Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: The Bomar Brothers (Cult Of Vision)

Instagram: 171K Followers

Website

*We are expanding the OG: Approved section! We’ve decided to interview creators. To understand the many ways creators are pushing forward, we have to get under the hood with them one on one (or in this case one on two) and find out exactly what their goals are and how they plan to achieve them. So, without further adieu we are happy to present our first OG: Approved Interview…

When I discovered the Bomar Brothers, it wasn’t through traditional channels or a film festival. My algorithm blessed me with a video that many may misidentify as AI slop.

The title? Fluff Fiction. It’s a parody of Pulp Fiction cast entirely with Muppets. After some digging, I found that these videos were not just basic AI outputs by a couple AI whiz kids. They were marketing missiles built by two twentysomething filmmakers trying to get their names out there. When I eventually got the chance to speak to Grant and Dean, I felt like I was in the garage with Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak in the 70’s.

This story is about two young filmmakers working out how to break in. They haven’t yet, and that’s part of why it’s worth telling now. What follows is the tools they’re using and the way they read the landscape. For me, it’s just a hunch. But it feels like a new age of indie filmmaking, and the door is wider than people think.

The Bomars were homeschooled and started making shorts on their dad’s iPad at eight and ten. The family was the studio: parents producing and mentoring, kids directing. American Gothic got made in thirteen days when Grant was seventeen. The brothers are also master-rated chess players. Grant has two national titles.

The Account

Fluff Fiction drops the Muppets into the grimiest corner of nineties crime cinema, and by the brothers’ account the work has drawn notice from inside the films themselves, including a blessing from one of the actors they parody. That doesn’t mean they didn’t have second thoughts.

Grant answers with art history. Picasso could paint like an old master years before he broke a single rule. Warhol turned printmaking into mass production and called his studio the Factory. The point being that the greats learned the fundamentals, then used whatever was new. Their film heroes did the same thing.

To him, AI is what CGI was when George Lucas first bet on it.

You can take or leave the lineage they’re claiming. The operation underneath the account is harder to argue with.

A flagship episode is about twenty hours of work between two or three people. Grant handles the cut. He watches the source film, lays down the structure, then writes change notes for Dean. Dean builds whatever doesn’t exist yet. That part runs eight to twelve hours of rendering and editing, and when the tools can’t reach the image in his head, he sketches it himself or digs up references until they get there. Every episode gets a poster designed from scratch. And they release weekly, no matter what.

Grant and his father keep spreadsheets on every video. Skip rate, share rate, retention broken out second by second. It sounds like overkill until you remember studios pay testing houses real money for this. The Bomars get it off a puppet video, every week, and write it down.

A video with no visible seam gets watched two or three times before you realize it. The retention hack and the Pulp Fiction homage are the same edit.

The community work gets done by hand too. The brothers and their dad answer comments and DMs for hours a day. The account earns about enough from Meta’s monetization programs to cover the compute bill, and they keep it there on purpose. They’ll tell you the work is protected as transformative parody, that they’ve done their research. That’s their reading. The law around AI-generated derivative work hasn’t caught up far enough for anyone to check it, and they know it, which is part of why the account was never meant to be the business.

The Bomar Brothers Playbook

1. Borrow the Attention, Keep the Audience

Recognizable IP does the hook work for free. A stranger scrolling past needs no introduction when the characters show up already loved, and that buys the first three seconds, which on these platforms is most of the battle. Everything those seconds earn belongs to the Bomars, though, not the IP. The follows and DM relationships are theirs, and so are the commenters asking who’s playing which character next week. That community is the real asset, and they treat it like one. Nobody trying to scale a page efficiently would spend their hours the way these two do, and they know it. “We don’t use chatbots,” Grant says. “We write all of our followers directly.” It’s a family operation, too, and the brothers want that on the record.)

2. Every Video Is a Rep

The twenty hours an episode is doing double duty. The content is the visible half. The rest is school. Dean started out close to anti-AI and got fluent in months because the account forces daily reps in Premiere, After Effects, Photoshop, and every model they can get their hands on. The spreadsheets do the same job for storytelling. Most filmmakers guess at where an audience checks out. These two get told, in numbers, after every post.

They’re explicit that this education is earmarked for the features.

