Tuesday, July 1, 2025

HORRORTUNES Classic Toons. Public Domain Panic. Total Copyright Carnage.

HORRORTUNES

Classic Toons. Public Domain Panic. Total Copyright Carnage.

What happens when your Saturday morning cartoons get thrown headfirst into a meat grinder of slasher flicks, psychological horror, and absurdist gore?

Fred Flintstone vs. Leatherface.
Tom & Jerry trapped in Psycho.
The Jetsons lost in a cosmic hotel of madness.
Even Bugs Bunny isn’t safe when Freddy starts rewriting punchlines with a clawed hand.

HORRORTUNES is a delirious collection of unauthorized mayhem and nostalgia-driven nightmares—a darkly comedic mashup where beloved characters are dropped into horror classics they were never meant to survive.

Each episode ends the same way:
With a lawyer’s note.
And Jake being told to stop.

He never does.

🔥 1. Tom and Jerry: Psycho

“I’m not a pervert!” Norman Bates shrieked in falsetto, holding a dripping cheese knife while Jerry swung from the chandelier by a string of spaghetti.
Tom, eyes wild and pupils spiraling, slammed a motel door shut with a frying pan and screamed:
“MAMA NEEDS A VACUUM!”

Jerry calmly dropped an anvil on Norman’s head and whispered,
“Check out time, freak.”

🔥 2. The Jetsons: The Shining

George Jetson stood at the glowing space-bar, holding a laser axe and muttering to himself.
“This is fine,” he said. “The walls aren’t breathing. That’s just cosmic radiation. Jane, stop crying.”

The AI butler appeared beside him with a tray of glitching cocktails.

“Would you like another Redrum Spritz, Mr. Jetson?”

George whispered:
“I am the future. I am the ghost. I am the error code.”

Then Judy walked in, casually scrolling her holophone.
“Dad, you’re being cringe again.”

🔥 3. Foghorn Leghorn: The Omen

“I say, I say—boy, you got devil horns pokin’ out yer forehead like rooster spurs on payday.”

Lil’ Damien blinked, opened his mouth, and a choir of screaming chickens clucked backwards in Latin.

Foghorn tipped his hat. “Well I’ll be dipped in brimstone and deep-fried at a Baptist fair.”

Then the cows started chanting. The tractor wept blood.
And Foghorn muttered:
“This ain’t the cartoon I signed up for, son.”

I Refuse to Lie to Live

This is not marketing. This is survival.

I’m done lying.

I’m done pretending I’m someone softer so you’ll stick around.
I’m done pretending I’m “healing” at a pace that makes you comfortable.
I’m done pretending I’m a marketable version of trauma with just the right filter.
I’m done pretending I didn’t hurt people when I was drowning—because I did. And I own it.
But I’m not going to erase myself to earn your forgiveness.

I’ve made mistakes.
I’ve been a mess.
I’ve said things that came from places so dark I barely recognized myself.

But you know what I didn’t do?

I didn’t lie.

Not when I was manic.
Not when I was suicidal.
Not when I was begging to be seen in a world that wanted me dead or muted.

I told the truth.
Even when it made people uncomfortable.
Even when it cost me my career.
Even when people called me “creepy,” “toxic,” “too much,” “too honest.”
Especially then.

I’m not here to make you feel safe.
I’m here to write what saved me and stand in what almost killed me.

I will not apologize for being real.
I will not shrink to make room for your fantasy of who I should’ve been.
I will not repaint my past so it fits your aesthetic.

This is who I am.
This is what it costs to survive.
And I refuse to lie to live.

If that means no followers, fine.
If that means no publishers, good.
If that means I walk this road alone?

Then let it burn behind me.

I’m not here to be accepted.
I’m here to be undeniably true.

#RefuseToLie #JakeBannerman #AshAndInk #RiteOfSurvival #TruthTeller

I Refuse to Lie to Live

This is not marketing. This is

I’m done lying.

I’m done pretending I’m someone softer so you’ll stick around.
I’m done pretending I’m “healing” at a pace that makes you comfortable.
I’m done pretending I’m a marketable version of trauma with just the right filter.
I’m done pretending I didn’t hurt people when I was drowning—because I did. And I own it.
But I’m not going to erase myself to earn your forgiveness.

I’ve made mistakes.
I’ve been a mess.
I’ve said things that came from places so dark I barely recognized myself.

But you know what I didn’t do?

I didn’t lie.

Not when I was manic.
Not when I was suicidal.
Not when I was begging to be seen in a world that wanted me dead or muted.

I told the truth.
Even when it made people uncomfortable.
Even when it cost me my career.
Even when people called me “creepy,” “toxic,” “too much,” “too honest.”
Especially then.

I’m not here to make you feel safe.
I’m here to write what saved me and stand in what almost killed me.

I will not apologize for being real.
I will not shrink to make room for your fantasy of who I should’ve been.
I will not repaint my past so it fits your aesthetic.

This is who I am.
This is what it costs to survive.
And I refuse to lie to live.

If that means no followers, fine.
If that means no publishers, good.
If that means I walk this road alone?

