Sunday, December 11, 2011

Shit for Brains-- A Turd Mountain Confessional

Those who know me personally are well aware that I don’t like to talk about myself. Unless it’s about how pretty I am. Or my lightning-fast wit. Or my superior-to-all-humans-and-most-computers intellect. But aside from that brief stint in amateur porn, I’m pretty shy about revealing intimate details about my life. However since I’ve never strived for dignity on this blog, I might as well drop a dark deuce on the Turd Mountain faithful. (And on those who clicked here on accident because they searched the keywords “amateur porn + curly cucumber.” Sorry about that.)

Moving on, I’m sure none of you ever considered that the author of a blog dedicated to corny poop puns (some more kernely than others) would have a mental condition, but it’s true. A few years ago some nice people in white jackets at a resort with doors that only lock from the outside informed me that I had bipolar disorder. But honestly, who the fuck doesn’t these days? It’s pretty stylish. I consider myself a real dementia trendsetter. Anyway, a plethora of medications and some bouts of constipation and sexual dysfunction later and we get to present-day Turdopia.

Apparently a multi-month “manic” cycle causes all sorts of physical ailments as well as turning your brain into diarrhea, so my doctor put me on the HGH of depression drugs: Klonopin. (Although it seems to act more like GHB at times) This drug ate my sense of humor and crapped out a giant turd of despair, which is apparently much healthier (and less kernely). I thought all was lost for me, and then I discovered The Klonopin Chronicles.

Needless to say, I was inspired. And not the mentally-challeneged-kid-stands-up-from-wheelchair-and-crosses-finish-line inspired. That is, unless that kid fell on his retarded face. This is Turd Mountain, not the fucking Lifetime Movie Network. If you wanted that sort of inspirational story you’re in the wrong god damn place.

What I’m getting at is, my sense of humor refluxed and I started puking out crappy dick and fart jokes once again. I remembered that life is hilarious, even when it sucks the most.  In fact that’s usually when it’s the most funny. When you turn into a blubbering ball of hopelessness because your cat looked at you strangely, you have to laugh about it. Or call the vet, he might have glaucoma. And if he does, then maybe they’ll prescribe him some wickedly green catnip. Then you can watch Mr. Snuggles take medicinal bong rips, and if you don’t laugh then throw some dirt on yourself because you’re already fucking dead.

So, I take Klonopin now. And as intended I’m hopelessly depressed. But I’m still the Queen of Turd Mountain and will be until the day they flush me down for good. If you don’t hear from me for a bit I might just be having a bad month. Or, more likely, I’m doing bong rips with my cat. But rest assured that no matter what sort of pharmaceutical hell they put me through I will always stand strong against hair feathers, bumper stickers, and John Mayer; all while rooting for the retarded kid to fall flat on his face just short of the finish line. What I'm saying is whether I'm manic or depressed, I'll always be a hateful bitch with a fondness for feces. And that's all.

Thanks for reading. Dicks.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Quit Airing Your Shit on Your Rear End

Aside from your home (and possibly your yearly allowance of hookers), you probably spend the bulk of your hard-earned cash on your vehicle. The tool you use to get from point A to point B. A shiny (or rusty) hunk of metal that allows you to exercise your God-given right to destroy the planet while simultaneously sticking your nose up at those dirty hippie bicyclists taking up all your god damn pavement. And if you’re a total fuckwad, you probably wallpaper said vehicle with douchey bumper stickers.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the funny bumper stickers. I remember one magical Christmas where I gave my dad a flimsy piece of adhesive-y paper that eloquently stated, “My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student.” He smiled, hugged me, wiped a tear from his eye….. and then used it for a fucking bookmark because there was no way he was sticking that garbage to his car.

There's political bumper stickers; now there’s a surefire way to convey to the world that you’re a fucking dolt. Guess what jackass, no one cares that you voted Kerry-Edwards in ’04 – we’re glad you’re proud to have been the only one, but give it a rest already. If you’re politically involved enough to advertise which colon crud of a candidate you support on your vehicle, then you should realize there are many even more unbalanced whack jobs out there than you. In fact one was just thinking about letting you get away with cutting them off back by Mile Marker 12, but when they saw that you voted for the OTHER guy they saw it fitting to shoot you in the god damn face. And you had it coming, for being such an uppity asshead. Like anyone was driving to the polls on that one glorious Election Day you forever soiled your car’s ass end for, clueless as to what feces flinger they were going to vote for, and then it happened—they got behind you on the highway and had a moment of clarity. Yes! I’m going to vote for THAT guy! It’s like that Buick just told me too!

Get over yourself, dickhead. There’s a reason voting is anonymous; no one cares who you vote for. No one even cares if you vote. No one wants to hear you talk about it and DEFINITELY no one wants to read about it as they’re stuck behind your pompous ass in rush hour traffic.