3. Final Authorship

The tools flatten everyone to the same starting point. What separates you is whatever you learned before you touched them. The Bomars learned a lot. They can draw at near-realism. They direct actors through improv, Cassavetes-style. They design their own posters and know how to structure an edit. All of it shows up in the AI work. Shots get planned on paper first, sketched out or pulled from references. Characters carry over from episode to episode on purpose, like a cast. Environments get designed, not generated. Grant talks about the tools the way he talks about improv, throw out a broad idea and work with what comes back. With one rule he won’t bend on.

That’s the gap between what they make and what the feed is drowning in. It’s why their stuff gets mistaken for original work by people who should know better. I know because I sent it to one.

4. Catching the Big Fish

Lynch wrote films by collecting scene ideas on cards until a feature assembled itself. He called it catching the big fish. Grant treats it as an instruction manual.

Every video is a scene idea getting tested on a live audience. The account is the card stack, and the poll questions and comment threads do the job a development exec used to pretend to do.

5. The Fusion

There’s no plan here to do AI content until they’ve earned the right to make real films, then drop it at the door. Nothing gets abandoned.

Dean’s reference point is Bruce Lee. Jeet Kune Do took the useful piece of every fighting style and threw the rest away. And the test case is already running. They’re remastering American Gothic with AI-assisted color and VFX, and Korey Pereira, the Emmy-winning sound designer from Stranger Things, is polishing the audio for a fall festival re-release. A film shot the old way, proven at festivals, going back out on the circuit with the new tools worked in. The whole plan, sitting in one movie.

Mid-Game

Everything above describes a position, not a victory. To their credit, the brothers know the difference.

The audience has never been tested on a Bomar original. Everyone who follows Cult of Vision signed up for the parodies. The plan is to start slipping original work in between them, stuff with the same creative DNA, until the audience’s taste comes along for the ride. It’s sensible and completely unproven. Grant expects a slight hit when the original content starts arriving. Nobody knows yet if it stays slight.

The legal foundation is a good-faith reading of fair use in a territory where the law hasn’t finished forming. A platform policy change or a studio enforcement wave could take the account down tomorrow, and it wouldn’t matter how well they’d run it. They’ve built with that in mind. The account is skills and audience. The revenue was never the point. The risk is still sitting there either way.

And a following doesn’t pay for a movie, at least not yet. Watching Katarina is half shot and waiting on a grant decision.

Their answer to all of it is the chess. Grant plays in a school built around what’s called the imbalances, the slow accumulation of small advantages across the whole board.

That’s the company doctrine, stated as a game. The festival track, the audience, the tool mastery, the school, the producer relationships, the local ties to Texas classical musicians and the UT dance departments they make dance films for. No single file wins the game. They all just improve the position. Worst case, they keep growing the audience, keep sending shorts to festivals, keep their education going at UT, and wait.

The Way Forward

I asked them at the end what they’d say to the people watching from the sidelines. And there are a lot of them right now. Writers, directors, and actors with real credits who can’t get work. Film students staring at a pipeline that no longer leads anywhere in particular.

Grant’s answer starts with the obvious part, create constantly, then gets specific. Build your mastermind group. Find the people who think like you and work like you, and develop the goal together. The lone-genius thing is mostly a story people tell after the fact. The Bomars came with theirs built in. Two brothers, their dad producing, their mom in the mix. But the principle doesn’t require sharing a last name.

Dean’s answer is the one I keep thinking about.

None of it required permission, and almost none of it required money, which makes it the oldest tradition in independent film wearing new materials. Look at what’s lying around and build with it.

Does it work? Nobody knows yet, including them. But two brothers with half a feature in the can are playing the long game in public, and I plan on checking back in on the board.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Michael Somerville

Instagram: 297K Followers

Youtube: 2.6K Subscribers

Tik Tok: 94K Followers

Who Is Michael Somerville?

Michael Somerville was making sketches for YouTube eighteen years ago, back when most comedians used the site to upload shaky clips from the back of a comedy club.

He opened his channel in 2006. By 2008, he was starring in two original web shows, Lunch Break with Somerville and Love, Somerville. He was already writing recurring formats for the internet before anyone had settled on what web comedy was supposed to look like.

