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Bamboo Shoots!

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Inktober Rounds

Posted by Cyberdevil - October 31st, 2018

Inktober's over! And I made it. Just posted my final one, it's been this (not really but it'd be suitable), and I really drew a lot of these so here's another slice of some other nice rounds and random moments of delightful doodle... feel free to guess the motives. In the game you get a jumble of letters and a set word length to try them on, but if you can guess these even without those (or looking at the source) then you're probably pretty good at this. :)







Best ones are here though. Also: Happy Halloween and stuff! Time to get carving...


Comments (18)

gOod aRT! wHAt aRe YoU goING tO dO At hALloWweEN?

Thanks. :) Well I already did, something simple this year: https://www.newgrounds.com/art/view/cyberdevil/inktober-31-happy-halloween

...as for celebrations and such? Not much.

J. K. Rowling, rolling with an A. K. forty seven...

Maureen Morgan can jab me in the eye with a fork instead of the Stork butter. "I just wanna see this dork suffer!" Hee Hee, she said without an ounce of guilt... just wanted to see me fall like an House of Cards, and do unspeakable things to my willy man... or was that Beau Willimon? Or Bill Williamson... or the son of Bill Williams who was addicted to William Hill betting? Getting into debt again, sweating over bills, unable to pay for rare fillet steaks when all of his takings were taken, and he couldn't even call on Liam Neeson to make those mistakes go away. He had to run in order to be safe... so took a plane to the Gowa Regency... and managed to find a place that sold some decent steak, except one piece was taken. And the waiter was Kenneth Williams shouting "ooh matron." Bill wouldn't eat the steak, so the other guests ate 'em. And then turned on Bill and chased him from his table to an outside stable, where he stayed inside holed up with a gun... Well I say a gun, it was a banger sausage, from Bangor, Maine. He got scared, hurled up and shat a Cumberland swirl. Until Liz Hurley arrived on the scene earlier than expected and offered him protection from the ever-rampant Gang Warfare... and even offered warfarin for his blood clots and heart pain, but then he started barfing again when he realised it would cost him an arm and a leg, for medicine to fix the problems in his arms and his legs. Not to mention the carotid artery in his neck. It was giving him jip, and the fucker needed a new hip too... And what about that slipped disc! He was freaking out, so put on some lip balm, sat calm and tucked into a fat balm cake that made his arm ache, then he drank some Swarfega, a Derbyshire cleaner that gave him heart arrhythmia. He became confused and started thinking he was Argentinian! In a dazed fit, he wandered into the woods but it didn't do him no good, and he nearly drowned in the bayous while the animals were baying for his blood. Why couldn't they just pay for his blood? PAY WHO?!?! Show a crazy man some love, y'all! Bill is fuckin' ill and still lost, and it's near impossible to cross this river when it's still full of crocs... and that's the crux of the problem. Croc-a-suck-a-dick-o-diles! Man, how can you ever hope to escape from the Croc-a-suck-a-dick-o-diles! In hot pursuit... literally hot pursuit. More like heat. The fuckers were snapping at his feet, jaws wider than the open mouth of Winona Ryder. But ol' Bill was a known survivor, he had beaten Tuberculosis... in fact it was the closest he had ever come to death, except now... when he was about to become an alligator's stew... or at least a student in How To Die Painfully... But at the very last minute he leapt and managed to get to a rope that was swinging at the time, at the exact same time that Tarzan was singing. It was just enough of a distraction to knock Tarzan into the gloop, and save Bill's life. Tarzan screamed until they could hardly be heard... The good thing is that Bill was hardly hurt, just a few flesh wounds, and a great big gaping hole in his leg. But apart from that and his other 5000 medical issues, he was fine. He would live to fight another day. But only if he decided to live life in another way! BUT HE DIDN'T!! He chose Danger. He was no stranger to the Mystikal record. Plus he had a cave to explore, and some nice dreams... he didn't know he would stumble upon live Thai teens gyrating and being given high ratings on LiveJasmin. Bill was an old hasbeen... which made him perfect for the porn industry! So he partook, in a scene where dicks are sucked. It was like something out of an artbook. But then they slung him on the meat hook! He was about to be cooked for a Thai green curry... and when boiling him alive they were in no hurry... That'll make him think twice about tryna get free cunny!

My God! I wouldn't mind listening to this on my iPod! That fateful story of Bill and his medicinally high log. I mean high as in long. Probably with a high-ass schlong. If he did partake in those movies from which he was fired on. Also I don't have an iPod that just rhymed so right... but it's wrong.