Then there’s the uber-religious rear-end reverends. I can deal with the fish symbols; especially since some clever asshole started adding feet to them and putting the word DARWIN in the middle. It’s THIS one I can’t handle:

How Christian of you! You’re zealous enough to think that God might just rip you from the fabric of the universe at any damn minute because you’re so awesome, but you’re willing to risk turning your car into an unmanned weapon of mass destruction just so you can make it to yoga class? What if your driverless Datsun crashes into an orphanage of unbaptized special needs children? Well what the fuck do you care, you’re already in heaven. And you can pull off a downward facing dog like nobody’s business.

Facing downward to HELL at all those “left behind” to feel the wrath of your death machine!

But the political and religious petroleum-powered propaganda isn’t what bothers me the most. No, it’s the cryptic letters. You know the type… They’re circular, white, with nonsensical black letters. What do they mean? I doubt even the hipsters who bought the raggedy things know. But I can tell you every time I see one I get real close, as close as I possibly can, and then I zone out to try to reach a state of meditation that will make it all crystal clear. Most times that results in a collision, but hey, put senseless abbreviations on the back of your car and you’re asking for it, pal. If you want to send a message, spell it out! Nothing says “I’m a dung donkey” like spending money to advertise a message that no one understands. Oh you’re sooo artsy driving your blue Dodge Neon. Well I’m going to get one of those stickers too, it’s going to say F U, and if you can’t figure it out come real close and I’ll explain it to you with the back of my hand.

In conclusion, if your car is worth more than the $3 you would spend on a shitty bumper sticker, don’t do it. Besides, we already judge what level of shithead you are based on the make, model, and color of the vehicle you drive; don’t make it even easier, it takes all the fun out of it. Dick.

[This post is dedicated to Dave Warner. Your Turd Mountain Honoree bumper sticker is in the mail.]

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Be a Negative Dick -- It Could Save Your Life.

This was part of a pitch that got rejected by Cracked. Therefore I am regurgitating it all over you fucks. Since it was written for an audience of more than six, it presents actual facts and isn’t littered with toilet humor. I apologize for that.
Negativity Bias as a Survival Mechanism (aka Pessimists Don’t Get Eaten by the Sabre Tooth Tiger)- 

You may think that Negative Nancy at your office is a just a crotchety old bitch, but perhaps she is truly a wonder of evolution.
Scientists theorize that negative thinking evolved as a protection mechanism. If the upright-walking monkeys didn’t consider every horrible thing that could happen to them on the way to the watering hole, chances are a giant bird would swoop in and eat them while they frolicked gaily through the meadow. And their grumpy asshead of a cavemate would see the whole scene as he safely hid behind a rock, laughing his disgruntled dick off.
A tendency to dwell on the negative was crucial to survival when we were cave people, and has carried over into our modern day pea brains. Eeyoring around and pissing on everyone’s happy fun time is way better than becoming lunch for a grizzly bear.
                Our minds instinctively weigh losses over gains, con’s over pro’s, suspect douchebaggery in every sugary sweet smile. We respond more to negative stimuli than positive, therefore that douchebag that cut you off in traffic alters your frame of mind more than that pushover that kindly reminded you that you left your baby on top of the car. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway, parent of the year??
                As you can see, reacting positively in any situation is unnatural and way too fucking hard. Now go eat shit and die.

PS - (I added the "Eat shit and die" part just for you guys--You're welcome.)

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

New Gig.

Do you love Turd Mountain, but wish the subject matter was more newsworthy and not riddled with poop puns? Well then you probably don't even like Turd Mountain, because pointless feces jokes are kind of our niche. But, you should check this new site out. First article compliments of yours pooply.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Turd Mountain Drops a Deuce

My second Cracked article, written with the fantastically hilarious (and creepily intelligent) Monte Richard. I hope you poopstains like it!

And if you're visiting from and you like what you see, "like" Turd Mountain on Facebook to stay updated on all the pertinent poop! If you're more the Twitter type, well, you can read my thoughts on that here.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

My Diarrhea Diaper is Cuter than Yours.

If you use a social network-- whether to stay in touch with friends and family or to scout out potential victims-- you’ve probably seen a post like this one:

ProudMommy99: Vote for my embryo in the cutest zygote contest!!! If Junior gets the most votes I might hold off on that partial birth abortion after all! Please follow this link and remember to vote every day! Junior’s life depends on it! XOXO

                Now I joined Facebook for the noblest of reasons; to spy on past lovers and to drunkenly message people I barely knew in grade school, ranting belligerently about how we just MUST get together. I can accept using social networking to shamelessly promote yourself, it would be stupid not to. (Which reminds me, have you “liked” the official Turd Mountain page on Facebook yet? Stay up to date on all of the pertinent poop by clicking HERE!) But using the internet to enter your infant in a virtual beauty contest? That’s where I draw a line in the kitty litter.
                People who enter their kids in this shit are one spray tan away from being a crazy pageant mom on Toddlers & Tiaras (which I only know about from watching The Soup--I promise). They justify the pimping of their offspring with, “Oh, but it’s only to win a photo shoot!” Well in a few years when Junior is grinding on some grease ball in “The Champagne Room” I’m sure she’ll be using the same logic… “Oh, it’s only to win a crack rock!” 
                When did it become socially acceptable (and encouraged, judging on the sheer number of these fucking posts I see every week) to fill our kids’ heads with the notion that if they’re beautiful and popular, things will just be given to them in life? I firmly believe children should have to wait to learn this sad life lesson the same way previous generations have; in the junior high cafeteria.
                Call me an exploitation excrementer (it’s like a party pooper, except the party favors being handed out are kids’ self-esteem. Shut up, it’ll catch on.) But I simply cannot “vote” for one child over another in a looks-only contest. All children are equally precious in their innocence and unwavering trust.  I will not contribute to passing the notion of beauty equaling self-worth to the next generation of bullies and self-mutilators. Besides, I know my kid’s WAY cuter than any of those snot-nosed little brats.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Who’s Shitting in my Serenity Stable–Part Deux

