Thursday, December 20, 2012

Laying Down Some Yule Log


Yeah I realize that shit started weeks ago, shut up. For some reason the Bible-thumpers seem to be bugging my bowels even more than usual this year. I don’t know who smoked a bunch of frankincense and dreamed up the imaginary “War on Christmas,” but this heated, yet one-sided argument (I've yet to see someone get all militant against the use of the C-word. Well, THIS particular C-word, anyway) but here’s my take on the annual December debate: Happy Holidays vs Merry Christmas.

First of all, those of us that acknowledge the little ball we cruise around the sun on is over 6000 years old are also aware that this holiday was celebrated long before baby Jesus ever pooped in a camel-pelt Pamper. But don’t try telling that to the Nazareth Nazis. And don’t worry; it’s safe to call them that as they obviously hate Jewish people.

But regardless of your religious beliefs or lack thereof, isn't it nice to hear people say “Happy Holidays!” or “Merry Christmas!” as opposed to the “Fuck you, Shitface!” that you’re accustomed to the other 11 months of the year? I mean, pretty much all versions of the December holidays boil down to spreading joy, goodwill to all, and clogging the crapper at your grandparents’ house after you shovel massive amounts of your weird uncle’s Festivus chili into your facehole.

For once I’m going to get to my point quickly: I’m not a Christian. I say “Merry Christmas.” But mainly so no uppity asswad jumps down my throat about the whole keeping-whoever in- whatever thing. That shit’s annoying.

So I’ll wrap this up (a non-poop related pun!), as I still have 4000 cookies to bake and 800 presents to shove in a bag with a piece of wadded up tissue paper… after all, ‘Tis the Season! That is, the season to be a frazzled, familied-out fucktard for weeks on end. All I really wanted to get out here was that regardless of what or if you celebrate, you should definitely buy the brand spanking new short story collection Crappy Shorts: Deuces Wild. It was released this week and features a fecally fabulous short story by yours pooply—the master of shitty segues.

The editor of the collection refers to me as a “prolific if not infamous blogger,” which proves two things: #1) He doesn’t follow this blog, and #2) Hahaha I said number two. My contribution is pretty much Turd Mountain: The Fiction Edition. But fear not, there are also seven other stories written by REAL writers, so you’ll get your $1.99 worth somehow. But probably not to prop up your lopsided table, because it’s an e-book. Unless you want to use your laptop, smartphone, or Kindle for that, but then it doesn’t seem like such a good value. But, I digress.

Anyway, there’s my sales pitch. And with five shopping days left ‘til you-know-what, there’s only one thing left to say: Fuck you, shitfaces.

Merry Christmas. And shit.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Confessions of a Meat Eater.

Of all the content I’ve crapped on throughout the life of this brainless little blog, the thing that received the greatest backlash of butthurtedness (shut up, it’s a word) was my jab at the internet's love affair with bacon. People are apparently quite passionate about their pork products.  Now don’t get me wrong, like any good American most of my hopes and dreams are wrapped in bacon. But Bacongate has brought to the forefront a bitch that needs to be pitched: fucking vegans.

I have a lot of friends that are vegans. At least I did, before posting this rant. I also have a lot of friends that eat cheese smothered steak every hour on the hour and then wash it down with a glass of baby seal’s blood, while wearing the pelts of a hundred puppies and kicking kittens in their itty bitty throats.  My point is I don’t give a feathered fuck what you do or don’t eat… as long as you don’t tell me what to cram in my own face hole.

And that’s where the problem lies with veganism. Apparently a diet deficient in meat and dairy causes a person to preach pompously at anyone who picks up a pork chop. Vegans are an awful lot like uber Christians; both are always spewing their scruples in your face at every opportunity... the main difference being that vegans manage to make valid points.

I wholefartedly believe that vegans, in general, are not only physically healthier but more environmentally and socially conscious individuals than us animal-eating assholes. No one can dispute that the factory farms that us meat munching morons depend on to give us our fried flesh fix are contributing heavily to the destruction of the planet… not to mention filling our bloated bodies with toxins. Delicious, juicy, falling-off-the-bone toxins.

I do care about the Earth. I don’t give much of a shit for the people on it, but I don’t want the whole planet to implode just because we were dicks to it. And I care about my own health (a little) and that of my family. I love animals and could fill a fucking ark with all of the pets I've adopted or rescued. Most of the meat I buy comes from a small, single-family operated local farm. I do what I can to cut down on energy usage and waste. I reduce, reuse, recycle, and whatever the fuck else that starts with “R” I can to try to limit the amount of filth that infiltrates the atmosphere. But all it takes is one uppity Facebook post from a vegan and suddenly my BLT is sodomizing Mother Earth… and apparently she’s not into that.

Then there’s the outspoken celebrity support. Joaquin Phoenix, really? I’d kick him out of the Clean Colon Club if I was a vegan. It’s hard to take any movement seriously with his ridiculous ass at the helm. I’d rather take dietary advice from Jeffrey Dahmer.

Please note: This is Phoenix, not Dahmer.

And how come they have to refer to every dish they eat as being vegan? We get it, you don’t eat animal products. You don’t have to tell me you’re eating vegan cookies, or vegan soup. I don’t refer to my double cheeseburger as a murder sandwich. I tried to cook from a vegan recipe once, but when I didn’t even know what half of the ingredients were or where the hell I would find them I gave up and snapped into a Slim Jim.

But seriously, despite my name-calling, incessant bitching, and spewing of alliterative anger I have nothing but respect for vegans. What I can’t stand is the immense guilt I feel when I’m around them. Their ideals are admirable and unwavering.  So why don’t I convert if I love them so much? One word: cheese.

You hear people say that their bodies are 70% water… well mine is 90% cheddar. I think I could give up steak, eggs, and even bacon (fuck, I’m going to be crucified by the meat-eating masses for that again). But take my cheese curds away and I’m likely to cut your face off and serve it with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

In conclusion, vegans—I love you. Keep saving the world, one broccoli floret at a time. But please, PLEASE, shut the fuck up already! It's not like your shit doesn't stink. 

Wait, does it stink?

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Poop Culture: The Shit That’s In

Have you ever felt like a dick because you’re unfamiliar with the latest fad? Does the rock you live under not get MTV? Does your eleven-year-old niece school you at every family gathering on what’s hip and what’s not? (FYI: “Hip” is now considered an extremely lame way to describe something that is, in fact, hip.)

Well you’re in luck. At Turd Mountain, we aim to educate as well as entertain. Mostly because we've failed miserably at the whole “entertain” thing.  And WE keep calling OURSELVES “we,” when there is actually only one of US. But, WE’RE digressing.