Then let it burn behind me.

I’m not here to be accepted.
I’m here to be undeniably true.

#RefuseToLie #JakeBannerman #AshAndInk #RiteOfSurvival #TruthTeller

CELEBRITY SIN-EATERS AND CULT CROWNS

⚰️

ASH & INK FILES: CELEBRITY SIN-EATERS AND CULT CROWNS

aka: “But Jake Bannerman? Ew. Too Creepy.”

Let’s talk about who the world worships.

Let’s take a little peek into the holy temple of fame and the monsters we’re told to kneel for:

Jared Leto — cult leader cosplay in Gucci, literal predator vibes, but hey… he’s “deep.”
Ezra Miller — terrorized multiple communities like it was an art project. Still lands blockbuster roles.
Kanye West — said everything short of joining a white nationalist militia. Still has fans calling him “misunderstood genius.”
James Franco. Louis CK. Marilyn Manson.
Need we go on?

The more unhinged they get, the more we’re told to look deeper.

To see their “pain.”

To separate the art from the artist.

To forgive.

To buy more tickets.

And yet…

💀

Jake Bannerman?

“Too creepy.”

“Too intense.”

“He makes me uncomfortable.”

“He should shut up and go away.”

Why?

Because he told the truth before it was trendy.

Because he writes horror without a filter.

Because he bled onto the page instead of branding it.

Because he said “fuck your system” before it was monetizable.

Jake didn’t play the industry game.

He didn’t apologize in perfect PR language.

He didn’t market trauma as aesthetic.

He made art that screamed, “I shouldn’t still be alive, but I am, and here’s what it looks like.”

And that?

That’s unforgivable in a world that only pretends to want honesty.

They’ll rally around abusers in tuxedos.

But a raw, broken, real man with holy rage in his books?

Nah. Too creepy.

🩸 So here’s the punchline:

You’d rather support monsters in million-dollar suits

than a man who survived hell and told you what it smelled like.

You don’t want horror.

You want Halloween.

But he’s not going anywhere.

And neither am I.

Ash & Ink isn’t made for palatable shelves.

We’re made for the altar of everything you pretend not to see.

Thin Mint Apocalypse

Do You Have a Moment to Talk About Our Lord and Samoas?

By Jake Bannerman

There’s a knock at the door.

It’s polite. Rhythmic. Almost… trained.

Earl Whitmore, Vietnam vet, retired postal worker, and full-time neighborhood crank, pauses mid-sip of his lukewarm Maxwell House. The knock comes again—three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more. The cadence stirs something in him. Something military. Something… tactical.

He peeks through the blinds.

They’re back.

Three of them. No older than ten. Green sashes across their chests. Smiles like televangelists. Hair braided to perfection. Clipboards in hand. One holds a box of Thin Mints like it’s the Holy Eucharist.

Earl locks the door. “Not today, Satan,” he mutters.

One Week Earlier

It started on a Thursday. The first wave came at noon—three girls, maybe four, bright-eyed and badge-covered. Earl told them no.

He didn’t just say no—he gave a speech about consumerism, diabetes, and how this was just organized sugar-laundering for suburban warlords.

They smiled. Nodded.

Came back the next day.

Then again.

And again.

Each time, the smiles got wider. The eyes got colder.

Now

They’ve surrounded the house.

He can hear them chanting. Not loudly—softly. Sweetly. A singsong echo of childhood madness.

“Buy a box, save your soul.

Samoas make the sadness go.”

Earl reaches into the hall closet. Dusts off the duffel. Inside: flares, an old bayonet, a dozen cans of Hormel chili, and a flare gun he never returned to base. He’s not going down without a fight.

Across Town

Local authorities are stumped.

People are vanishing. Parents swear they last saw their kids arguing with Girl Scouts. Houses reek of coconut and cardboard. One man, a software engineer, was found crammed inside a giant Thin Mint box, whispering about “the Do-si-do prophet.”

A conspiracy theory subreddit—/r/CookieCult—has started gaining traction.

Back at Earl’s

The front window shatters.

A Girl Scout repels in on rope made of braided merit badges. Earl opens fire with the flare gun, sending her tumbling backward in a blaze of spark and shame.

They’re not kids. Not anymore.

They’ve evolved. Hybridized. Grown fangs beneath their smiles. One bleeds raspberry jam. Another speaks in Latin.

“Samoa est veritas,” she hisses.

Earl fights through the night. They keep coming. Boxes fly like shurikens. One bursts open, and out pours peppermint-slick sludge.

His final stand is made in the basement, armed with a Louisville slugger and a crucifix carved from stale Tagalongs.

Then—

Silence.

Epilogue

News stations report the “gas leak explosion” that leveled Earl’s home. No bodies recovered. Just melted sashes. And a single, unopened box of Thin Mints.

Nobody talks about the disappearances. The neighborhood is quiet now. Peaceful. But once a year, on cookie season’s first day, a lone box appears on each doorstep.

“We remember,” it reads.

“Do you still believe?”

Some open it.

Most don’t.

But the smart ones?

They never, ever say no.