Somerville started stand-up on a dare while attending Notre Dame. After graduation, he briefly worked in advertising before moving to New York and pursuing comedy full time. His career includes four appearances on The Late Show with David Letterman, several albums, years of touring, and more than 100 million views across his digital shorts.

Somerville releases three scripted sketch series each week on Instagram.

The Monday bar sketches pair Somerville with Adam Ferrara. The bar gives them a reason to keep meeting, while Ferrara and Somerville find a new way to irritate each other every Monday. Ferrara is not dropping in for a cameo. He is part of the series, and the videos rely on the rhythm between the pair.

Wednesday brings relationship sketches. Somerville has been writing about men, women, dating, and marriage for most of his career, but the newer videos come from a different stage of life. The fights are smaller, the history is longer, and both people usually know exactly which nerve they are touching.

Friday belongs to the dad sketches. Somerville has spoken about raising children while continuing to tour, and the videos stay close to the daily confusion of parenting. His dads want to look prepared, maintain authority, and get through a normal afternoon without exposing how much they are improvising.

The schedule keeps the page from feeling like a pile of unrelated reels. Monday has Ferrara at the bar, Wednesday returns to couples, and Friday goes back to the dads. He does not need one recurring character to connect the videos. The bar, relationship, and dad sketches all sound like him.

The habit goes back to Lunch Break with Somerville and Love, Somerville. Those early shows gave his comedy a form beyond the stage. Instagram offers a different screen and a faster release schedule, but Somerville is still writing recurring shows for an audience watching online.

Three Things We Love About Michael Somerville

He was making web shows before there was a playbook: Somerville was creating original online comedy in 2008, long before social video became an expected part of a comedian’s career. He kept working in the form while the platforms caught up.

The week has a real schedule: Bar sketches arrive Monday, relationship sketches Wednesday, and dad sketches Friday. Each series has its own subject, while Somerville’s point of view holds the page together.

He did not freeze the act in his thirties: The relationship jokes grew into marriage jokes, and fatherhood gave him an entirely new weekly series. Somerville kept the same comic voice without pretending his life had stayed the same.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Timothy Thatcher

Instagram: 82.4K Followers

Youtube: 38.5K Subscribers

Tik Tok: 126.4K Followers

Who Is Timothy Thatcher?

Timothy Thatcher is a Minnesota comic working across stand-up, short films, and online sketch.

His YouTube bio reads, “Sketch comedy from my buddies and I,” and the channel follows through on it. Thatcher works with a regular group of performers instead of playing every role himself. He leaves room for someone else to interrupt him, undercut the scene, or land the final joke.

His sketches pull from work, dating, friendship, and people lying to save themselves from minor embarrassment. Nobody needs an elaborate costume or a long introduction. The characters usually make their problems worse by talking longer than they should.

Thatcher performs stand-up across the West Coast, but his videos are written as scenes rather than monologues broken into camera angles. The jokes pass between people. One character starts the problem, another misunderstands it, and someone in the background realizes how badly the conversation is going before the person speaking does.

His longest-running idea on Instagram is Public Relations Co., an Instagram-native show about “the world’s premier PR firm for the publicly hated.” The agency takes on clients whose reputations are already wrecked and tries to make the disaster presentable. Every new scandal gives the staff another impossible assignment, while the same office and employees hold the series together.

His other sketches move through awkward dates, friendships, jobs, and men working too hard to look smarter or tougher than they are. Thatcher rarely pushes the characters into cartoon territory. They still believe they are behaving normally, which makes the failure easier to recognize.

His screen credits include The Mosquito Effect, Living Dead, Student Affairs, Cinco de Mayo Is Not a Thing, and the 2026 comedy series Casen Pointe: True Crime Detective (Shout out ). He continues acting in other projects while writing and directing material for his own pages.

Thatcher does not dress the sketches up much. He relies on timing, blocking, and the performers sharing the frame. Someone can enter at the wrong moment, overhear the last sentence of a lie, or sit silently while another character keeps making the situation worse.

Instagram has brought Thatcher the larger audience, while YouTube holds years of sketches in one place. Across both pages, the same group of collaborators keeps returning, and Public Relations Co. gives them a recurring world without swallowing everything else he makes..