Because I’m too cool for school (Translation: I dropped out) I’ve decided to put together a quick reference guide for the not-so-trendy turds among us.

#1: Instagram. This is an app that can be used to share as well as add effects to photographs. Unfortunately, it only works for bathroom self-portraits and meal plate still lifes, two photo trends that were in danger of dying out if it weren’t for an optional sepia tone, intentional blurring, and a solid framed border. Sure it might seem stupid, but I assure you scrambled eggs have never looked so sexy.

#2: Gangnam Style. A song/music video by South Korean rapper PSY that has gone viral and won’t fucking die. There needs to be a separate penalty flag in the NFL for players celebrating in the end zone by reenacting the retarded bow-legged, constipated-cowboy dance. While seeming to actually be a parody of itself, Gangnam Style has still spawned several nerd-worthy imitations that outshine the original.

#3: Internet Memes. Those occasionally hilarious (but usually annoying) cleverly captioned pictures plastered all over the interwebs. Yes, I’m guilty for contributing to this annoying trend. But being an insatiable attention whore with a blog fan page where only 5% or less of the followers read the fucking blog, I have to get my “like” fix somehow.

#4: Bacon. Don’t crucify me just yet; I like bacon, I really do. But it appears that the pork industry is the #1 owner of Facebook stock. Seriously, if people actually ate as much bacon as they claim to on the internet, we’d have an obesity epidemic and heart disease would be running rampant. Nevermind. I guess this one’s legit. But this bacon obsession is accomplishing something I never thought possible: making vegans seem less annoying.

#5: Honey Boo Boo. I’m not sure what exactly this thing is, but it’s terrifying. I believe she’s the reason behind the evacuations on the East Coast.

#6: Adam Levine. Apparently this is some guy who sings songs about moving like a geriatric rock star that crushes others’ dreams of stardom on one of the million American Idol spinoff shows. I guess people like him because he’s cute, which I suppose he is in a you’d-better-wear-a-garbage-bag-because-this-skeevy-bastard-appears-to-be-crawling-with-STDs kind of way.

There. Now you’re up to date on everything that’s important today. And fear not; the overwhelming urge to stick your head in the toilet for all eternity is perfectly normal. Just make sure you take a picture via Instagram and use the Rise filter... it will give your bathroom that golden glow it’s always needed.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Review THIS, Bitches!

I realize I’m a little late to the Amazon review process bashing party, but it’s alright; I’m not a REAL writer, I just play one on the internet. Plus, I abandoned this dung heap of a blog a month and a half ago and no one noticed, so obviously the jury wasn’t hung up while waiting for me to weigh in on the issue. Assheads. Anyway, guess what? Both of you loyal readers are going to sit there and read my opinion anyway.

Background: Some self-published writer(s) have been accused of begging, bribing, or even buying positive reviews for their books on to make their own shit rise on the site’s popularity charts... therefore exposing their excrement to  more readers, buyers, potential reviewers, blah blah blah. I know; I’m bored too.

First of all, who actually consults book reviews before reading? It’s not like your dropping twenty grand on a new car and need to know just how toasty your ass will get from the heated seats. In my morose little mind even a crappy book is better than stupid reality TV, so I pay little attention to ratings. I take my friends’ recommendations, but as with most issues I don’t give a flatulent fuck about what asshole strangers think. If I’m looking for a great vacuum cleaner to get that deep down dirt and dander, I’ll consult consumer reviews. For the words I scan with my eyeballs and process in my tiny pee (and poop) brain I can manage to make my own decisions.

Second, who actually (and honestly) leaves these reviews on every single thing they read? I mean, I welcome any opportunity to shove my opinion up someone else’s ass and still I've only crapped out a couple of critiques on that wasteland of a website that uses up so much of my time and money… and they've been on works by friends. That might make me an asshole, but in my defense I always use a different alias and never tell the writer of said story that I even left a review. (I’d hate for my friends to know I actually like them.) Also I've never lied. Well there was this one time, but I deleted it immediately. It felt dirty, even for a crap-catapulting potty mouth such as yours pooply.

Third, writing a review SUCKS. There’s nothing better to remind an aspiring writer that they haven’t amounted to a clump of kitty crap in the sandbox of the literary landscape than criticizing the end result of someone else’s blood, sweat, and tears. Well mostly just tears. Most of us writer types lead pretty sedentary lifestyles and sweat as little as humanly possible. And we tend to pass out at the sight of our own blood, so we avoid that as well. But we do cry a lot. And I mean A LOT.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is…… have you checked out my new column on It’s called Kimmy Karnage's Turds of Terror, and in it I do nothing but review films. <le sigh>

Oh, and while I don’t have a date yet, supposedly someday soon I’ll be making my fiction debut in an anthology that will be sold exclusively on Amazon, so when I do please buy it and review the shit out of it. Thanks!


Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Shit Hits the Fan... Fiction

So I've been really busy being a lazy turd lately (which can be extremely fucking exhausting), but I didn't want either of my fecally faithful readers to think I'd gone to the great sewer in the sky or some crap like that. So, as opposed to taking the time to poop out some new nonsensical rant that no one gives two shits about, I've decided to post some old thing I wrote that no one will give two shits about.

There are two things I'm extremely nerdy about: Star Trek and the NFL. As for everything else I'm just a dork--socially inept and generally awkward without any sort of quirky intelligence to fall back on. Way back last winter when I was still enrolled in college, before I gave up hope that my cranial cavity was filled with anything other than dung droppings, I had the assignment of writing a piece using a character's voice other than my own. The assignment happened to fall in the two week window between the end of playoffs and the actual Superbowl, so logically there was only one way to approach it.

Please keep in mind that this was written while drunk (as are most standard blog posts, at least that part remains consistent) and was not proofread before posting, as that would take valuable time and totally defeat the purpose of posting this old crap so that I can return to the Dee-shaped indent on my couch.

Plus, what better way to kick off the 2012 NFL Season (tonight!!!) than with what is probably the most poorly written piece of fan fiction ever? Don't answer that. Asshole.

Anyway, without further Adoo-doo, here it is, in all its horribly corny glory.

