!” somebody in the crowd shouted.

“Save us from the dragons, O Messiah!”

Just then, one of the dragons — actually a velociraptor, a predatory dinosaur about the size of a turkey — appeared at the bottom of the boulder where Jesus had been Beatituding.

“Stay away from my flock!” Jesus commanded the dinosaur.

It ignored him and proceeded to jump on Peter, who was screaming hysterically; the fifty-pound dinosaur then used its powerful, razor-sharp second claw to rip open the Apostle’s stomach. It’s sharp teeth chomped on Peter’s neck.

Jesus had always thought that Peter was a bit of a brown-noser, but he did not like seeing the fisherman disemboweled. He jumped off his boulder, grabbed up his staff, and brought it down on the velociraptor’s head as it gnawed on Peter.

Jesus smashed its skull with the blow.

“Blessed are those who crush the skulls of the dragons, for they shall save their neighbors!” Jesus shouted.

The assembled believers took this one to heart — even more than that excellent meekness promise — and proceeded to defend themselves from the small dinosaurs. The velociraptors grabbed what pieces of the believers they could and ran away.

Judas appeared, his sword drawn and dripping with blood. Father, I hope that’s raptor blood, Jesus thought.

“Those things are pretty easy to kill Jesus, but what the hell are they?”

“Creatures that we thought had been eradicated by the Flood. They must have survived in this lost valley,” the Saviour said.

“Well, I think we should leave. What if there are bigger Dragons?” Judas said.

“O Master,” Luke said, “can you heal the wounded? Raise those consumed by the Beasts?”

“Not now,” Jesus said. “I used up all my spell points this morning on the lepers, or were they blind?”

“No, they were off-key priests, O Messiah,” Simon said. “It was a blessed relief.”

“Shit, look at Peter,” Judas said. “What a fucking mess!”

“Language!” Jesus admonished. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to raise him until tomorrow,” Jesus explained.

“But why O Messiah?” Mark asked.

“Spell points. Haven’t you been listening,” Jesus said to Mark. Father, why did you make him so thick? “I shall raise him from the dead tomorrow, when I have my daily power back.”

“Really? After what happened to Lazarus?” Judas asked. “I wouldn’t. That fucker is just disturbing now.”

Jesus rubbed his temple. Judas and his potty-mouth.

“I mean, Peter is bit creepy to start with, but give him a day in the underworld, and, well, is it a good idea to raise him at all?” Judas suggested.

Jesus ignored the obvious power-play by Judas. The crowd had gathered around the Messiah and his Apostles. Only a few had been killed by the dinosaurs, but they were worried about them coming back.

“We shall take him with us, and visit the holy men later,” Jesus decided. “Let us leave this lost valley. Blessed are the wise, for discretion is the better part of valor.”

The crowd murmured in agreement.

Then the T-Rex smelled the blood, and trumpeted its hideous, terrifying hunting call.

“Blessed are the swift of foot,” Jesus said, “for they shall not be eaten.”

“But I’m lame!” shouted someone in the crowd.

“I’ve got a bad limp.”

“I’ve lost my sandals.”

The ground shook. People held their ears as the nearby hunting call hit 130 decibels. The 40-foot, 7-ton carnivore appeared, its savage head low as it ran through the grass.

The Believers unable to run from the creature looked at Jesus expectantly.

“Spell points!” the Saviour shouted, “don’t you get it?”

Clearly they did not, so he said: “Blessed are the lame and those without quality footwear for they shall see the Kingdom of Heaven.”

And then he ran.

The End

Dedicated to Michael Crichton: and thanks for all the dinosaurs. Author’s Note: This story may seem to be quite far-fetched, but if you accept the Creationist viewpoint, then it is possible that Jesus may have walked with the dinosaurs. (Assuming some had survived the Biblical extinction event, the Flood.) If you find that notion silly, then you may also enjoy this YouTube clip of Eddy Izzard’s bit on Jesus versus the dinosaurs. Other fast-moving lizards include Alltop. Originally published in 2008.

Enjoy this story? Check out my second novel, Marvellous Hairy, which has a whole part devoted to The Lizard’s Pleasure.

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Alltop is waiting to procrastinate.

This masterpiece from The Minister’s Quartet is not so terrible. It’s more a problem of context, really, than anything else.

Clearly, they are referring to Jesus, and what could be more natural than a man of the cloth wanting to “touch” the Savior and Messiah — metaphorically, you pervs!

Of course, here at The Skwib, we are not completely unaware of the news media, and so, have heard some of the stories about clergy abusing the younger members of their congregation. Did you know that as many as one in four clergymen is likely to sexually abuse a member of their church? We don’t want to get into the business of trying to parse those odds, but if that is an accurate figure (which it probably isn’t) our money is on this guy:

The only way this cover could be worse? They could be wearing liturgical vestments.