Welcome to the second installment of the first recurring topic of this shitscape I call a blog. You may recall the inspiration for the first dung dropping under this heading was no other than the King Dick himself Tim Allen. God I hate him and his stupid overly-soothing, adjective-happy, tourism-pimping voice. (Look who’s complaining about adjectives, the chick who has the thesaurus opened to “fecal matter” all the time. At least it’s a noun)

Despite being a total Dick, Santa the Tool-Man Clause is not the only person I find to be a Pure Moron. (No I’m not an idiot when it comes to capitalization, read this and it will all make sense) Next on my shit list is none other than the trifling, tweet-happy twit John Mayer.

Having grown up in Suburbia, I’m perfectly capable of ignoring any pasty white jackass with an acoustic guitar. However, years and years of exposure to this moron have caused irreparable damage to my ears as well as my bowels.

Have you listened to the lyrics of these manure melodies? If you can get yourself past the suicide-provoking instrumentals, you’ll hear shit like:

“Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too”

Parenting advice from the same jackoff who tweets shit like, “I am the new generation of masturbator, I’ve seen it all. Before I make coffee, I’ve seen more butt holes than a proctologist does in a week…” to the world. Hearing this makes me want to beat my daughter, just to piss John Mayer off.

Do you think any man was just seconds from beating/molesting/walking out on his kid, heard this song, and had a change of heart? Listen to the rest of the song, where Douchebag Supreme reveals that he only wants fathers to be so super to their daughters so that he can fuck the shit out of them later without added baggage. Classy. A real eye-opener. Just think deadbeat dads, John Mayer could impregnate your daughter and you could be RICH, BEEYOTCH! Better stick around and see how that all plays out! For fuck’s sake. Shut up John, if we want advice on how to make our foreheads bigger or grow a creepy mustache we’ll let you know.

And then you have his sexual reputation. As in, he’s good in bed. REALLY good. (allegedly). I find this to be even more reason to hate him, because I want to believe such a vile human being suffers from dick rot or at the bare minimum crippling impotence. But no, his libido is world renowned. Fuck. This means he probably has kids (daughters) all over the world that he’s neglecting, that probably inherited most of his dunderhead genes, and within fifty years we’ll be living on the real life movie set of Idiocracy. (“Welcome to Costco, I love you.")

I’ve also heard that Mayer, or at least his dick, is a white supremacist. I choose not to elaborate on this, because I’d hate to see a libel case against this stool sample of a blog. Everything else I’ve reported is an indisputable fact. Or an opinion of a delusional drunkard. Either way, court protected. Bitches.

And that is all I have to spew at you tonight, my fine minions. But if you need me, you know where to find me. I’ll just be sitting here waiting, (waiting), waiting on the world to change….

Monday, August 15, 2011

Update THIS.

                Anyone who knows me (or has read this blog) knows that I’m technologically retarded. So this next rant, to any educated person, is going to sound even more whiny and dunderheaded than normal. I apologize now for my stupidity, though I feel my imbecilic rage is justified.
                Despite being a techtard, I (obviously) use computers every day. When I’m not feverishly fingering my keyboard, I have my so-called “smart” phone attached to my hip. (I’d HATE to miss an important email from my Nigerian prince, forcing him to give all his riches to someone else closer to the keys)
                But every time I turn on one of these “convenience” items, there’s some sort of god damn mandatory, critical, do-it-right-fucking-now-or-the-world-will-end SOFTWARE UPDATE.  Every fucking time.
                I understand that technology is evolving at a crazy fast pace. I get that. But I don’t recall Mother Nature requiring us to click “OK” and “Restart” when she introduced us to opposable thumbs and cleaner alternatives to feces-flinging, and those were WAY bigger deals than any of this petty bullshit.
                Every day I update something. And NEVER have I noticed a difference in how ANYTHING worked post-update. I think it’s a government conspiracy, much like the one to steal our feet. More on that another time, shhhhhh, they know I’m on to them.
                These never-ending enhancements don’t seem to stop my phone or computer from being obsolete once it’s six months old, so what the fuck is the point?
                I hereby vow to never update anything, ever again. New version of Adobe? No thanks. Update to navigation app? Eat shit, I’ll take my chances that the bridge is still standing.  Critical upgrade to Windows 7? Go fuck yourself, Microsoft. In fact I’m going to find my old Windows 95 disc and try that puppy on for size. Perhaps I’ll dust off the 2400 modem and start using dial-up from a rotary phone. That’ll show you progress-pimping mother fuckers.
                That’s all I have to excrete for today. Oh, and some of you have expressed that you’re having issues loading Turd Mountain. You may need a critical spyware antivirus browser cookie cache update. You should check into that, I hear it’s important.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Riding My Own Coattails -- An Exercise in Laziness

So throughout the development of that silly little Cracked article I can't shut up about, there was a lot of back and forth with editorial on what studies/evidence worked and what didn't. One of the segments that got axed quite early in the process was the one that actually inspired the piece to begin with.