It's N to the LAW with the E and the IETZ! Who writes blogs of text no one ever forgets! Sometimes big blocks of text you can't lift less you're wrecked, and Maureen Morgan looks like she can't even press. Best put that jab to the test long as you're clad in a vest.

Must say I've missed these writings but don't know what to respond. This doesn't turn out so long. My words aren't there when I gong. So I space the small bits and make it seem like they're vacant those in betweens. Rentable, indentable, expendable with a few less non-breaking spaces on this machine.

In real life I've been down with a bug but now I'm clean. System's washed out and serene. My skin it glistens and gleams and seems almost plastic: a vision of greens fed by nutritional memes. Capitalism: unconditional schemes.

But I don't want to get rich or die trying. I don't want to get rich or die and I question the recklessness of sky-diving. I aspire higher things. A trip to Mars on ion wings? If money won't give you bliss why should I waste time trying to attain such: pressure without aim only strains much.

But it's crazy how the world burns in LA. I haven't seen the fires dying flames yet, maybe they'll get a rain check. Just stumbled upon a video of a dude driving on tempty highwaves nearby and it all looked pretty cool. Yeah...

My God! I wouldn't mind you listening to this on My Pod. I don't have an iPod, but I'd like one. Maybe on Black Friday I will buy one. Or die trying. I don't want to get rich and die trying... I want to remain an upset broke little bitch and die crying. Buying lottery tickets more out of hope that I lose than I win. Hoping things never change, and that I'm forever in chains. Why aspire to higher things like church spires? When I can lie, tired, jerking until I expire. Live fast, Die Fat, fuck the slim fast, why be a gym rat? Chicks dig fat... or should I say, have to dig through that. Get yo' goddamn shovels, ladies!

It's good to see you've recovered from a bug, and a clean bill of health. Unlike Bill who has a clean bill of hell, and needs psychiatric and medical help. I don't fancy his chances in the jungles of Indonesia, he's likely to get more injuries and amnesia. Look now he's catching a goddamn fever! Please give the guy some reefer. Keep him from dying, and eyeing to see the grim reaper.

Those fires in LA need to lay low like the foot slaves of Mistress Lay.. la. Hopefully after this there ain't more. Only a big white halo over the place, and a red warning circle over Mr Trump's face.

Why not! Black Friday's coming up quick with big things about to fly off! I'm plotting to buy trips if plane companies get a grip and try off! So I can travel places and the be more well-traveled than I was.

Dying crying seems to be ideal man... but not locked on the wheels on a steel van (Jeepers Creepers), but rather so happy your heart stops. Tears of joy hardening what's soft. I want to buy popcorn and pop rocks. I want to tame lions and not glocks. I want to rise high on the waves in a lighthouse depraved of it's placement and hop scotch. I don't know where I'm going. But it's better to go somewhere and be someone and know no one than stay in your home and be noone... right? Eye right.

Alice is in chains too. Alicia Keys is a great muse. At least the seas calm earthquake moves. A piece of cake makes a plate spooned. A Jesus waits up at gate two. The Police is craving to break through.

Hmm it's shovelware fortnight. If only I'd get rid of all warts I'd be sure fly.

Reefer Madness? Hope Bill wills himself off his run off the mill sadness! Because even if life is grim you can be glad, yes. And Trump's face, man, he looks like he earned some California burn! But I guess it's just spray tan. Yeah...

You're so talented. Always good to see your work.

A belated but very Thank You!

Nice art.


damn, three new newsposts. i gotta catch up sometime

Yeah you've got a lot of catching up to do man! It's almost like you took one of my summer vacations...

...did you take some kind of vacation?

@S3C @Cyberdevil
in many ways i've been on a decade long vacation, but in another perspective, that last few months have been the opposite

So NG's been like your vacation home all this time! That's both good and bad innit... the day that vacation's truly over...

@Quisty @Cyberdevil Yes, you have a way with lines.

Both visual and worded I hope. ;) You have a way with compliments!

Ryan, his dream to be a successful writer didn't transpire, but he did become a world-renouned lawyer and got married, having two kids, Billy and Emma. He eventually died from leukemia when he reached the age of 55. His wife Sandra went on to re-marry and built a memorial foundation in dedication to her dead husband. She died herself the following year after being hit by a car. The hit and run driver was never caught.