Kicking It With Captain Kirk

               “Captain’s Log: Stardate, 9522.6. We have traveled back in time to Earth date 2.5.12 after receiving a distress call from Belichick, a Federation Patriot from Earth’s glorious past. He claims to be from England... when it was... new. He fears the second major defeat is imminent for his army… which is courageously battling the Giants from York, also apparently a recently established territory. It seems these mighty Giants sent them reeling four years ago, and the Federation Patriots have been rebuilding their tattered army. But now, a second battle is looming and Belichick fears that… if defeated again… the Federation is in serious danger of total collapse. I must now report to the Enterprise control room to prepare for Mission: Defeat the Giants.
                This is Captain James T. Kirk, signing off for now.”
* * *

                I enter the command room at the same time as my first officer, Spock.
                “Captain, we’ve been researching these Patriots and Giants,” he says, nodding at Sulu. “These battles aren’t logical.”
                I perch myself behind my mighty Captain’s chair and direct my attention to the video screen, where ancient footage shows what appears to be a violent skirmish between two gaudily decorated armies, on an antiquated grassy battlefield painted with white numbers and parallel lines. On both ends of this strange battlefield stand bright yellow posts, looming like obnoxious Y’s. The men on the screen fight over some oblong object that's difficult to make out. Our WiFi's been on the fritz ever since we emerged from the time warp. I keep forgetting to call Mr. Scott about that. On the screen thousands of observers surround the battlefield-- painted even more ridiculously bright than the warriors-- waving towels and chanting obscenities.
                “It’s even worse than I thought!” I mutter as I slam my fist on the back of my chair.  Some say I have a penchant for the overdramatic. “These primitive beings may be hard to communicate with. They don’t even possess weapons! Other than those yellow flags, and only the striped men are garnished with those.”
                “With all due respect Captain,” Spock says, “This appears to be some sort of game. There is too much visual data stored on Federation servers to assume these are a primitive race of humans.”
                I shake my head. “No, this Belichick said he is a Federation Patriot and he needs our help. Starfleet Command has ordered us, and we will see to it that these Giants are destroyed. The future of the Federation may depend upon it.”
                “But Captain,” Sulu begins, “We’ve studied these Giants. They’re most formidable opponents only wore cheese as protective headgear.”
                “Well then, we will be sure to bring extra crackers,” I say, and begin my signature stare-into-the- cosmos-until-everyone-gets-bored-and-walks-away trick. Works every time.
* * *

                “Beam us down, Scotty,” I order as we bump the primitive shack known as the International Space Station out of orbit. Spock, Sulu and I sit poised and ready for whatever challenge the Giants would present.
                We are beamed in front of the battlefield in Indianapolis, Indiana. I can’t believe the seemingly positive attention given to what would most surely be a bloody, gruesome battle. There are flashing lights, colorful confetti… and the smell of beer and grilled meat is unlike any war scene I have ever encountered, on any planet. The excitement surrounding this looming war is so thick no one seems to notice three men from the future materializing out of nowhere. As we try to enter the battlefield arena a citizen hassles us for some sort of ticket, but Spock gives him the Vulcan nerve pinch and we begin sifting through the crowd.
                Using an advanced sweat detector, Sulu leads us discretely through a back hallway until we arrive at a door labeled “Patriots Locker Room.” We enter and immediately I am taken aback by the stench of body odor that seems to seep from the cold, stone walls.  But soon I recognize the gray hooded sweatshirt of our distress signaler.
                I approach and extend my hand, “Patriot Belichick, Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. We have come from the future to help you beat these….” I pause as I look around, noticing all the men dressing for battle around me are enormous in stature. “Giants."
                “Great! I added you to the roster. I wasn’t sure if you were coming or not, but I like to keep those fuckers at ESPN on their toes!” Belichick says, slapping me on the back. “Now suit up.”
                As he tosses me one of those silly battle jerseys, I brave a glance back at Spock and Sulu. They are both shaking their heads at me... Sulu mouthing the words “no way.” But, who was I to judge the customs of an archaic society? It was Federation rules to not attempt to alter the culture of any race we encountered. I begin to disrobe from my Captain’s uniform and suit up in our forefather’s battle gear.
* * *

                The battle became at times intense, and then lulled during what was referred to as a “TV time out”. I found it odd that they decided who attacked first based on the flip of a coin, but it’s not my place to pass judgments. The magical object of everyone’s desire turned out to be an oblong brown leathery device that turned to a useless rock whenever the striped men blew their whistles. Very strange battle customs, indeed.
                The noise of the spectators became deafening at times. A giant neon board showed the “score” of the battle, and sometimes what they called a Kiss-Cam. While unfamiliar with such barbaric, and quite frankly unproductive, war tactics I found myself consumed by the roar of the crowd and the smell of sweat and nacho cheese swirling all around me.
                Battle was divided into four quarters, and after three the Giants were rated two points higher than my Patriots. Now as the fourth quarter winds down, a stunned silence fills the arena as our team hero, Rob Gronkowski, goes down hard. While not dead, he has hurt his ankle, which is apparently a big deal for this kind of combat.
                “GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!!!!” I cry out emphatically. I see Spock and Sulu exchange a glance and roll their eyes.
                Suddenly Belichick turns toward me. “It’s 4th and 13 from their 30. Our field goal kicker took a hard one to the nuts earlier when I threw him in on a punt return. Can you kick this field goal?”
                I stare at the Y-shaped yellow post. He needs me to kick the mystical oval between the arches; it will win the battle. I find myself consumed with a longing to take part in this ritualistic combat… to be a hero…. to beat the Giants. I want--
                Suddenly Belichick punches me hard in the arm. “Can you do it or not, fuck nuts?”
                “Only if Sulu spikes, and Spock holds.” I reply. And then, for effect: “Only... if... Spock.... holds.”
                “No prob,” Belichick says and slaps me again, this time on the back. I lurch forward. “He’s not on the roster, but no one will notice his pointy ears under a helmet.” He sends a demanding glare to his sidekick Brady, who lowers his head as he removes his helmet and jersey and hands them to Spock. Sulu emerges with gear of his own and we gaily march onto the battlefield.
                It’s time.
                Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. First I hear Sulu mutter, “Ohhh myyyyy” as he snaps the... ball, I guess they call it. I watch Spock pluck it from the air and carefully lower it to the ground, laces out—he said later that was the only logical way. I run toward him, using advanced meditation techniques to allow myself to only see the ball and the goal posts… effectively ignoring the bloodthirsty Giants sprinting at me. I let my foot connect with the mystical entity just as I had been instructed. Its flight is long and magical; end over end, right through the center of the goal posts.
                It…. was…. good.
                I hear the spectators erupt with ear-shattering cheers and jeers. I stand proudly in the field, receiving accolades from my fellow Patriots as they trot away. I stay behind, smiling at the yellow posts and admiring my own foot strength,  as a striped man saunters up and tells me to “get the hell off the field.” As I walk off the fake grass I realize I am leaving a hero. The Patriots would end up victorious that night, and my foot was destined to receive a prestigious award they call MVP.  
* * *     

“Captain’s Log: Star Date, same--only much later. Scotty beamed us back and our cool foam fingers survived the journey. The Federation Patriots reigned victorious; although that rascal Belichick admitted later he had sent distress signals all over the galaxy and space-time continuum, in the hopes that someone would show up to save his doomed team. But I believe we changed the course of the universe forever tonight, with one strike of the foot.
                This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise... and Superbowl XLVI MVP... signing off.”