Like the educated piece of excrement that I am, I was browsing The New York Times online when I came across this article:      (You don't have to read it, I've just always wanted to add a link to NY Times on this blog centered around poop.) I was amazed at just how fucking hard modern psychology was making it to be happy, therefore inspiring me to make fun of the whole concept in general.

While the genius editors at Cracked certainly know best, I thought the segment would be a perfect fit for a dung heap like this blog. Plus, it's already written, so I don't have to do any real work. Unless you count cutting and pasting, which was only truly hard in kindergarten. Even then the only true challenge was resisting the urge to eat that deliciously fragrant (and chunky!) glue-like substance. But I digress. Here it is in all it's glory, the segment not good enough to make the final cut on a REAL website, but deemed just right to fertilize the green pastures of Turd Mountain:

Reason #1: They're raising the bar.
                So you walk around smiling, humming to yourself, and you are generally content with your life. Guess what? That’s not enough. It’s not up to you to decide you’re happy, that’s what we have psychologists for. And they say you’re full of shit.
                Dr. Martin Seligman, president of the American Psychological Association and expert bubble-burster, has redefined what it means to be happy and it is a hard combination to crack.
                Seligman, who apparently doesn’t get enough kicks making shit up for a living, also created an acronym to measure happiness. P.E.R.M.A. – positive emotion, engagement (the feeling of being lost in a task), relationships, meaning, and accomplishment.  He says that all these requirements must be met to experience true happiness.
                That’s right, now before you smile you have to run through a checklist in your head using a ROY G BIV device to remember what the fuck you’re checking for.
                Dr. Poopie Pants also states that “life satisfaction” is NOT an indication of happiness. “Life satisfaction essentially measures cheerful moods, so it is not entitled to a central place in any theory that aims to be more than a happiology,” he states in his new book Flourish, clearly making a mockery of both cheerful people and the English language.
                So how does Seligman propose we get our happy on? He recommends that on top of building meaningful relationships with others and our environment that we set happiness goals for ourselves and monitor progress, actually tracking the time spent working towards these goals. Yes, we’re serious.
                Before you go grab your notepad and pencil, we suggest you read on to understand just how hopeless this pipedream of happiness really is.

<cue rest of article you've already read, because I've crammed it down your throat 40000 times this week>

So there you have it, the precursor to my first published work and my laziest blog entry EVER all rolled into one. Thanks for reading!

Monday, August 8, 2011

Turd Mountain Takeover!

My first Cracked article ran today, hope you fuckers enjoy it!

On a delayed side note, Turd Mountain also has a Facebook page! *Like* it to stay updated on the latest in pertinent poop.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Speling is Soooo Last Sentury!

                I don’t think many could dispute that typing and reading have replaced talking and listening in today’s world. Thanks to technological advances, mutant contagious diseases, and a society-wide disdain for actual human contact, face-to-face dialogue is basically obsolete. Plus, it’s much less confrontational to ignore someone by simply not reading a message than to stick your fingers in your ears and hum loudly until they stop fucking talking. Don’t worry; the anti-talking trend isn’t the part that bothers me. I hate having to wear pants to angrily debate politics and sports just as much as the next person. Of course in pre-internet days it was much harder to find a complete asshole stranger who wanted to argue about nothing, but I digress.      
                My point is your image now comes from your typing. And some of you fuckwads look like window-licking dolts every time your fingers hit the keys.
                I’m not talking about your basic typos. Remember that stupid email going around for a while, citing some probably imaginary study showing that as long as the first and last letter of a word were in the correct spot most people could read even the most mangled of sentences? Well bullshit study or not, I could read every sutipd wrod of taht tinhg. What’s defecating on my disposition right now is people who CAN’T FUCKING SPELL.
                Either we have a pandemic of undiagnosed downs syndrome in this country, or we just never realized how stupid some people were until we gave them a computer and an email address. Come on, I can’t think of one fucking computer program or social network site that does not have a built-in spell check. Which means when you type something that doesn’t even remotely resemble a word, a RED SQUIGGLY LINE immediately underlines it. If it’s somewhat close to an actual idiom, it even delicately suggests to the moron at the keys how to correct their lingual homicide. But apparently these dunderheads were too busy pissing their pants in second grade when a red line was introduced as an indication that something was incorrect and not a symbol of praise for how insightful they are.
                When reading your typing, people are imagining you talking. And here’s how some of you fuckers look:

And then there are those who CAN spell, but to fit in with the rest of the artards on the interwebs they purposely use “text talk,” or repeat the last letter of a word 5 times. Unless you’re under the age of 16 or Rain Man, this is unacceptableeeee. See? Looks fucking stupid.