Three Things We Love About Timothy Thatcher

Public Relations Co. has a repeatable premise: “The world’s premier PR firm for the publicly hated” can take on a new reputational disaster every episode, while the agency and its employees give the series continuity.

He writes for the entire group: Thatcher does not treat the other performers like props waiting for his punchline. The laugh can come from the person speaking, the person listening, or the person quietly realizing the conversation has gone completely sideways.

He knows how to use the room: A late entrance, a background reaction, or someone overhearing the wrong sentence can change the sketch. Thatcher does not have to cut away from the scene to find the next joke.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: CrackerMilk

Instagram: 566K Followers

Youtube: 1.8M Subscribers

Tik Tok: 280K Followers

What Is CrackerMilk?

CrackerMilk has spent more than a decade making short Australian sketches that rarely waste a second.

The channel began with Connor McDuff, a Brisbane filmmaker who started uploading videos in high school. He later attended Griffith Film School, where he made the three-part web series F**ed Fairytales as his graduate project rather than the usual standalone short. The series earned an Australian Online Video Award nomination and showed where McDuff’s attention already was. He wanted to make comedy for the internet, not use the internet as a place to store student films.

CrackerMilk’s sketches usually begin with an ordinary situation and one bad rule. The characters accept the absurdity long enough for it to escalate, and the sketch ends before everyone has time to settle into the premise. CrackerMilk does not spend thirty seconds preparing a joke the audience understood in five.

The channel gradually grew into an ensemble. Elias de Weger became one of its central writers and performers. Chris Slater’s Dad developed into one of the most durable characters. Tamara McLaughlin joined with acting credits that include independent films and Thor: Ragnarok. Lachlan “Goob” Kristofer produces the podcast and appears throughout the wider CrackerMilk world.

Viewers now follow the cast as much as the characters. The CrackerMilk Podcast regularly puts Connor, Elias, Chris, Tamara, and Goob around the same table to talk through their work, friendships, arguments, and whatever humiliation followed them into the studio that week.

The podcast has passed 120 episodes, with titles such as “Dad Takes Over the Podcast,” “How Tamara Joined CrackerMilk,” and “Goob Crashes Out.” The sketches introduce the cast through performance, while the podcast lets the audience spend time with the people underneath it.

Patreon members receive weekly exclusive sketches, uncut podcast episodes, and production material. A recent post followed the team on a writers’ retreat, giving paying fans access to the process that produces the next round of videos.

The merchandise is built around characters and references from the channel rather than a generic logo. Tamara Pigeon, Tinder Fish, Take Chair, and other inside jokes have become shirts, hats, and tote bags. Anyone outside the audience would probably be confused, which is part of the appeal.

In 2023, the team raised money and produced a 20-minute Halloween pilot directed by McDuff. Chris Slater’s Dad character anchored a longer story with more production, a larger cast, and enough time for the ensemble to share one narrative.

The operation now resembles a small Brisbane sketch studio. The channel supplies a constant stream of new ideas, the podcast strengthens the audience’s connection to the cast, Patreon supports extra production, and the pilot gives the team a longer form to pursue.

CrackerMilk did not wait for Australian television to decide whether the group deserved a show. They made one minute at a time until the longer version became possible.

Three Things We Love About CrackerMilk

The cast became the franchise: CrackerMilk began as Connor McDuff’s channel, but the audience now follows Elias, Chris, Tamara, and Goob as closely as the characters they play. The podcast made the chemistry between them part of the appeal.

They built a working sketch room on YouTube: More than 1,500 uploads do not come from waiting around for inspiration. CrackerMilk has writers, recurring performers, production roles, and a steady process for turning new premises into finished sketches.

The sketches do not disappear after the upload: Dad, Tamara Pigeon, Tinder Fish, and Take Chair keep resurfacing in podcast stories, merchandise, and longer projects. CrackerMilk has taught the audience to remember the bits instead of simply scrolling past them.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Tyler Bender

Instagram: 261K Followers

Youtube: 283K Subscribers

Tik Tok: 590.5K Followers

Who Is Tyler Bender?

Tyler Bender became nationally known by playing a version of her own mother.

