OF Russell the Duck...





Prone to whisper secret words, like "occulent" or "degenerative" in your ear in a room full of people in the hopes that you might not understand his depth and think him to be an "enchanting and mysterious fellow", Mr. Warner remains to be a horribly shallow and depthless prude, the likes of which one hopes to endeavour to avoid in normal public contact. Frequently his outrageous outbursts of insolent disonance have caused other writers to pretend not to know him. But he seems secretly content with this outcome, remarking only, "What is silent makes not much noise."  

 "That which is silent makes not much noise."

-Russell Warner

 "My hopes as a writer are to remain solely objective, such that I manage to do nothing but state the perfectly obvious."

-Russell Warner


HEY! I like this magazine!

Born, St. Crispus Russell Eugene Francis Warner the R-worthy, Duke of Macabre, Mr. Warner was perhaps cursed from the beginning, and forever attempted to outshine his own meticulously factuated dreariness. Over the years, he has insisted among other things that he is a pedophile, a schitzophrenic, a nostalgic, a schitzophrenic, and boring in the hopes of creating some sort of ecentric and fictitious fury of personality that might bring fame to his otherwise monotonous work.

Raised by dairy cows in Calaloo, Indiana, Warner spent the majority of his life cleaning spit off of passerbys shoes for nickels before stumbling upon the idea that "wool was worth money". Unfortunately, possessing no sheep of any kind, Warner continued to exist in a sorry doldrum until he stumbled upon his second great idea: "writing is worth money". Unfortunately, his is not. But unabated to this very day, he makes a vain attempt at it. 

FIGURE 1.2 - My Jump Page

I only met with Warner once before his posthumous demise, in a little shack behind his mother's house which she referred to as the "looney bin". She made me a batch of suckleberry muffins and we sat down and chatted about various and sundry things such as why her neighbors had no dispositions. Eventually though, we labored through an entire conversation of philosophical nicities which I can't quite recall to this day. Needless to say, I went out to the "looney bin" to check on Mr. Warner, but found him licking himself, and decided it was best not to intrude lest I be pounced on with fervor concerning how bizarre he was.

Frequently it was said by the people of his village that Warner was incredibly amused with his shoes, a thing he claimed was one of his own many marvelous and fanciful inventions. "With these," he was once heard proclaiming, "all of man could walk about without fear of bunyons, over the vast expanse that is this Mother Earth, accomplishing such things as what I shall term 'settlement' and 'colonialism'. Further, Warner was prone to stand in corners of rooms for longs lengths of times, hypnotizing them.


To his credit, Russell Warner has authored a plethora of useless literature not the least worthy of notice is a book entitled, The letter T and me, a 936 page epic in which Mr. Fitzgerald repitiously typed the letter 't' in all its various and asundry forms, fonts, and incarnations. Critics of the work deride it however as failing to unearth the true subjective nature of the letter, and note Warner's lack of creativity in failing to use amusing homonyms like the words "tea" and "tee". Warner himself responded to these criticisms once at a conference, though, stating, "My hopes as a writer are to remain solely objective, such that I manage to do nothing but state the perfectly obvious."

I think the life of Russell Warner is best summed up as the numbers 5 and 7, which, of course, is 12.


 12 & T

for more of Warner's graphics work, see also