                I feel the need to reiterate, I *love* that we’ve reached a point where we no longer have to talk to each other in person.  Not to mention if it weren’t for our great advancements in antisocialism I would never be able to unleash my childish rage for millions to read. (And for the three of you that do actually read this, I thank you.) But please, PLEASE, watch for those scarlet squigglies. You may think appearing uneducated is cute, but it really just makes you look like a duck*.

*Sorry, should’ve said DICK.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Time to Flush that Bowel Ballad Once and For All!

                Since no one has offered to pay me to rant about stupid shit that no one cares about (YET!), I’m forced to work a crappy job. Like most crappy jobs, I’m stuck enduring an annoying, monotonous radio station the entire day. You know the kind, they advertise playing the very best of 80’s, 90’s, and NOW! Translation: They dig in the sewer that is the last three decades in adult contemporary music and pull out the turds that still float.
                While I could pick on each and every one of these earturds, the one that’s defecating on my delightful demeanor (sarcasm through alliteration – I am truly a literary pioneer) the most right now is Prince’s 1983 smash hit 1999.
                Don’t get me wrong, I *LOVE* Prince. Like 98% of women and 86% of men* I am wildly attracted to the sexy beast. I mean, how they crammed that much sex appeal into a melodious little midget is truly amazing. But this song, 1999, needs to do what most good 80’s tunes did a long time ago, and that’s die a stinky death.
                In the 80’s the song had a cool, futuristic vibe to it. In the late 90’s it was retro. Now it sounds like a Cabbage Patch Kid being butt raped by a G.I. Joe with a Rubik’s cube. (One of the special edition talking Cabbage Patch Kids. Shut up, those were the first 80’s novelties that came to my mind)
                The song lyrics implied that the world was going to end in 2000, and probably led to the Y2K panic. Hey, Prince is not only sexy, he’s smart enough to fuck a record label over by changing his name to a stupid symbol. Who’s to say he can’t be a doomsday prophet as well?
                So you can see where my main problem with the song lies – it’s 2011. And we’re still here. And they’re still fucking playing the song. Every god damn day. You don’t see people flocking to that jackoff who predicted the false rapture last Spring, now do you? Who, you say? Exactly.
                I’m thinking Prince needs to do a remix, for 2011. The world is going to end in 2012 anyway when the Mayans return on their spaceship and infect us all with AIDS and terminal bird flu. The plot has already been set in motion with the emergence of the cock feather hair accessory (See, I CAN link these stupid blog entries somehow). Your hairdresser didn’t tell you that the avian flu cells are seeping into your bloodstream through your scalp now, did they? But I digress.
                Kanye West should be in on the remix. I mean, if the world is truly going to end in 2012, I’m sure that fucker is involved somehow.
                While we’re at it, let’s just remake ALL the stupid songs of that era. “Video Killed the Radio Star” could have the sequel “Orange Tarts from New Jersey Killed the Video Star, Causing All Remaining Video Star Fans to Pile into an STD-Filled Bus to Compete for the Has-Been’s Love.” It’s a working title.
                All I’m saying is with the extensive catalog of Prince’s music, combined with the climate crisis being one of the biggest issues of the day; couldn’t they just play Purple Rain? And I’m sure the doves still have plenty, if not more, to cry about.
                But even though I fly into a fit of uncontrollable rage whenever I hear 1999, at least it’s not Taylor Swift or Katy Perry. Or for fuck’s sake Tim Allen.

*DISCLAIMER: I do not do actual research. Ever.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Pure Poopery: Who's Shitting in my Serenity Stable Now?!?!?

                Welcome to Turd Mountain’s latest (and first) recurring segment, assuming I feel like doing it again: Who’s Shitting in my Serenity Stable NOW?!?!?
                I realize pretty much every entry in this blog, except the ill-received Ode to Cheap Vodka, has been about things that bug me. And nothing bugs me more than people. The difference with this segment is I am singling people out. Not just ‘girls who were cock feathers on their heads’ or ‘people who use the pound sign a lot’ – No, I’ve got one target in mind and one target only.
                Who, you may ask, is on my nerves enough to dedicate a whole section of a crappy blog to ridiculing? Those who know me are probably assuming it’s Taylor Swift or Katy Perry, and you’d be right about the fact that those dumb twats annoy the living crap out of me, but I refuse to learn enough about either one of them to go beyond the “she’s annoying” complaint. And that would make a boring blog.
                So of all the evil everywhere I will tell you who I’ve selected to make my first meadow muffin: None other than Tim Fucking Allen.
                Yes, Tim Allen. The tool man. FUCK him. I HATE him.
                First of all, his birth name was Timothy Allen Dick. Yes, DICK. He legally changed his name, dropping the DICK off the end. I’m sorry but any self-proclaimed comedian who doesn’t recognize the comedy gold that is being named a DICK from birth doesn’t deserve our attention.
                Then, we turn to his line of work. Home Improvement. What a flaming bag of excrement that show was. The only likable character on the whole damn thing was the wise old neighbor, whose superior intelligence was displayed not by his kind advice but by his intuitive decision of not allowing his face to be fully shown.
                Then we have The Santa Clause. Where Tim Allen DICK turns into a fat old man in an hour and a half. Big deal, so did most of the audience who sat through that shit show.
                I’ll be honest, I can’t think of anything else he did. Until now. We’re up to the peanut that broke the turd’s back, the PURE MICHIGAN ads.
                If you don’t live in Michigan, you may not be familiar with these stupid things. They are radio and TV commercials, narrated by TIM DICK, that are trying to drum up tourism business for the mitten of misery known as Michigan.
                The first problem, they play these fuckers every 5 minutes in Michigan. IN MICHIGAN. No wonder our tourism income is in decline, we are advertising to all the people that are ALREADY HERE.
                The next problem, they sound like this:

                Oooh looks like SOMEONE got their thesaurus out and saw how many adjectives for “awesome” they could fit into a 60 second commercial! And the music… GOD the MUSIC! Horrific, really. And the subject matter – in this example, Alpena. Even those of us that have lived in Michigan our entire lives have no idea where the fuck Alpena is.
                I’ve even heard one of these suckers mention Flint.  C’mon people, Gary, Indiana might be the butthole of the western world  but Flint, Michigan is definitely the taint.               
                I know Tim Allen didn’t write or do the god awful sound editing on these shitstain commercials, but it’s his voice that is going to land me locked in a padded room screaming about the serenity of the blue waters of Alpena. What Michigan, was he the only pseudo-star from here that you could get to answer the phone? Was Madonna too busy stealing orphans from third world countries again?          
                Tim you must have had SOME sort of a creative say in this crap. Couldn’t you at least do a couple of your Tool-man grunts in the middle just to break up the tranquility a little bit????
                Anyway as many of you suspect I have written my own Pure Michigan commercial, but since I know even less than the real fuckwads about sound editing it will have to wait for another time, another post. In the meantime if you’re feeling stressed, you should really check out Alpena. Some ear worm in the back of my brain keeps telling me it’s AWESOME this time of year.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Bird Brains!

Perhaps it’s just the miniscule drop of Native American blood I have running through my primarily Dutch-Irish veins (enough to be dubbed “Pocahontas” in high school, not enough for free college/casino royalties), but whenever I see a chick with a feather in her hair I grapple with the desire to pin the bitch down and scalp her Little Bighorn style.
So why are women all of a sudden busting a nut over putting cock feathers in their hair???? (They come from roosters people, therefore “cock feathers” is appropriate-busting a nut is debatable, but it’s a figure of speech and this is my damn blog).
Now I’m all about freedom of expression. While I’m inkless myself I love a good tattoo. I admire a good body piercing. But don’t be surprised if you walk up to me with a feather in your goddamn hair and I ruffle my own wings at you and start clucking like a rabid chicken on acid.
Do you realize what the primary use of these feathers was before you started pinning them to your fake-n-bake orange melanoma scalp? Fly fishing. Yes, your hair can now double as fishing tackle in case the mass murderer who is attracted to such a morbid fetish runs out of night crawlers but still has your head lying around. (Perhaps he’s not a morning person – see English is Stupid entry in this blog. <shameless plug>)    
Let’s not forget how disgusting birds are. They had a whole flu epidemic named after them a couple of years ago for Christ’s sake. Now we wear their butt hair on own our heads like they’re the crown jewel of the frickin’ animal kingdom??? Can I start wearing a pig scrotum necklace then?? Or a rat penis bracelet?
Hairstylists are raving that you can “eat, sleep, and shower!” with these stupid feathers attached to your skull. Yeah you know who else does all that with feathers on? Nasty ass dumpster birds that feed on the 3-day old raccoon carcass on the side of the highway. How glamorous. What’s next, maggot earrings??
Just remember before you sodder that ass flower to your head: It may have come from a cock, but it just makes you look like a dick.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Turds

So you’ve picked a side in the bombastic battle of the social networks, and now you’ve got the most important decision of your life looming over you: your profile picture. What the rest of the world will see every time you post intriguing tidbits such as what you had for dinner or what your weekend plans involve.  I’ve compiled a list of the most common credibility-killing pitfalls to steer clear of in order to achieve profile-pic-perfection. 

#1- Fish Lips. This seems to be a growing trend among 18-35 year old females, where the subject has their lips puckered up in such a way they are either preparing to passionately kiss an orangutan or have just eaten a lemon sprinkled with chunks of rancid milk. Apparently, their mothers never issued the warning: “If you keep making that face it will freeze that way.” It’s tragic, really. Good luck trying to make an insightful point about the tyranny of oil wars while looking like Big Mouth Billy Bass.