Jack, his dream to be a successful animator didn't transpire, but he did become a taxi driver. One night when he was driving home, he accidentally hit a woman called Sandra and killed her, although he didn't stop to find out. He later fled to Brazil and lived a life of almost total seclusion, except for the games of poker and Russian roulette out there in the Amazonian rainforest. He was later extradited back to the US, after changes in the law closed a loophole that had existed for a long time. Once back on home soil, Jack fought his case in court and won that battle, on leaving the magistrates, he was approached by a limousine with tinted out windows. A man rolled down the window and uttered the words, "Would you like to work for me?" It was Ryan, he had faked his death from leukemia in an attempt to escape from his nightmarishly rocky marriage with Sandra. Jack had actually done him a favour by killing Sandra. The two of them then opened up a chain of restaurants through money laundering and racketeering and began to monopolise 94% of America under their tyranny. Today, they sit on their vast fortune, doing nothing but applying sperm patches and swallowing orgasm-extending capsules while watching Hen Bow Tie pornography from clips4sale.com.

All that we aspire, all that doesn't transpire, no matter what types of attire we try to be fly and rise higher... but unless you grow real wings you'll only rise as a squire. I writhe in not writers block but a time that hops like I'm getting shocked with pliers. Photoshop could inspire. Photo shops from the Shire. All's not lost but LOTR it was hella fire. All those stories they told... wish I could write as dire. I try to break out of the mold but can't even fold out the rhymer, but Ryan is quite the surviver! Like Jesus he tried the revival!

And oh that was a real site, that'll make for a surreal night... I do like reading stories but might not like those lives in real life. But as you read you realize no matter who it is not all is well. Ryan and Jack live a long life; the rest can rot in hell. Primed up for the rare trials Cyberdevil jots and tells. Yeah...

What's up man! Its been a while

Yeaah it's been a while! Just been real busy lately. Trying to stay as active as I can.

@Kieran @Cyberdevil ok i see you've got that 30 exp

Yeah I think I was there before I read the post. :) Usually around 30-40 UJ submissions waiting on me when I wake up. You too I guess?

Newsflash, we got a boob flash. We have an important scoop. So why not shout it from the rooftops? What? Like that fake news regarding the '69 moonshot? The Art of Not Telling the Truth, just selling the ruse. Compelling, but as ever, deluded. Much like my boob luge. Our world is full of huge noobs who live to dupe others, and stoop lower than two midgets on a shooting spree during the start of a June summer. But don't assume they did. There are very few criminal midgets. Midget crime is rare. Midgets are gems. So ladies and gents, take my inventive miscellany with the best of intentions before I go frigid with this pen, and then some. End up dependant on you. Only so much fuel before I burn up, and you turn off. Life can be cruel. But fear not, I didn't come here just to flee when the stove gets hot. I'm only here to free some thoughts and release some grievance. Don't need no reasons, just hoping it can breed cohesion. This world needs more humour, to feed our future, not receed our roots, just relieve our pain, not relive our stupors. Nie dares not bail on you, or set sail, he'll be here as long as he's still able to tell a tale or two. Celebrate and collaborate with whoever remains from our crew. Until we are remains ourselves. What are these posts we make, but a bunch of our brains? Hunched together in one space, until we punch in at our permanent stasis. We live every day, never braced, and waste most of 'em, like it's a race, forever taking each moment for granted, anything but facing everything openly. We lack the understanding of life and death. We're blind. That's my guess. We've already failed the eye test. But even if I lacked sight, I'd write to my last breath. A last rite, then a flatline, with the nurses sat by, casually smoking. That's why it's better to live as if every day is your first. On your back, crying. Yeah...

I'll rest, but only when I wrest this prize. It'll be surprising if I can prise it at all. A tall order, a price to pay, like grabbing the horns of a bull because you grabbed the bull by the horns. I say, leave fame alone. Stand back and give it some leeway. In fact, speed off like the Grand Prix if need be! Hopefully, no one will see you flea. We're already leagues ahead and ready for this leap of faith, like Lolita Davidovich. It's important that you keep the faith, yet still commit to being an atheist. Coz you've seen nothing yet to change the shit. People are still in chains and shit. We're supposedly approaching a Golden Age, but it's more like a gilded cage than ever before... and shit. People draw on walls to kill the rage and shit... Why not just fill a page with it? Instead of defacing shit, coz you're full-on deranged and shit. Maybe you should be detained... put in restraints and hit... beaten with whips and chains and kicked. I Joke I Kic.. I mean Keed. Definitely Keed.. yet I revel in being a rebel with a cause and these claws out. I'll rip your throat out before the show's out. No doubt a gorehound. You'll be lucky if you can go four rounds with this old warhorse. I do this for sport, so where's the scoreboard? A whole storage of stories, and never a shortage. An entire assortment. Anything I desire to tell, pull it to the forefront. Every installment absorbing, snowballing and rolling like an out of control Zorb ball... that won't stop until someone puts a fork in. But it won't happen, like a vegan eating pork ribs. And on this Saturday night, as I'm sat pouring my forth fifth. Writing my 588th for the board, a formidable achievement, a Walker Mitty that's more critical and hysterical as ever before. So witty! But that's open for debate, like an old grave that's open and ripe for pissing in. Oh wait... it's your own place you didn't have to save up thirty years to make your home. That deep hole's a freebie, kind of creepy, everyone around it weeping, while some preaching cunt with beady eyes is reading out speeches full of cheesy lines and repeating that spiel weekly.