Sorry, we didn’t mean “worse” — we meant more accurate.

Alltop wants to be touched. For more excruciation, join Paul Zon at his Museum of Bad Album Cover Art. Originally published in 2007, when for some bizarre reason I had comments turned off!

Did you know that fewer than 12% of French households actually had a fridge in 1977? And did you know that it is quite common for advertisers to market orange juice, eggs, wine and other breakfast foods with images of naked women?

That is the kind of marketing genius that is behind Cerrone’s Paradise. Of course, this cover only worked in France (where Cerrone is from) in 1977, where they understood the inherent sexiness of small fridges with naked women draped over them. And of course, spilled yogurt is also a major turn-on.

Not so sure about the unbuttoned disco shirt and the look on Mr. Cerrone’s face that seems to say, “eventually, she will end up in my sexually desirable appliance.”

Strangely, the same basic logic is at play in his follow-up album, “Supernature”, in which Cerrone flashes his man-boobies while several surgeons dressed as pigs check out his ass from underneath an operating table decorated with an anatomically correct model of Emile Zola (without skin). Incidentally, this album cover is a total rip-off of Toulouse Le Grandfig’s “Wax Hospital Fantasy #12″.

Alltop still uses an ice box. You’ll find Paul Zon’s take on this artwork at his Gallery of Bad Album Cover Art. And you’ll find more delightful Cerrone album covers here. Originally published on a cave wall. (2007).

Run Satan! Mike Crain, the Katarist [sic] Preacher, is coming to kick your ass!

This is a disturbing cover. At first I thought Mr. Crain was wearing a WWII helmet, and then I realized, “oh, that’s just his hair.” Perhaps after he finishes splitting blocks of wood, he can go see “Sheena, God’s Stylist”.

Actually, if the goal is for us to take the idea that his mighty karate is the work of God seriously, then it’s not that badly designed. I especially like the way the crucifix is beaming its God Power right to the point where Crain is breaking wood (and judging from the look on his face, his articulatio radiocarpalis).

I’d actually like to hear this album. I imagine Crain crooning hymns, reciting violent passages from the Book of Exodus, and making you jump out of your chair as he finishes every track with a ear-busting hai-yah-men!

Now, you’re probably thinking, “I don’t think Jesus (the Turn-the-Other-Cheek Messiah) would approve of lethal strikes designed to crush one’s private area.” But Karate is not about destroying your opponent’s most vulnerable parts (groin, solar plexus, neck), it’s about purging oneself of evil thoughts, and self-control, and doing woodwork with your hands.

And Jesus would have approved of all of those — he was a carpenter, after all.

Alltop only works with Formica. For more excruciation, join Paul Zon at his Museum of Bad Album Cover Art. Originally published in 2007.

Once you’ve listened to Colonel Sanders’ Tijuana Picnic, you’ll have a mysterious craving for it every other week.

Based on the sound of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, this is fusion of fast food, Colonel Sanders’ questionable taste in beard styles, and a Dadaist aesthetic that is truly penguin. When I first saw this cover I was mesmerized by the tableau. A white Anglo-Saxon family has been kidnapped by Colonel Sanders and forced to eat his trademark fried chicken. (In Mexico, the addictive element of the eleven herbs and spices is a generous helping of mescaline.)

Once the psychedelics kick in, the “Colonel” will unleash the slightly mistimed trumpets, which will play “A Taste Of Honey“, “Tijuana Taxi” and “Our Day Will Come.”

When the Anglo-Saxons are thoroughly disoriented and freaked out, then the fingerlickin’ begins!

For more excruciation, check out Alltop. Originally published in goat (2007).

As you can see, the Milk Man has been attacked by a homicidal maniac armed with fresh fruit.

Not only has he been brutally stabbed in his androgynous hip and armpit with a banana, the hermaphroditic and ghostly Milk Man has been brained with a strawberry.

Lucky for him the attacker wasn’t packing a pineapple. Then his number would have been up for sure.

Now, most of us would be dead at this point, but as I’ve pointed out, the epicene lactosian decorating this album cover seems to be enjoying his/her encounter with the savage fruit assailant. I have to be honest at this point, I’m not terribly disturbed by the violent fruit atrocities (these things happen all the time), nor does the Milk Man’s bisexual proclivities cause me pause — it is the black goo that (s)he appears to be extruding from his/her winsome smile that has been haunting my dreams since I saw this cover.

Ironically, some reviewers have described this as San Francisco Deerhoof‘s most accessible album.

My only question is what would the Milk Man do about pointed sticks?

For more excruciation, join Paul Zon at his Museum of Bad Album Cover Art. You may also want to visit the excruciating Alltop . Originally published in the dark ages (2007).