In July 2022, she filmed a grocery-store video satirizing skinny moms on diets. Bender walked over to a bulk dispenser, removed a single nut, and tied it inside a little plastic sack. She expected people to find it strange and move on. Instead, viewers recognized their mothers, their childhood kitchens, and the food rules they had absorbed without anyone naming them.

The Almond Mom character became a hashtag and a national conversation about diet culture. Good Morning America covered Bender twice, and Hulu’s Impact x Nightline devoted an episode to the phenomenon. Bender appeared with her mother, Sara, and the two spoke openly about the behavior behind the parody.

Bender later turned to tradwife content. Her parodies put her in a frilly dress narrating domestic perfection while store packaging remains visible in the kitchen. She bakes fresh bread because “it’s the yeast I could do,” delivering every pun with unnerving cheerfulness.

Her longer YouTube videos separate homemaking from the ideology wrapped around it, tracing the political messages, historical fantasies, and gender rules underneath the aesthetic. Bender can play the character and then explain where the joke came from.

She grew up Mormon outside Salt Lake City and studied musical theater at the University of Utah before leaving the program. Almond Mom has her own posture, gestures, and relationship with food. The tradwife has a costume, vocal register, and fixed smile. Bender holds a character through a full scene rather than relying on a wig and one repeated line.

In 2025, she launched Tyler’s Kitschen, a YouTube show and podcast where she bakes with uneven results while talking through pop culture, internet drama, and feminism. Episodes have covered the Tea app data breach, Cracker Barrel’s logo controversy, teenage tradwives, the manosphere, and the move from girlboss culture toward domestic submission.

Her channel also includes The Content Bunker, reality television breakdowns, audience questions, and longer scripted pieces, including a Christmas musical parody and comedy involving AI girlfriends.

Her Substack covers growing up Mormon, dating, reality television, feminism, health, and her first year in Los Angeles.

The broader business runs under the On A Benderr name. She sells merchandise through Fourthwall and distributes Tyler’s Kitschen as a podcast while continuing to make the characters that introduced her.

Bender has said she wants to create and star in her own television series. She already has recurring characters, several formats, a show with its own set, scripted experiments, and an audience willing to follow her from a short parody into a researched cultural argument.

Three Things We Love About Tyler Bender

She knows the women she parodies: The Almond Mom came from behavior Bender saw inside her own family, and she sat beside her mother on national television to discuss it. The characters are exaggerated, but the recognition comes from somewhere real.

Tyler’s Kitschen has an actual format: Bender is not just talking at a camera. She is baking badly, moving around the set, and letting the recipe compete with the argument. The episode still has somewhere to go after the first joke.

She stays funny when the costume comes off: The tradwife material works as character comedy, long-form criticism, and personal writing without turning into three different versions of Tyler. The point gets sharper, but the comedy never disappears.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Tom McGovern

Instagram: 555K Followers

Youtube: 41.6K Subscribers

Tik Tok: 623.2K Followers

Who Is Tom McGovern?

Tom McGovern is a musical comedian who treats small, ridiculous premises like they deserve a full arrangement.

He is best known as one third of Wolves of Glendale, the Los Angeles comedy band with Ethan Edenburg and Eric Jackowitz. Tom plays keys and sings, and his work sits somewhere between sketch, theater, and pop songwriting. The music usually goes bigger than the premise has any right to.

Before Wolves of Glendale, McGovern was making solo comedy music in New York. He later moved to Los Angeles, reached out to Edenburg and Jackowitz, and the three wrote “Vapin’ in Vegas” the first day they were all in the same room. The band came together fast, but the fit was not random. Three musicians, one silly title, and enough craft to turn it into a song people remembered.

McGovern’s personal sketches show the smaller version of the same skill set. He does not need a complicated setup. A phrase, a type of person, an awkward mood, or one strange musical choice can carry the bit. A lot of the comedy comes from how seriously he commits to something that should not be sung with that much confidence.

Wolves of Glendale take that impulse and make it louder. The band’s songs are not sketches with instruments underneath them. They are real songs pointed at deeply unserious subjects. “The Gym”, “Loud Ass Car”, “Just Give Me Cash”, “Vapin’ in Vegas”, “Donkey On The Edge.” The titles sound like throwaways until the band gives them hooks, harmonies, structure, and enough musical force to make the premise stick.