Rest that prize? You'd better arrest this guy! Prized money for the prize, funny test I'd buy. Yet it is a grand surprise whatever's next in life. Whatever's next in line. Should I subject this line. Maybe try wrestling limes: squeeze them and rip out their wretched spines, and eat them and wreck their prime? Prime minister not fine. He's just beginning his finishing whine, might need some pills and some wine, I'm feeling iller than Mac Miller on his She Said rhyme. But she's had time.

Cheese had taste. Police had faith. Please have praise. You pricks don't appreciate the Grand Prix? Think I'll stick up a bank and go mad rich. Sandwiched between a conscience and this nonsense... I don't know what I'm on it's either order or abnorm. Horns they pull in scorn. Grab the bull and be deformed.

Flea playing that bass like an emcee fleeing his path. Jumping off the walls, but I pretend to be back. Pumping iron balls in quire halls the echo calls me let them call the demons rise and lepers crawl. Lolita Davidovich... not even she could battle this. Savage is this sandwich dish. Grin in pain when grainy grains of sand sinks in and damages.

Ain't that the shit. Not for the faintest pick. Can't fully brain this pitch. Art has no shame or guilt. Art life my game; my Sith? Sixth sense explains I split. Sliding through this life on a banana where's my manners. We're all animals and anomalies no matter what banter a comma leaves, honestly. And I'm more for silver than gold the Bronze Age oughta be our promised eve. And still I sleep with the longest sleeves. Laundered sheets. Honky teeth. Bonk some trees.

Yupp, we better just try to write out and skip the white out.Save some energy and turn the lights out in this quiet house. Turn the city down and you won't even see a mouse out. But maybe we need a beacon of hope... we need a lighthouse.

Still wondering when I'll find my path. My spouse? Mind my wrath. My house? Mind my mat. My shoes? Mine's my bad. I lose. Mightily clad in high hoofs, hovering like I'm blight proof, even in midnight snooze. Oblivious to our time loops.

Vegan pork ribs? The awkwardness. The orchid. The beautiful and the wrong, like all my songs, like when I forklift. And drop the peas on the floor, I did before, it happens when you're kid. But anyway, I'm just rambling now, running out of gall and dampening down, grounded around this... I'm thankfulofit now. No matter what prank that shank pulls on the town. Like a maritial artist. Weak Lee weeping a round. Kick leaping the ground. Yeah...

What software do you use? GIMP is free, but are you using photoshop?

Well for the Inktober entries in particular it's all Flash. :) For the above: Drawing Grounds. Otherwise I usually use Fireworks for design stuff (yeah I know it's a bit old at this point). Was schooled in Photoshop and all of the Adobe suite programs but I find they're a bit bloated with regard to what I need. Feel like Fireworks really nailed the essentials. Works for bitmap and vector and anything really, it's so versatile considering how simple it is, only thing I really miss there is the magnetic lasso and smoothing (which is why I turn to Flash for little things like these).

How about you? What be your tools of the trade?

Looks cool to me. :-)

That sounds cool to me. :)

So you've decided to have your exp end in 4 now?

Oh! Hadn't noticed that. No special intention there though, I've just been collecting the maximum amounts each day and that's how it turned out. :) A six would be more me though...