#2-The Standing-In-Front-Of-A-Mirror-Holding-The-Camera Picture. Nothing says “all my friends live on the interwebs” like this pose. Really, you couldn’t get ONE PERSON to hold the camera and take your stupid picture? Plus it’s usually a man with his shirt off and boxers rising 4 inches above his jeans, or a scantily clad chick striking a pseudo-sexy stance– implying the subject is too modest to have someone else take such a risqué photo of them but then proceeding to post it on the internet for all casual acquaintances to gawk at.

#3- The Extreme Close-Up. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the pores in your forehead are like those ground-level basement half-windows that you purposely don’t clean the cobwebs off of so that you can successfully hide from the outside world all the filthy, nasty shit you leave down there because it’s too large for your trash bin, so you’re saving it to baffle future archaeologists. In other words, it’s gross. Don’t do it.

#4- The “Spontaneous” Sexy Shot. So you just HAPPENED to be straddling a banister or sprawled out on a playground slide when your friend happened by with a camera.  Oops! You’re just soooo wild and unpredictable! Trust me, everyone knows there’s 30 outtakes stored on your hard drive, cut the bullshit. Plus do you really think your former babysitter, your cousin’s wife, or for fuck’s sake your MOTHER that you’re Facebook friends with seriously want to stare at your camel toe every time you comment about the “CRAZY weather we’re having?!?!”  Keep that shit to yourself.

                 Now that you know what NOT to do, I will leave you with some examples from my own faux pas-free Facebook page.  I strive for dignity and class at all times, as you can see. That’s why I’m allowed to stand on this soap box. They don’t let just ANYONE have a blog you know. I mean, you also have to have an email address.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Facebook Fury Spell Check Outtake

I found this worth learning how to take a screen shot for....

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Twitter Twits

                In the beginning, Al Gore created the internet and then some nerd that hung out with Justin Timberlake invented social networking. People joined ONE site and then mercilessly ridiculed the others. It was like West Side Story, lame as hell and more time was spent flamboyantly prancing around than actually fighting. You had the Facebook Jets versus the Twitter Sharks; and of course the MySpace Pink Ladies from Grease—annoying, ugly, and irrelevant.
                I aligned with Facebook, and thus my hatred for Twitter was born. No, I’ve never used Twitter. Nor have I ever made an effort to understand it. And it is my God-given right (and responsibility) as an American to loathe and make fun of anything I don’t understand.
                I do know that people use Twitter to cyber-stalk celebrities, which sounds to me like one of the saddest, most pathetic pastimes a person could engage in. I mean if you want to read the pointless ramblings of a moron brunette named Kim with a huge ass, just follow this blog.
                This blind hatred was just fine for me, but then the unthinkable happened. Twitter started infiltrating Facebook. WITH THIS: #.
                A pound sign. I refuse to call it anything else. “Hashtag” sounds like a game we would’ve played in high school if we had been granted recess time. Just typing it gives me cotton mouth.
                Suddenly that little devilish symbol is everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I don’t get it, and I don’t like it. I can’t even play tic-tac-toe anymore without breaking into a cold sweat.
                Then there’s the ultimate in shameless encroachment. People are updating their facebook statuses VIA TWITTER. What???? Are you that fucking important that you need to use two different social networking outlets, but not clever enough to come up with more than one coherent thought to post?
                Using both Facebook and Twitter is like leading a double life, with a different spouse and different kids in a different state. Why would you want your Oklahoma family to read what you’re doing with your East Coast hussy?  
                So please, PLEASE, re-segregate social networking sites. I need Twitter out of my life. Let’s cuff our jeans and snap our fingers in unison to show how tough we are.
                I’ll leave you with this: #FuckTwitter

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Facebook Fury

I fucking HATE cookie cutter facebook statuses. You know the kind; they say something stupid/obvious/ignorant, followed by “97% of people won’t repost this!” like the 13-year-old that started the lame ass thing was a statistician. And they ALWAYS end with “Copy and paste if you agree,” so when you DON’T bombard your friends with the same message they’ve already read from 130 other people it implies that you HATE starving children, or cancer patients, or whatever the fuck the original post was about. You know why 97% won’t repost? BECAUSE IT’S STUPID.
Like this one:
Stupid cancer... we all wish to have a new lose weight...a person who has cancer only wants one fight their cancer...i know that 97% of you guys won't put this on your wall...but 3% of my friends will....Put it on your wall in honor of someone who died from cancer or who's fighting against it now.
Yes, cancer is evil. But how does this post help anyone??? Unless you enjoy being accused of being a selfish dick because you’re healthy, this post is worthless.  Second, people who have cancer are still people.  Of course they want a cure, who the fuck doesn’t? But to imply that they don’t have other wishes as well is just plain naïve. I know when my dad was sick he still wished the Lions would win a Superbowl.  Of course a cure for cancer is probably more realistic.
But that one’s not even the worst. It’s the MOM ones.  It goes something like, “I don’t care that I’m fat, flabby, exhausted, and malnourished because I’m a MOM and I’m so lucky, blah blah blah.” Oh shut the fuck up already! Yes, having a child is amazing, and the love you feel for your child is incomprehensible to those who haven’t experienced it for themselves. But get off your fucking high horse and admit the truth- 97%  of the time (for some reason that number is just in my head) parenting sucks!
I want to hear from the REAL moms out there.  Cut the fluff. Of course you love your kids, but don’t try to pretend that you enjoy looking like you get beaten with an ugly stick every morning. And that you just LOVE having back fat, stretch marks, and a social life circling the drain. Tell the truth—you blame your little darlings for it. At least a little.
Don’t even act like you don’t lock yourself in the bathroom on a weekly basis to keep from murdering your offspring. Kids are a giant pain in the ass, and all parents suffer some form of mom/dad guilt on a daily basis anyway, don’t make it worse by ramming a bullshit I’m-so-perfect-even-my-kids-diarrhea-diapers-don’t-stink status down our throats.
If you really want to capture the essence of parenting in 420 characters or less, choose something like: “I've been shit on, puked on, screamed at and assaulted by a small human that used to live in my body and caused irreparable damage on the way out. Because of him/her I will never grace the cover of the Swimsuit Edition, get a full night's sleep, or eat a hot meal. But if anyone tried to harm a hair on that little shit's head I will murder them with my own hands. I'm a MOM.”
If you found this guide to mass-statusing helpful, go ahead and share it with your friends. I bet 97% of you won’t.  Fuckers.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