The musicianship is not decoration. Wolves of Glendale can play, and that changes the joke. If the song were sloppy, the premise would feel cheap. If the song were too pleased with itself, the joke would collapse. The band lands in the middle: straight-faced, well-built, and committed long enough for the dumb subject to become weirdly emotional.

McGovern understands musical comedy as songwriting first. The laugh comes later because the song has already done its job.

Three Things We Love About Tom McGovern

The songs are built properly: McGovern and Wolves of Glendale do not treat the music as decoration. The hooks, arrangements, and harmonies are strong enough to make the premise last past the first laugh.

The solo sketches and the band share a brain: The personal feed and the Wolves songs both come from tiny social observations, overcommitted performance, and the pleasure of taking an unserious idea too seriously.

He brings stage muscle to internet comedy: McGovern is not only making clips. The work is built to live in rooms, with a band, an audience, and a chorus people can sing even when the subject is ridiculous.

@tommcgovern27What the f is happening here??? #fyp #musicalcomedy #sax

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Brooke Averick

Instagram: 345K Followers

Youtube: 9.3K Subscribers

Tik Tok: 1M Followers

Who Is Brooke Averick?

Brooke Averick built a career out of sounding exactly like herself.

She first broke through online as LadyEfron, making videos out of private embarrassment: childhood diaries, romantic spirals, pop-culture fixation, anxiety, delusion, and jokes that felt pulled from a group chat after one good rewrite. The feed was not just bits. It was the first place her comic voice had room to stretch.

Averick co-hosts Brooke and Connor Make a Podcast with Connor Wood, where the friendship gives the show its shape. Pop culture, dating, social anxiety, being online too much, saying the wrong thing, recovering from saying the wrong thing, then saying something worse. The podcast gave her comedy more room without cleaning it up.

She also launched Obsessed with Brooke Averick, a solo podcast about fandom, fixation, and the pleasure of caring too much. Averick does not talk about pop culture from a distance. She talks from inside the crush, inside the spiral, inside the moment when obsession becomes funny instead of embarrassing.

Her debut novel, Phoebe Berman’s Gonna Lose It, follows a nearly 30-year-old woman dealing with intimacy anxiety while trying to lose her virginity. The premise fits the material Averick has been circling for years: desire, humiliation, romance, friendship, self-awareness, and the private narration people use while making their lives harder.

Netflix is adapting the novel as a feature, with Averick attached as an executive producer. That jump makes sense because the book does not feel like a creator side project. It feels like the longer version of a comic perspective her audience already understood.

Averick did not just build an audience around being funny online. She built a voice that could leave the feed and still sound like her.

@ladyefronFeel free to use any

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Three Things We Love About Brooke Averick

The voice travels: TikTok, podcasting, solo audio, fiction, and film development all carry the same anxious, romantic, too-specific comic texture.

The book makes sense: Phoebe Berman’s Gonna Lose It is not a random creator novel. It comes from the territory Averick already owns: intimacy anxiety, romantic delusion, friendship, and embarrassment.

She knows obsession from the inside: Fandom, crushes, spirals, private logic, caring too much. Averick keeps finding comedy in the places people usually try to hide.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Daragh Twomey

Instagram: 48.7K Followers

Youtube: 2K Subscribers

Tik Tok: 638.4K Followers

Who Is Daragh Twomey?

Daragh Twomey is a Cork-based writer, director, actor, and videographer making Irish sketch comedy at internet speed.

He posts under Yer Maan on YouTube, but the project is bigger than the handle. Twomey writes, performs, directs, shoots, and edits his own work, which gives the sketches a handmade rhythm without making them feel small. His public bio calls him a writer, director, actor, videographer, and “overall silly man.” That last part explains plenty.

Twomey started making sketch comedy in 2017 after graduating from Munster Technological University with a BA in Multimedia. His site traces the habit even further back to LEGO stop-motion films in 2007, which fits the work now. Quick premise, fast escalation, clean edit, no wasted movement. The old DIY instinct is still there.

His sketches pull from absurdism, slapstick, and everyday situations that get out of hand. A normal moment takes one wrong turn, then another, and suddenly everyone is behaving like the world has already ended.

