Presented by The Art Institute of Pittsburgh

Hi, I'm Rex, I'm a dinosaur and this is my blog.


Dear Pittsburgh,

I came to the Google Day photo session only because I wanted to be a period at the end of the word Google or perhaps a part of the thing that hangs down from the second “g.”

You didn’t have to all go running off screaming like Godzilla was after you and the Mayor certainly didn’t need to call Norm up and Norm certainly didn’t need to set the tranq gun to “DECIMATE” before firing it at me.

It’s okay though.  I got Norm back.  I set my butt to “ANNIHILATE” before I [redacted by Norm] in his apartment.




Norm informed me that today is Google Day here in Pittsburgh, and so I figured that means I’m supposed to Google stuff.

So I decided to Google dinosaurs, specifically I decided to Google “dinosaurs are the best” because I figured I would find some really great dinosaur fan sites maybe being run by some really great and cute babes.

However, I didn’t get past typing “dinosaurs are” before Google decided it knew what I might want to search for:

Dinosaurs are Jesus ponies?

Dinosaurs are dragons?!

Dinosaurs are a myth? Yeah, come here and I’ll show you all the pointy myths in my mythical mouth.

Norm walked into the room as I was sending a strongly worded email  to every website that came up when I clicked on “dinosaurs are a hoax.”

Norm: Why are you banging on your keyboard so hard? And why have you destroyed my room again?  Also, have you seen my calculator watch?

Rex: Hmph.

Norm: What are you doing? You’re not sending Chachi hate mail again are you?

Rex: It’s Google Day, you said, so I’m “Googling” and I discovered that Google is prejudiced against dinosaurs because as soon as you type the word “dinosaur” into the little box, it starts spewing lies at you.  I mean, “JESUS PONIES?!” 

Norm: Oh, relax.  Try typing in “Barney is” and I think you’ll feel better.

What do you know?  I DO feel better.

I’d rather be a mythical Jesus pony than a very real, very flammable antichrist.


era: Cenozoic,Prehistoric . species: ,

I’m not saying humans are gullible. I’m SHOUTING IT.

If spending $12,000 on a watch that contains dinosaur poop isn’t your idea of high fashion, then perhaps you’ll feel more inclined to spend $140,000 on a designer watch that contains dinosaur bones.

Here’s the watch …

Do you see the dinosaur bones in there?  Right there.  See them?  Me neither.  But it gave me ANOTHER business idea.

I’m going to sell you this watch that ALSO contains dinosaur bones, and I’ll sell it to you for the low low price of $50,000:

Do you see the dinosaur bones in there?  They’re in there.  I promise.  That’ll be $50,000.

Also, if Norm asks if you’ve seen his lost watch … I don’t know anything about that.


era: Cenozoic . species:

Insanity defined.

Einstein defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Webster defines insanity as “mental derangement.”

Blor defined insanity as “boodee meechie fu ma” which roughly translates from Stupid B.C. to “setting dinosaur’s tail on fire.”

Would you like to know how I define insanity?

Paying $12,000 to wear dinosaur poop on your wrist.

Vesenaz, Switzerland-based company Artya says the watch set in fossilized feces will sell for 12,000 ($11,290) and comes with a strap made with skin from an American cane toad.

New business idea!

You come here to the school, line up, and for the low low price of only $5,000, I will tell you what time it is and then I’ll poop on your wrist.



I’m kind of a big deal.

Well, what’s this we have here?

Who is that stunning, very famous dinosaur appearing in the pages of the Trib, wearing a color so vibrant so as to bring out the eye of the tiger?

It’s Betty White!



(Don’t tell Sally!)

era: Cenozoic . species:


I finally got my WearPittsburgh shirt and it is as stunning as I knew it would be on me.

As you can see, Norm gave me a weapon with which to use on anyone that tries to climb up on me at the parade tomorrow.

You might call it “The Flag of Ireland” but I call it “Certain Death.”



Kiss me, I’m awesome and I have perfectly useful arms.