**Spock/Belichick image via The Sports Hero
Blame Kimmy Dee for the rest of this atrocity.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Twitter Shits All Over Shark Week

First off, I hate TV. That is, live TV. I prefer to get into a series via Netflix four years after it’s been cancelled and then try to strike up conversations around the water cooler (or toilet tank) about it as though it’s relevant. There are few exceptions to the Kimmy “wait until it’s stale as shit” rule, and they are The Walking Dead, NCAA/NFL football, and motherfuckin’ Shark Week.

Closing ceremonies of the Olympics were doubly grand for me this year.  First, it meant the crappy ass Olympics were finally done. Second, and most importantly, it meant Shark Week would be kicking off. (And no, I didn’t watch the closing ceremonies, but maybe I’ll catch in on the History Channel in 50 years.)

So there I was: in my pajamas, surrounded by cats, under six blankets, moderately buzzed, and ready to watch some sweatpants-soiling shark action. And then… it happened. <cue Jaws music>

As a great white shark breeched gloriously from the sea, something in the bottom left corner of the TV tore my eyes away from the awe-inspiring beauty of mother nature’s most perfect killing machine.

So I paraphrased a bit, shut up. You get the gist. 

And it lasted the whole show. Every tweet was plucked directly from the pooper of cyber society; not a single clever quip among them. I know my hatred for Twitter is well documented, but even if I embraced the trend and became a disciple of my favorite dickheads that can spit mad wit using 140 characters or less I’m sure I’d still be pretty pissed off. Shark Week is sacred, people; and showcasing shittily-worded live tweets while a majestic great white shark turns a blubbery seal into a giant ball of fish feces is fucking blasphemous.

But fear not fecal fanatics; I've got a plan. From here on, anyone who engages in live tweeting during a TV program will be forced to sit on a hashtag-shaped raft crafted of raw fish flesh floating off the shore of Seal Island. I'm still looking for volunteers to help enforce this Mandate Against Morons, if you'd like to sign up please join the Poop Army on Facebook (because we totally keep it classy on the old FB, yo.)

So, still got that brilliant blurb you're just dying like a deformed baby seal to tweet?


Sunday, July 29, 2012

The Olympics: Shitting on the World’s Stage.

I hate the stupid Olympics.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s refreshing to see countries trying to assert their dominance over one another without dropping bombs on poor people and all. But come on… these events suck harder than an airplane toilet on steroids.

What boring old bastard reached up his butthole and pulled out badminton as an acceptable standard for judging a country’s worth? Table tennis? That’s the kind of crap you play when you’re drunk in your weird uncle’s basement during the holidays, not base your sense of national pride upon.

And no, I haven’t watched (nor do I plan to watch) a second of this global display of flag-waving, chest pounding dullness—but being American I feel no shame in spouting off about shit I know nothing about. We teach this crap in our public schools, under the No Child Unable to Talk From Their Behind Act. Or at least we did, until we cut off funding for those little snot-nosed shitheads. Good thing MTV was there to pick up the slack and teach our kids how to give birth and do Jagerbombs. Take that, future! But lo and behold, I’ve digressed.

The Opening Ceremonies can make a fun drinking game. Just take a shot every time you’ve heard of a country that’s introduced. But do not EVER under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES attempt to flip the rules and drink when you haven’t heard of the nation marching in; most of us Statesiders would die of alcohol poisoning before they even roll out Burkina Faso.

So how about some events we (and by we, I of course mean me--no one actually reads this shit) could actually sink our asses into? Ladies and gentleman, try to contain your excitement (and excrement): I present to you, the Toilet Bowlympics!

For the men’s portion of the games, all we really need is sword fighting. Not that boring ass fencing bullshit; participants will pull out their penises and settle who the big man is once and for all. Just imagine the fun that could be had at the medal ceremony! No prosthetics allowed though – sorry Marky Mark.

As for the women, we’ll start with some good old fashioned mud wrestling. Nothing says “country-wide camaraderie” quite like a bunch of grimy girls rolling around in a pit of filth.

To modernize the games, we should also sprinkle in some shit that’s popular now. Extreme couponing is getting pretty big… how about we just set a bunch of bitches loose in Wal-Mart and let them fight to the death over the “Buy 1, Get 1 Free” bags of Doritos?

You’re probably thinking I’m going to suggest a crapping contest, but I’m not quite as crude as you think. However, I think “synchronized shitting” could be artistic and tasteful.

The only existing event that should stay is gymnastics, but with a minor adjustment to scoring. I propose we introduce the Rip-Ass Rule: An automatic 2-point score addition for sticking a landing whilst farting. Of course, shitting one’s pants would result in disqualification. No one wants to see that shit. I thought about suggesting adding a pole dancing routine to this event, but since most of these girls look about 13 years old I think we’d better stick to flipping and farting.

So, Olympic Committee – get on it! I’m hoping for a much more excrementally exciting 2016. Although even with my proposed changes I’m sure I’d still ignore the global calamity in favor of sixteen straight days of soft porn. What? I like the story lines. Shut up. 


Sunday, July 22, 2012

Update On Some Old Shit.

Before we begin I should warn you this post is all about me. I know; I’m bored already too. But we can do this; I have faith in us. So let’s strap on our rubber boots and soldier through the sewage of my life together, shall we?

As I’ve mentioned before I've been doing the whole crappy college thing. My 4.0 GPA managed to survive my last shitfest of a semester (I’m sure you were all on pins and needles) but I left a big question mark on whether I would drag my whiny ass back in the fall.

Before the winter semester ended I decided (while on the toilet, of course) to spend my summer writing and flooding publications with my freshly shat stories. Between my glamorous gig as a customer service bitch and teaching a toddler to wipe her own ass I figured I had only enough time to spend on one more thing, and I had to choose between writing and school. Or sleeping, but I gave up on the whole notion of beauty rest years ago. Giant purple bags under the eyes make a person seem more interesting. And unapproachable, which is the style I strive for every day. I get along a lot better with other people if they don’t fucking talk to me. But I digress.