Rotten like a wisdom tooth of Winston Smith, and there's a lot of truth in that downfall, Mrs Pauline Otten. Just because it was years ago, didn't mean we'd all forgotten her outcome. Nietz never forgets, he's like an elephant in the room. Wouldn't he be better off in a zoo? Why? More room to roam, than in a Roman fort called Bremetennacum. Join the Rotary Club. That's one way to open doors. No, wait a minute... that's what the chauffeur's for. For Nie, life's not even worth getting off the sofa for. Fuck yoga, where's the soda? Where's the sugar gone from this fuckin' cola? He's just a regular sort of dude. Health and wellbeing, screw that, no interest, I just want to see the weight accrue, coz eventually every wrestler gets fat, the biggest leveller is that we're all bound for the slab. So let's just revel in being, human. Just be you, man, and don't let anyone else tell you what to do. Except now, when I'm telling you what to do. Sick of these devil's advocates, and the 7 Catholic sacraments. Sick of what's seen as sacrilege. Cause friction by talking smack about most religions, and fictitious scriptures, all rewritten. Parceled and packaged with a brand new bow and ribbon. But luckily, nowadays, noone listens. Too busy jizzing off, so addicted. Souls are twisted and tortured, unable to resist this force, a conflicted, collision course, upcoming. I'm happy to eat a fricassée and watch the bullets ricochet, why should I reciprocate by being a prick, and cause needle? No need to. I just want to be hunted down by German women in jodhpurs on prize breed Thoroughbred racehorses. Whooosh... I guess what high say just goes over people's heads. Dermot O'Tightass. Ferg brain, third degree burns on the body of a first degree murdererererer. Playing Solitaire, alone, while holding in a solid turd. All we ever do is get together with Megan June, and eat ready-made egg and bacon for bed and breakfast every day of May. This isn't true, but for the sceptical, I would have thought you already knew why I do this. As lewd as a luge down a huge pair of lubed tits, and looped for Giphy. Winter's here and I feel nippy as fuck, but ready to sit and rip through a few verses of prose while Rise Up by Aden's Sky plays, and I write these throwaway troves like it's an everyday occurrence. Like it's a state of emergency. A sea of emerging words... disturbing scene. They say this jaywalker needs curbing, but I hate walking where there's skateboarders. Hate crime? Not me. I just ate... six Time Outs. Will I get sick? Guess we'll soon find out. But usually I never do, I feel immune to all impurities. Except when my farts start to sound like a geiger counter. More interested in counting how many ginger Borders I've consumed before I'm ready to resume from where I left off... So many unwritten chapters, Nietzlawe - Mind of an Atlas, with pages hidden under a mattress illustrating his madness. In truth, I no longer doodle or make music, just Google for nude pictures. Mentally hindered, but likely to leave more embers throughout the rest of this ember. It is time to enter the Panzer Dragoon, and not let it drag on for longer than is necessairé. Like fake Nessie pics. Now who's got the hump? Me, after finding out they pump our drinks with artificial junk. May as well be the spunk from their dicks. Sick of these health pimps, and these corrupt trannies with hidden agenders. Sick of what is and isn't offensive. One day I'll be free from all of these senses. That's what I take strength in. Knowing the end is in sight, so if they don't like this insight, join the mob at ringside and get ready for a fist fight. Coz I'll die before I cave to the censors. Go to my grave, before I ever change a sentence. Yeah...

Yo, wait a minute! That's a false finish! Now watch, as a whole new verse evolves in minutes, and involves, exhbits, revolves and enfolds without limits. Pulitzer prize? pfft... we spit on the prize... so that's a waste of that white wine spritzer. But why whine, record, and upload it to Vine? Is it because six seconds is just enough time? To depict, and prick bubbles, and inflict double the pain with half of the trouble it takes to make that insane loop in the first place? Sad what happened to Mac Miller... with the o.d... and he's not the only celebrity to succumb to that killer. He went from being a brilliant embodiment of rap, to bodybagged. Probably bodied by some jealous Jewish cabal, worshipping baal. Grand Pricks indeed. And they think I've got the devil in me? But I ain't ever meddled in lives, or got war medals for fighting or peddling lies... I just revel in life, settled inside... there's no need to treble my prize. I'm happy, content, and all the bad that happens is nonsensical trite.

The Pulitzer prize is too much buzzsaw hype, right? But this could've reached some kind of light, especially with that live or die line: prized. Limelight shine. Though don't go so low now you grown round: fight! And the devil's in all of us mane. At least in my name. Life's a feast - we live a little with each sin to stay sane, getting sinister and shamed, playing grim videogames to lash out of our bridles and chains. Thinking maybe when we finish we'll change. Life is grim but: no pain. You grow immune. Like to those bickering rivets of little goons all fiddling with autotunes. I'd rather brought a prop than Autobot. What. Scotch wash to the moon. Cheers for this here, and to the new year finishing too. Finna move. Yeah...