English is stupid.

We have these phrases, PROVERBS, stupid cliches, whatever you want to call them. They don't make any fucking sense!!! The one that is bothering me the most lately (as in the last half hour) is "The early bird gets the worm." We've all had this stupid saying beaten into our heads since the first time we overslept for kindergarten. But have you ever stopped to think about it?

Obviously, I get the analogy. If you wake up early you're more likely to accomplish more, all your wildest dreams will come true, blah blah blah. Don't be lazy. I get it. I'm even alright with the fact that our hopes and dreams are being represented as slimy, cylindrical organisms that drag themselves through the dirt. That's all fine and dandy. But I apparently see things way too literally.

For one, we all know those "early birds." They are only out on Sunday morning, when we've had waaaaay too many tequila shots the night before and those stupid fucking birds are just singing their stupid little heads off. And their "song" sounds like a fucking bullhorn on steroids. My sister and I once noted that their call, if listened to closely, sounds like it's saying "Fuck YOU! Fuck YOU! Fuck, fuck, fuck YOOOOOUU!"

Second, I'm no Ted Nugent but I've been fishing a time or two. And I know that the best worms for fishing are called NIGHT-CRAWLERS. Because you catch them at NIGHT. Because they are active at NIGHT. They eat Cheeto's and watch porn like the rest of us normal people do at night. And then they SLEEP IN. Therefore, what the early bird is actually catching are the socially awkward, nerdy, nothing-better-to-do-on-a-Friday-night worms. Well fuck that, you can have those worms. I want the NIGHT-CRAWLERS.

So, if my vision of success is a worm, I want it to be the Le Bron James of worms. Because those early risers...... well, they look a lot like the Wal-Mart surveillance camera footage at 5 AM on Black Friday -- a bunch of fucktards fighting over crap.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Flushing Mothers Day Down the Drain

I'm thinking Mothers Day needs to be revamped. Instead of bombarding our mothers with cards, balloons, flowers, and the plethora of reasons we're thankful for them (existence, for one) why don't we give them the one thing all mothers, old and young, truly crave -- to NOT be mothers for a day.

Sure being a mother is great and all, but from the moment that naked poop machine does the slip-n-slide down the birth canal and a woman is labeled a mother, she loses her identity. Her individuality. She's a mom, like 40 billion other women and 15 million men around the world. (Please note - I don't do actual research. previous numbers were plucked directly from my ass.)

I propose we rename the Hallmark holiday as "National Women Can Do Whatever The Fuck They Want With Complete Disregard For Their Offspring Day." Sure the cards might need to be a little larger to accommodate the title, but it's a small price to pay to honor those who were so generous with their abdominal space for nine months.

So, what does the chick formerly known as Mom do on National Women Can Do Whatever The Fuck They Want With Complete Disregard For Their Offspring Day? Whatever the fuck they want! Children MUST be taken from the premises-- shut up dads, it's not OUR fault you waste your free time watching Nascar or fiddling in the garage with a car everyone knows will never run again.

No kids allowed on N.W.C.D.W.T.F.T.W.W.C.D.F.T.O. Day. In fact men should probably be banned from bars and other public places of celebration as well -- without you turds EVERY day would be do whatever the fuck we want day.

Children must be kept the hell away from us on the day following the used-to-be-Mothers-Day holiday as well. Women shouldn't have to say, "Oh I shouldn't of had that last Jaeger bomb because I have to wake up to change Juniors diarrhea diaper at 5 a.m." Eff that! Women should feel free (yet socially obligated) to get completely shit-faced without consequences on N.W.C.D. what-the-fuck-ever Day.

So a bunch of liberated, drunk, carefree women hanging out without their men and children dragging them down -- how will this inevitably end???

With passing their stupid baby photos around to all their drunk friends as they sob uncontrollably about how much they miss their little brats.