I’ve endured enough dung drawings on the walls of public restrooms to realize that shit doesn’t always go according to plan.

The majority of my summer of self-discovery thus far has been spent curled up in the fecal position in the black bottom of the bipolar bidet, yet somehow I’ve still had a few refreshing blasts of water shot up the ass of my “writing career” in the form of an acceptance letter from a publisher and the opportunity to soil some other websites and blogs with my pointless poop. In fact, if this trend continues I might almost feel comfortable enough someday to remove the quotation marks when I reference this little shit-slinging hobby of mine. (Doubt it.)

Although, before all this encouraging excrement started flowing my way I had already made my decision. (Oooh, the suspense!) I’m not returning to school in the fall. I have too many conflicts and the biggest one is my little turdlette, and I’m not about to tell her she can’t take dance class because Mommy’s too busy making up for the decade she wasted on being wasted. 

Plus, college kids are really fucking annoying. All that “let’s change the world,” hopeful-for-the-future crap is likes tacks on a toilet seat for a cynical asshole such as myself. I need to get away from those people before I start putting feathers in my hair. Or smiling. Or worst of all… listening to fucking John Mayer. <shudder>

I guess my point is (this is the part where I scramble to pretend that I had one all along) that while I’m not going to be getting all smart ‘n’ shit anymore, I’m going to keep writing out of my ass. It beats talking; that involves other people, and other people are gross. 

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

The Pen is Skankier Than the Sword

Writers are nothing but shit-slinging slutbags.

It’s been over a year since I’ve decided to pledge the fraternity of the feces-flinging floozies (I'm not saying it’s a man’s world, just that most of us would look like shit in those tight sorority sweaters) and I’m still ass-deep in the hazing process. Hopefully someday I’ll gain enough confidence in my crap to actually refer to myself as one of them:  ***A WRITER*** <Insert some sort of mystical “sprinkling fairy dust” music here>.

This is why we don't wear the sweaters.

There’s very little whoring going down in the writing community. I mean sure, sometimes we luck out and luxuriously trade our tales for a pack of smokes or fifth of whiskey, but generally we let just about anyone have their way with our words for nothing. (I’m only saying “we” because I think I’ve spread my seedy shit to enough websites to have completed the “Realize That ‘Freelance’ is Exactly What it Sounds Like” part of my initiation.) 

Sure, very few writers would complain about turning their trade into an opportunity to be run over by a fucktard in a van while taking a leisurely stroll near their Maine mansion. NOTE: Preceding comment is not meant to be a shot at Mr. King— his novels and short stories have brought me near bowel-bursting enjoyment my entire life. Plus, we’re Birthday buddies—a fact I’m sure he’s just as proud of as I am. At least he pretends to be when he finds me camped out below his bedroom window, right before he calls the cops... but I digress.

As few as five percent of writers can afford to even flush their own toilets with the money they earn off their written works.  So why the hell do so many shitheads like me waste their time, energy, and alliterative poop puns (okay, that part might just pertain to me) in hopes of someday being initiated into the impoverished gang of grammarists that call themselves writers?

Maybe it’s so we can use words like “grammarists” despite MS Word’s squiggly little accusation of word fraud. “Fuck you, spell check—I’m a WRITER!”

 Or maybe it’s because we don’t work well with others, and value our pasty complexions and sedentary lifestyles. “I would exercise, but I’m BURIED here. Words that rhyme with ‘diarrhea’ don’t just fall from God’s ass, you know.”

Maybe it’s because spending hours, days, weeks, or months obsessing over every turn of phrase seems worthwhile if one person skims through it on the shitter and is entertained enough to leave a kind word…. or at least refrain from saying they want to fuck your mother while they watch you die a slow, painful death.

Or maybe, just maybe, we do it because-- like any noble slut-- we fucking enjoy it and don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.

Whatever the reason, I’m proud to announce that a few weeks ago I received my first official rejection from a publication for a fiction piece. Another hazing ritual has been completed. I haven’t had the time, ambition, or proper fiber intake to work on much of shit lately but I still have a few flaming turd bags out there waiting to be properly stomped on. And who knows, maybe someday I’ll poop out a piece that actually floats and become the lowly fiction writer I’ve always dreamed of being. If that day ever comes, my loyal Shitheads here at the Mount will be the first to know.

But whatever happens from here, for fuck’s sake leave my mother out of it. Assholes.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Fathers’ Day (Insert Poop Joke Here.)

With the Day of the Dads just around the corner, I contemplated (on the crapper, of course) about going a similar route with this pseudo-holiday that I did with Mothers’ Day but eventually decided against it. For one, fuck you guys. You didn’t push live people out of your vaginas. Suck it up-- just pretend you like the tie that Junior bought you and then go back to scratching your nuts while watching Nascar. Second, and most importantly, I’m really missing my own dad and thought I’d dedicate a post to him. I realize sentimental shit isn’t the norm for this blog, but consider this post to be my homage to Australian toilets and flowing in a different direction. Besides, this is my blog, I’ll post whatever the fuck I want. And the three people that read it won’t mind a bit. Popping a hemorrhoid over a less than poopy post isn’t what I pay them for.
From left: Sister, Dad, Me. DUH.
Anyway, this will be the 10th Fathers’ Day since my dad passed away. Doing that math made me realize that he’s now been gone for nearly a third of my life… and now the intellectually elite of this Butthole Brigade know how old I am. (Or WILL be; I’ve got a couple of months. Fuck off.) Memories have a way of fading fast if not hauled out and dusted off every once in a while, and my dad was a man worth remembering.

Here's some background on the man in the Shithead Spotlight, or at least as he pertains to me (because what else matters): my parents split up when I was 6 and I lived with my mom until I got all growed up and GTFO at the ripe old age of 17.

My dad told my mom he would only agree to name me Kimberly if I was always REFERRED TO as Kimberly. Not Kim, Kimmy, or any other abbreviation—I was to be KIMBERLY. My entire life he was the only one who EVER referred to me as Kimberly. Guess that plan backfired. Anyway, as always, I digress.