This Saturday is the Pittsburgh St. Patrick’s Day parade, and as it is for all downtown parades, I’ll have the best spot on the sidewalk to watch the action as the parade rolls right in front of me.  And this year I borrowed a camera from the Photography Department so that I can take pictures of the action.

Let’s discuss the rules again, in case you’ve forgotten:

1.  Do not sit on me.

2.  Do not climb on my back.

3.  Do not climb on my head.

4.  Do not touch my tail.

5.  Do not put anything in my mouth except carcass.

6.  Do not bring food within 30 feet of me if you don’t plan to share it with me.

7.  Do not stand in between me and any of the horses taking part in the parade.

8.  Do ignore all of these rules if you are a cute babe.

As you know, the Art Institute of Pittsburgh is partnering up with WearPittsburgh to provide three shirts you might want to wear at the parade.

Norm asked me which I wanted to wear and this is what happened:

Norm: Whaddaya think?

Me: Do you really need to ask?  A shirt that instructs cutie pies to smooch me or two shirts that don’t?  Do the math.

Norm: Math?

Me: Dinosaur plus handsome times a billion plus instructional shirt minus Sally equals lots of smooches for Rex.

Norm: That’s a hell of an equation.  I see you borrowed a camera from Photography.

Me: I’m going to take some unbelievable pictures of the parade.  You might want to clear a date at the art gallery for a showing of my photographs.  I’ll sell them for $40,000 each, easily.

Norm: Have you taken a picture with a camera ever in your life?

Me: Hmm, can’t say that I have.

Norm: I see. Why don’t you go ahead and practice on me?  Go ahead. Pick up that camera and hold it up in front of your face and click the button.  Go on.  You got it in your hands?  Got it?  Okay, now using your GIANT LONG arms, lift that camera up high enough in front of your face so you can see the view-finder.  Up. Up. This is up, that is not up.  Up. Higher. Higher.  Are you lifting, Rex?  That’s all the higher you can go?  To your throat? Do you see my point, Rex?  Don’t stomp on the camera, REX!

Dear Photography Department, about that camera you loaned me.  Yeah, I don’t know anything about that.



A one-sided conversation with Norm

Norm: “I’m back from my trip.”

Me: [glare]

Norm: “Did you have fun with Chachi?”

Me: “Hmph.”

Norm: “Silent treatment?  Mature.  It’s not like I left him with the tranq gun, and by what he wrote, it seems like you two really hit it off!”

Me: [snort]

Norm: “So he called you ‘Rexy’ all week.  It’s a term of endearment, I’m sure.”

Me: [giving the "go on" arm gesture]

Norm: “Okay, okay.  So he called you ‘Barney’ a few times.  Harmless slip of the tongue.”

Me: [soft growl]

Norm: “He did a great job; I don’t care what you say.  You weren’t tranqed.  You were fed.  And you even got to blow something up.”

Me: [louder growl]

Norm: “What?  Are you upset he destroyed you at video games all week?  Honestly, Rex, take heart.  You can’t help it if you can’t work the buttons of the controller because of your tiny  —”


Norm: “Hey, look! You’re talking to me again!” [pew pew]

I’ve decided to forgive Norm.  First because he promised he doesn’t have any trips coming up any time soon, and second, because he hooked me up with some awesome shirts to wear for the St. Patrick’s Day parade next Saturday.

As for Chachi, just letting you know that I don’t know anything about the flaming bag of dino poo on his porch.


era: Cenozoic . species: ,

Blor’s kid Blor wuz here.

When I told Norm that I was pretty sure it was Blor’s Kid Blor that left me that cryptic message a few weeks ago, it took Norm about five minutes to regain his breath what with the falling down and pointing and laughing at me.

Well, look what I found scrawled on a whiteboard in one of the school’s classrooms while I was NOT on my way to raid the culinary department:

First, this proves that I’m not paranoid.  Blor’s Kid Blor is somehow alive and he has picked up English and he is stalking me in an effort to exact revenge.

Second, the only thing Blor’s Kid Blor ever did to my butt in a cave fight was watch as it sat on his ugly face, making him really regret that I ate month-old mammoth meat that morning.

The cavemen had to invent a new word to describe the smell.