The work has a specific Irish social rhythm. Not postcard Irish. Embarrassment, impatience, politeness, and discomfort keep turning into performance. Twomey is good at characters trying to stay normal while clearly losing the room.

Twomey also works beyond the sketch feed. He started DT Wedding Films, co-founded Rua Productions, and has worked across freelance video, music videos, photography, and podcasting. The sketches move fast, but they are not careless.

His first short film, Easy Money, is in post-production and intended for the festival circuit. The sketch account feels like the place where he has been getting the reps. Writing, acting, shooting, editing, posting, learning what people respond to, then doing it again.

Daragh Twomey has been building his own comedy education in public for years, one sketch, cut, character, and bad social decision at a time.

Three Things We Love About Daragh Twomey

He controls the whole sketch: Writing, acting, directing, shooting, editing. The jokes move the way they do because Twomey is steering the premise from idea to upload.

The comedy has Cork in its bones: The sketches carry a specific Irish social rhythm: politeness turning into panic, small talk becoming warfare, and people trying to save face while making everything worse.

The sketch work is feeding the film work: Twomey is moving toward short films with Easy Money. The social comedy is not separate from that path. It is where he has been getting the reps.

@daragh2meTell us where u hid the bodies! Reupload w/ CC #sketch #sketchcomedy #comedy #actor #meme #fyp #interview #cops #mystery #2021 #work #funny #questions

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: lizardmeninc

Instagram: 1.2K Followers

Youtube: 130K Followers

Who Is lizardmeninc?

Lizardmeninc is a 21-year-old VFX artist making analog horror that feels like someone opened the wrong file on an old computer and could not close it.

His main project is Obelisk, a series of short horror films built from grainy footage, empty rooms, strange figures, fake instructional material, and the sense that the screen knows more than it should. The videos do not chase constant jump scares. They let you sit with a hallway, a distorted voice, or a room that feels ordinary until it starts to feel hostile.

A lot of analog horror uses the same VHS scratches, emergency alerts, and warped faces. Obelisk uses those tools too, but the best videos feel more directed than decorated. The camera searches. The rooms have shape. The scares come from where your eye lands and what you slowly realize is wrong.

You can feel the VFX brain behind it. Obelisk is not just a scary voice placed over old footage. The figures have weight. The spaces feel built. Even when the image breaks down, the staging feels intentional. The texture works because something underneath it has been carefully arranged.

The channel also shows how young horror filmmakers are building audiences now. A creator can release a series on YouTube, let fans pull it apart, and watch the story spread through reaction videos, Reddit threads, wiki pages, and horror communities. Obelisk fits that behavior. It gives viewers enough to follow, but not enough to relax.

Names repeat. Images return. A house becomes more than a house. A figure becomes more than a scare. The story feels less explained than discovered.

Lizardmeninc is worth watching because Obelisk still feels personal inside a crowded genre. It has the roughness of internet horror, but also the instincts of someone thinking in shots, spaces, rhythm, and reveals..

Three Things We Love About lizardmeninc

The rooms feel watched: Obelisk gets tension out of empty spaces. A hallway, a dark corner, a closed door, or a blank room can feel wrong before anything actually moves.

The VFX has restraint: The effects are not thrown at the viewer. They bend the image just enough to make the world feel unstable, like the footage is hiding something in plain sight.

The story makes viewers work: Obelisk does not explain everything up front. It drops names, images, rooms, and strange little details that make fans want to rewind, compare, and argue over what they just saw.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Delicious Rock

Instagram: 281K Followers

Youtube: 272K Followers

Tik Tok: 166.4K Followers

Who Is Delicious Rock?

Delicious Rock is a Thai rock-cover project where the band cooks the meal while playing the song.

One musician sings at the stove while another plays drums behind him. A wok flares up during a System of a Down or Linkin Park cover, and the video suddenly has two performances happening at once. The song has to hold while the food tries to survive.

The cover is not separated from the kitchen. The cooking is not a visual gag placed on top of the music. They are locked together. If the pan gets too hot, the video gets better. If the singer has to keep stirring through a chorus, the song gets funnier without being treated like a joke.