I spent nearly every Sunday with my dad, even after being out on my own—we simply enjoyed each other’s company.  While I spent the majority of my time as a kid with my mom, I inherited most of my personality traits from my father. He taught me everything I needed to know to be functionally sick and twisted. He loved rock n roll and cheesy horror films, and pounded both into my brain until I quit crying and learned to like them too. He started his own adulthood as a factory worker, participating heavily in the labor union and working his way up their ranks. At the time of his death he had a fancy-schmancy title and represented a Carpenters’ Union that encompassed five states. Translation: He was a stubborn son of a bitch that didn’t take shit from anyone, or let people be kicked around by corporate craptards. This profession proved beneficial to yours truly when he was charged with disciplining me for taking part in (or organizing, who remembers the mundane details, really) a high school walk out that led to one of my glorious suspensions from that intestinal interruption of an institution. He tried for a few minutes to be mad, but eventually he caved and confessed he was proud of me—even if it was a stupid display of teen angst.
I don't know where I got my attitude.
Sundays with my dad were the coolest times when I was maturing from a tiny turdlet into a full grown coil of colon cable. He took me to gory R-rated movies, bought me the coolest new CDs regardless of (or maybe because of) “Parental Advisory” labels, and most importantly always made me laugh. It wasn’t all shits and grins though—he also made sure I knew the pertinent poop to make sure my butt boat would always float. He was adamant that no one person could EVER be judged by something as trivial as skin color, religion, or sexual orientation—instead everyone, equally, had the potential to be a total turdsicle.

I recently came across a homemade card my dad made for me on his computer. Judging by the quality of the printer and the software probably used to make the gem, I’m guessing I was roughly 12 at the time. I remember it well; he always bought my sister and I something small for the stupid holidays. That day was the Sunday after Valentine’s Day, and not only had he not given us anything, he hadn’t mentioned it. We sat watching TV and he disappeared into his office for a while. When he came back, he handed each of us a card (the one sheet of paper folded over kind) with a crappy clipart bouquet and the text “Happy 4th Day After Valentine’s Day” on the front and this gem of a poem inside:

I missed the day
but here’s a card
but I’ll buy you a gift
‘cause I feel like a ‘tard.

The back read simply “Best of all, it’s a Dadmark.”

Not that the gift-giving was ever stomach-sickeningly sweet; most Christmas mornings my sister and I sat helplessly on the couch while he flung unwrapped CDs are our heads.

* * * * * * <---- ASSterisks

My dad drew the short straw and was designated the duty (hahaha DOOTIE) of teaching me how to drive a stick. It was his own damn fault, he bought me my first car and it was a manual transmission. <insert ‘spoiled brat’ comments here> I can remember driving one day before getting my license as he quizzed me from the passenger seat. He asked all the basics; how many car lengths should you keep behind the shithead in front of you, when should you activate your blinker, blah blah blah. But then…

“What do you do if you’re driving 60 miles per hour on a two lane road and a semi barreling towards you crosses the yellow line into your lane?” he asked.

I drove on for a moment, bewildered. Thinking. Searching my memory banks for an answer. Finally all I could muster was, “I don’t know. What?!?”

“Stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye!”

Valuable life lessons, people.

* * * * * * 

When I was 16 I forced my dad to take me to a couple of concerts. Sure, I went to hundreds of them. But there were a couple I only wanted to go to with my dad. The first was Def Leppard with Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. (Shit yeah!)  I remember DYING for a cigarette during the Joan Jett set, but I hadn’t ever smoked in front of my dad. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and mustered the courage to ask him if he minded if I lit up a butt. His response? “Sure, as long as you blow it in my face.” He had quit four years prior, but still loved the smell of a fresh cigarette. From that point until the point two years later when he was diagnosed with cancer, he always let us sit in the smoking section at restaurants and even bought me a pack/carton or two. 

The second concert was the Black Crowes—and while an awesome show, I was craving a damn drink. While too skittish to sneak his teenage daughter a beer or two during the show, he did take me back to his house to chug a couple before taking me home to mom.

* * * * * * 

I’m pretty sure my dad thought I was a lesbian throughout most of my teen years. While never shy to tell him at any age that I was nursing a killer hangover, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about “boys” with the man. Plus, since I was usually nursing a killer hangover on Sundays, I tended to dress in band t-shirts and corduroys and still to this day do not wear makeup. Stereotypical, sure; but my sister was more of the boy-obsessed girlie type so I was always in sharp contrast.

Finally when I was 17 and living on my own I decided to tell my dad about a guy I was dating. I really liked him (although it turned out the feelings weren’t mutual) and I wanted to “gush” I guess you would say.

I told him, “Dad, I’ve been seeing this guy.”

The response I got from my father: the 6’3”, nearly 300 pound man often mistaken for a terrorist: “There’s only one thing I want to know about a man who’s dating my teenage daughter.”

Me: <gulp> “What’s that?”

Dad: “What kind of beer does he drink?”
Striking fear into the hearts of the wicked -- and the TSA.
Don’t get me wrong, he was a caring man. He just loved to laugh… and taught me that it was important to be able to laugh at yourself. If it weren’t for that I would never be able to start a fecal-filled blog full of rants about my own brainfarts. In fact he was the first one who told me I should write. When I was a kid (junior high or early high school) I brought an assignment to his house to type. It was an extra credit assignment that I had to do to pass a class I’d been fucking off in. The task: take a selected group of math terms and incorporate them into a story. I guess you could say it was my first foray into fiction. I don’t remember any of the terms but I know it was a parabolic parody (See? I’m fluent in more than just poop) on the old evil mastermind meets accidental superhero tale. He read it as it came off the printer and laughed hysterically, telling me I had something. That I should pursue it. I remember his exact words: “Don’t wait for things to happen for you. You don’t want to look back and think you’ve wasted all those years when you had the talent all along.” I don’t know if I really have talent, but I do know I’ve wasted a lot of years wallowing in my own self-pity and shock over the loss of the strongest man I’ve ever known. Despite (or more than likely, because of) being a witty, sarcastic little shit my whole life I was still Daddy’s little girl. I was just the little girl who smoked, drank, cussed, and belched a lot… and he was the Daddy that dug that.
Why Dads shouldn't do hair. And yes, that's Stroh's-Detroit River water at its finest.
But if the last year is any indication, I’ve begun to pull myself out of the sewer of sorrow—and I’ve done it on my own terms. In the last 10 years I’ve fucked my life up A LOT. While I’m sure if he were still here to give me a strategically timed kick in the ass some of my mistakes may not have been quite so disastrous, but I still would’ve made them. They’re mine; I own them. And now I’m no longer hiding my demons. Sure, I’m still a shithead. But I’m a shithead who's raising her family right and giving her passion for writing a fighting chance. So here’s to you, Jack—I know you’d be proud of the turd I am today, and understand that there’s always kernels err hurdles to jump along the way—and if you fall on your face, the best thing you can do is get up and laugh about it. I love you, and happy Fathers’ Day.


The body may weaken and die, the sense of humor remains. Dad--far right. 2 months before death.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Flushing Yourself? Kimmy’s Suicide Playlist.

As I’ve mentioned before, I work a crappy job that forces me to endure an adult contemporary/easy listening radio station for 8-9 hours on end. There are no speakers in the crapper, which is probably why I take so many bathroom breaks. Well that, and I drink a metric shit ton of coffee every day. But I digress.

I’ve compiled a list of malodorous melodies that I hear on a daily basis that make me want to gnaw my wrists open, just so I can tilt my head and fill my aching ears with blood to make the suffering stop. While this is in no way a complete list of songs that make me want to kill myself (I should probably seek therapy again), I think if I heard all of them consecutively I would just stroke out and be done for, with no real effort required.

So, without further adoo-doo, here is my collection of songs to commit suicide by for the not-yet clinically depressed:

Manic Monday - The Bangles
I heard this song yesterday. It was Friday. It was FRIDAY, and I had to listen to a 26-year-old song about MONDAYS that wasn’t even good in 1986. In 1986, it was annoying. Now, it causes me to grab the radio and scream “DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT FUCKING DAY IT IS YOU STUPID TWATWAFFLE!” into the speaker—which is just as awkward for me as it is for customers and coworkers. They don’t play Monster Mash in May; so what the hell justifies playing a colon carol like this on a day of the week that isn’t Monday? This is why I can’t take any of those “emergency alerts” seriously, and will probably be sucked up into a tornado someday. And as long as there’s no radio reception inside the twister, I’m okay with it.

Photograph - Nickelback
It was extremely difficult to pick just ONE Nickelback song, as most of their work inflicts me with a burning desire for a massive aneurism; however, this torturous tune has to take the cake for being the ultimate in douchebag ditties.  There’s just one thing I must know before I take a massive hit off this tailpipe—just what the hell is on Joey’s head?

Grenade - Bruno Mars
Would someone throw a damn grenade at this fucktard already? Otherwise, hand it to me. Please hand it to me. Better yet, give me two. One for each ear. I bet the butt-twat Bruno Mars wouldn’t splatter his brain matter for you, but I would. I’d do anything to not hear his whiny ass anthem any more.

Desperado - The Eagles
If you’re a 9 to 5’er like me, you know there’s a daylight witching hour – it occurs between 2:30 and 3:30 in the afternoon, and you’re not sure whether you should grab an afternoon cup of liquid laxative (coffee, for you newbies) or sharpen a pencil to jam into your esophagus. It is during this hour that my local suicide station always plays this song. Now where the hell do we keep that pencil sharpener?

Anything by Adele.
Adele, I want to like you. I really do. You have an “I don’t give a shit that I’m not a supermodel” attitude, a unique voice, and I am automatically drawn to anything English. However, you need to either get laid or lay some serious colon cable, because your songs are fucking depressing. Do you really wonder why that guy left you? “Guess she gave you things that I didn’t give to you…” I’m guessing that refers to a will to live, because every time I hear your voice crackling through the radio mine oozes out of every orifice.

Say  - John Mayer
I’m sure you all (and by “you all” I of course mean both of my faithful readers) knew this shitstain would make the list. Like Nickelback, every one of this turdsicle’s songs make me want to off myself, but this one takes the colostomy cake for being one of the most obnoxiously aggravating intestinal operas I have ever heard. Apparently this douchebucket needs to talk to Alanis Morrisette about the definition of irony, because in this mind (and butt) numbing number he repeats the phrase “Say what you need to say” 40 times. That was not an excremental exaggeration. Forty. Apparently someone else needs to just spit the shit out already… and it’s not me with these painkillers and gallon of vodka.

Fields of Gold – Sting
Similar to the Desperado entry, this song simply sucks the soul out of every poor shithead that has the misfortune to hear it during their workday. It has that cute little lyric “Feel her body rise, when you kiss her mouth,” which just goes to show that even the chick he was trying to impress with this stool strain of a hymn died of boredom and he had to give her mouth-to-mouth. I hope, for her sake, that it was unsuccessful.

California Gurls – Katy Perry
Aside from my obvious colon-clenching contempt at the misspelling of GIRLS (and KATIE, for that matter) this song is more annoying than a rabid, constipated cat in heat. “Daisy dukes, bikini on top” – does that sound to anyone else like she’s wearing a bathing suit bottom over top of her jean shorts? That’s hot. So hot, in fact, it will melt your popsicle. As will any temperature over 32 degrees, but that’s apparently irrelevant. Also, that little “OhhoOHHoohHOhoHOHOHHhh” sound that she makes in every single shitpile song she soils the airwaves with sounds eerily like a 100-and-some-pound chick swinging from the rafters with a noose around her neck. (the “and-some” is none of your goddamn business, thank you very much.)

Hotel California –The Eagles
Yup, the dirty butt birds made the list twice. And overall I actually like The Eagles. But this song makes me want to kill them, and then myself. Save me your conspiracy theories about what this song is about, I don’t care. It’s annoying, and I hate it. I bet this song has dropped a deuce on my eardrums more days of my life than it hasn’t.  And it’s an earturd if I’ve ever heard one. Once it’s in your head….. Well, you can check out any time you want (and you’ll want to!), but it will never leave.

Landslide – Fleetwood Mac
Have you ever heard a goat being anally raped by a horned-up hippo? Well, I’m guessing it sounds a lot like this song, only a little more pleasing to the palate. Yesterday at work I was so fed up with the usual adult contemporary crap (and had almost chewed through a major artery) that I finagled the dial, stood on my head, and strung a strand of paperclips straight out of my ass to pick up the local classic rock station—and they were playing this diabolical dung ditty too. FUCK.

PLEASE NOTE: I do not in any way condone suicide, nor do I think it’s funny. I also do not condone listening to John Mayer. I find these two things to be equally appalling and detrimental to one's well-being.

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Tooting My Own Butt Trumpet: A Year of Shits, Grins, & Pitched Bitches

As May approaches, so does the one year anniversary of this crap cavern of a blog. Since my bat shit crazy self sees my “career” as a colossal failure since no one has offered me a million dollars to write a novel to be transformed into a summer blockbuster film (yet!), I decided to write a self-indulgent post where I pilfer through the poop of the last year and remind myself that it has only been a moderate waste of time. And by the way, who the hell coined the term ‘bat shit crazy’??? Just how mentally unstable can poop really be? I mean sure, bats give their dung a weird name (guano--wtf?) but I’d consider the droppings of the flying rabid rats exotic at best. But, as usual, I digress.
image via Plumeria Cake Studio
This blog was born on a drunken whim, as most marvels of modern manure are. It wasn't ever intended to be shown to anyone, but again I got drunk (seeing a trend here?) and showed it to a friend, who then shared it with her friends, and, well, pretty soon my shit was splattered all over the ‘net. (And by “all over” I mean about six people read it. Shut up, this is MY self-gratifying story and I’ll tell it however I want.)