The account appears publicly as TORWAI / Delicious Rock, and the Thailand setting gives the videos a texture most cover channels do not have. This is not a clean studio cover with perfect lighting and a wall of guitars in the background. It feels more like a band practice that wandered into a kitchen and refused to stop playing.

The covers are recognizable enough to pull people in quickly. Linkin Park, System of a Down, Limp Bizkit, Spiritbox, Saosin. Songs with built-in energy, big choruses, and enough drama to survive being played next to open flame. The dish changes and the song changes, but the question remains: can they keep playing while the room starts behaving like part of the band?

Most online covers are judged on the performance alone. Delicious Rock gives the viewer another clock to watch. The snare hits, the oil jumps, the vocal comes in, the wok smokes, and nobody gets to pretend this is a controlled environment.

The videos have heat, motion, mess, timing, and risk. You can see the food moving. You can see the drummer locked in. You can see the singer working through the song while trying not to ruin dinner.

A familiar song, a live kitchen, a drummer, a flare-up. The danger, the joke, and the craft all show up in the same frame.

It is rock performance with a second instrument: the stove.

Three Things We Love About Delicious Rock

The kitchen changes the cover: The song is still the spine, but the cooking gives the performance a second pressure point. The viewer is listening for the chorus and watching the pan at the same time.

The videos feel physical: Heat, smoke, chopping, stirring, drums, vocals. Delicious Rock gives music content a sense of weight and movement that clean studio covers usually lose.

The visual hook is instant: A familiar song, a live kitchen, a drummer, and a flare-up give the viewer everything they need in one frame. You do not need to know the band, the dish, or the language to understand why the video is worth watching.

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Welcome to OG: Approved—where rule-breaking creators shape the future. Hand-picked by Open Gardens, they’re not following the playbook—they’re writing the next one.

Name: Petty Parrot

Instagram: 45K Followers

Youtube: 5.95K Followers

Tik Tok: 380K Followers

Who Is Petty Parrot?

Petty Parrot makes animated shorts for people who like their cartoons stupid, mean, and over in twenty seconds.

The public bio keeps it simple with “silly animated shorts & dumb humour,” which is a pretty accurate description of the account. Petty Parrot is not trying to build a lore-heavy animated universe or present itself as the next adult-animation franchise. It is making quick little cartoons out of bad moods, petty reactions, social embarrassment, and people who cannot let something go.

The style helps because the drawings are clean, weird, and readable at a glance. The characters have big eyes, hard stares, open mouths, and a way of landing in the exact second between understanding the situation and making it worse. The animation does not ask for patience. It hits fast, leaves fast, and usually gets more out of the face than the line.

That is where Petty Parrot separates itself from a lot of short-form animation. The account is not leaning only on randomness. The shorts have timing, and not in the polished-studio sense. It is closer to comic-strip timing, where the setup, face, beat, and collapse all happen before the viewer has time to think about scrolling away.

The creator behind it keeps a relatively low public profile. There is no big About page, no long interview trail, and no heavy personal mythology around the project. What is visible is the work and the small commerce layer around it: stickers, prints, merch, Ko-fi, and Etsy. That fits the account because the drawings already behave like reactions people would want to own. A face from a Petty Parrot short makes sense as a sticker because the expression is usually the whole joke.

That gives the project a little more shape than a funny animation account. Petty Parrot is building a small visual language around a specific internet feeling: the moment someone becomes unreasonable and kind of enjoys it.

The format is light, but the identity is clear across TikTok, Instagram, YouTube Shorts, merch, and prints. None of it requires a grand explanation. The bird is petty, the jokes are dumb, and the faces carry the attitude when the timing works.

Three Things We Love About Petty Parrot

The expressions are the engine: Petty Parrot does not need much setup because the faces do so much of the work. The stare, the pause, the overreaction, the little look of betrayal when something stupid happens. The drawing usually gets to the joke before the dialogue does.

The scale is exactly right: The shorts do not try to become episodes. A petty misunderstanding, a bad reaction, or a dumb little social spiral is enough when the timing is sharp.

It has a repeatable emotional grammar: The account keeps returning to the same tiny human failures: pride, suspicion, embarrassment, impatience, the need to be right, the inability to let a stupid moment die. That is what makes the cartoons feel connected without needing lore.

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