As my confidence (and vocabulary of poop puns) grew, I decided to explore other outlets for my nonsensical bullshit. This led to what would end up being the biggest “break” of my feces-flinging career, the publication of my first article: 5 Scientific Reasons Your Idea of Happiness is Wrong. It took 3 months to the day from the first Turd Mountain blog post to blow my proverbial load and reach over a million readers, many of which made comments that they fucked my mother and I should be tortured and murdered for being such a waste of human flesh. I had arrived.

I wrote one more article for Cracked before I decided I was too good for paying gigs (Translation: They rejected two pitches and I quit trying), this one with the turdtastic Monte Richard, who got first billing because apparently the editors hate me even more than they hate someone whose last name is synonymous with Dick. 7 Animals That Are One Flaw Away From Taking Over the World is sitting at 1.3+ million views to date, and the computer-chair critics only went ape shit over a stupid insect-arachnid fart pas (see what I did there?) that wasn’t even in one of my penned sections. Success in anonymity!

Although the trials and tribulations of real life shoved an oversized cork up my ass around mid-October of last year, I still managed to squeeze out a few mediocre satire pieces for the seemingly defunct local website City Satirica(the lights are on but no one’s been dropping deuces there for quite a while).

Perhaps my proudest moments in this diarrhea deluge of a year have been being asked to write guest posts for blogs much classier (Translation: people actually read them) than this dung heap. I’d like to thank Psycho Noir and Holdin’ Holden, for not only inviting me to poop on their parade but actually publishing and promoting my shit no matter how much it soiled their reputations. (Links to my actual posts can be found on the left sidebar--if the blog owners didn’t wise up and delete my crap, of course.)

The latest site to recruit the sewer service of the self-proclaimed Queen Shit has been, which actually makes sense since they’re dedicated to the gross and obscene. Other than my inability to write a coherent review, which is what they expect of me, it seems to be a perfect fit. (Translation: I haven't had my passwords revoked yet.)

So a year of defecating with the door open to the world has almost elapsed. You may be wondering what’s next. Probably not, but if you read this far you’re obviously at least mildly curious. Or just extremely masochistic. Either way, thanks for hanging around.

 Most recently I’ve been experimenting with writing fiction. I’m not sure if any of my tall turd tales will ever see the light of day or if they will ferment into fertilizer for my hard drive, but it’s been a refreshing change of pace from the usual crap. Perhaps I'll focus more on this blog, expanding the Mountain of Manure into a true Excrement Empire. But then again I’ve been contemplating quitting this crap altogether; sewing my “Year as a Writer” badge on my Shithead Squad sash and moving on to some other fecalicious failure.

As a bonus (or punishment) to all you butt nuggets for sticking with me this year, I’ve replaced my curly zucchini profile picture with an actual picture of myself. I apologize for any nausea this may induce.

While I don’t know exactly what the future holds, one thing is certain: once this colon cork pops you’d all better take cover; a shit storm is coming.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Getting Back to the Pertinent Poop.

It has occurred to me that the last few turds dropped in this toilet of a blog have been me just pissing and moaning about being unhappy with my own station in life. It’s time to get back to the corn and peanuts of what this blog is about— ranting about other things (and people) that I hate. The only ones who want to hear me rant about everything that I dislike about myself also want to take away my shoelaces and force me to sing Kumbaya with a bunch of bandaid-wristed whack jobs while they sift through my poop to make sure I’m really swallowing those nigh-night pills. Seriously, why do they check your poop in the loony bin? And they say we’re the weird ones. But I digress.

Here are a couple of things that are bothering my bowels (I know, I know—they’re quite irritable already) this week:

Retro = Recycling Old Shit.
As I think I’ve made clear, I hate leaving the house and seeing (or smelling) people in general, so I rely on social networking to remind me daily of why I hate everyone so much. And every time I log on for my daily dose of “dung droppings by dunderheads” I’m met with some little quip, some whiny little grievance, that everything about our current era is horrible and “oh if only it were the ‘50s again!” A form of this complaint has been crapped out by everyone from political ranters, music Nazis, narcissistic artists, and style snobs.

Aside from the obvious pitfalls to going back to a society of segregation and sexual inequality, there’s the whole “medium for your pointless bitching” thing. As in, THERE WAS NO FUCKING INTERNET BACK THEN. So if you think those days were so damn great and everything that’s evolved since has been a sewer of suffering then how about you log off the damn computer right now and curl up in the fetal position under your desk. I hope you bought the Russian missile resistant model at IKEA. There, isn’t 1952 fucking glamorous?

Don’t get me wrong, I hate our current era as well. But as far as I’m concerned, civilization went to shit as soon as the first monkey started walking upright, and no poodle skirt is going to change my mind.

You’re too close to the current catastrophe of crap that is the world today. When our kids/grandkids/test tube clones look back on 2012 they aren’t going to be bombarded with Ke$ha and Kardashians. Something worthwhile will pop up, even if we don’t see it now. Remember, only the good shit floats. So the next time you want to bash society, remember that everything has and always will suck ass. Consistency, people; it’s important in more than just stool samples.

Pregnancy Progression Photos.
This is a trend that has to stop. You know the routine—a person is so proud that they had unprotected sex that they take a picture every four weeks of their growing belly and post it on a social networking site for the whole world to see.

Why does this get my intestines in such a bunch?

Maybe I have baby fever… and by fever I mean I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to the little manure machines. I squirted one out four years ago and my sinuses still aren’t right. Or maybe it’s because only the skinny chicks do this. The ones that at 8 months pregnant have bellies that look like mine after I eat one pancake.
If we really wanted to see a flipbook of fatness we’d watch Supersize Me on fast forward. Or on regular speed, really.

The point is, I don’t want to see your belly. Ever. Take these photos for yourself if you want, keep them in a scrapbook. But just because it’s easy to share photos with the whole stupid world now doesn’t mean that you should.

Next time I’m constipated I’m taking time lapse tummy photos. Something tells me, however, that the end result of your baby-bloated belly will be slightly more photogenic.