Sunday, February 26, 2012

NASCAR: Rural America’s Favorite Traveling Shit Show

Today marks the beginning of the grueling, nine-month-long Commercialized Crap Carnival that is the NASCAR season. A squirmy little spermy could cook into a full blown human in the time it takes these fuckwads to decide who has the best stickers.

For those of you lucky enough to live alone (or in a house that isn’t smaller than an infield RV with only one television) you might be able to ignore this turd tournament, but your purveyor of poop here isn’t so fortunate.

I’m not going to go into the great debate over whether auto racing is a sport or not. I was forced to take part in the Richard Petty Driving Experience a couple of years ago (I did the ride along, because I’m too scared/lazy to drive) and rode three laps around Indianapolis Motor Speedway at 171 mph. Needless to say, my stomach never left pit road, which was fortunate because if it had come along I surely would have shat myself.

I was thrilled to be a part of it.

My point is that anyone who can hold their composure (and bowels) that long while traveling that fast must have some serious conditioning and endurance. Yet I maintain that staying awake as a spectator through an entire race may be a more impressive feat.

It’s not the constant left turns that makes it so boring. Anyone who thinks so I challenge to sit through a road course race, they’re more painful than shitting a shiv sideways. And why do they swirl the opposite direction of water in a toilet? You’re not fooling anyone, NASCAR. But I digress.

Having lived in Michigan my whole life, I’m well aware that it’s a requirement of citizenship to be sexually aroused by excessive horsepower and I fully comply. I get a raging lady rod whenever I hear the revving engine of some old-school Mopar muscle. But nothing deflates my bitch boner like the constipating cry of “Boogity boogity boogity, let’s go racin’ boys!”

In typical Asshat American fashion each race is begun with a Christian prayer. I’m assuming when they bow their heads they are praying that we never run out of Middle Eastern countries to pillage and burn so that we can continue to shamelessly flaunt our desecration of the planet by senselessly burning countless gallons of fossil fuels every weekend just for shits and grins.

And the latest icon of this careening cowpie contest is the stool-shriveling banshee Danica Patrick. I’m all for powerful women and denouncing the whole “it’s a man’s world” thing, but why does our ambassador into auto racing have to be a sniveling, spoiled twat who storms around like the world owes her something, demanding to be treated “like one of the guys” yet flaunting her ownership of a vagina at every turn?  Is there anyone out there, NASCAR fan or not, who doesn’t want to see her crash and burn? (Literally or figuratively works here. I’d prefer both.)

Ready or not, let the shit show begin. If anyone needs me, I’ll be curled up in the fecal position in a secluded outhouse for the next nine months.

**Note: If this post comes off even angrier than normal, it’s because my computer is located in the same room as the TV which hasn’t moved from pre-race coverage the entire morning. I even flung extra feces at the screen but the dung droppings just blend in with Danica’s dumb face. Shitty.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Celebrity Deaths: Who Gives a Shit?

We’ve seen it so many times it might as well be a children’s book.

See Shithead.
See Shithead get famous.
See Shithead do drugs.
See Shithead die.
Die Shithead, Die.

Yet every single stupid time one of these steaming hot meadow muffins goes cold the world (or at least the internet and television) act like their insanely predictable demise was, like, the craziest thing EVER.

Obviously most recently there was Whitney Houston. Anyone who was legitimately shocked by that turd going belly up has obviously been living with their head in the toilet. And I know, “waaaahhh you don’t know it was drugs that killed her!” No whiny ass butt nugget in my head, I don’t. But even if a fucking ball of flaming feces dropped on her from outer space, the fact of the matter is hearing about her death didn’t cause even a moment of pause from my Cheeto-inhaling, softcore porn watching Saturday night. (Why soft porn? I like the storylines. Don’t judge me.) If the flaming turd bomb theory pans out then yes, my attention will be turned; my interest peaked; my bewilderment boner aroused. But the simple statement “Whitney Houston/Amy Winehouse/Michael Jackson/Anna Nicole Smith has been found dead” is even less shocking than the end of a M. Night Shyamalan shitshow. (Everyone knows The Sixth Sense is excluded from all M. Night jokes—how does the G.W. Bushism go? Fool me once, shame on…. Well, you know.)

And don’t jump down my throat for being a hater; with the exception of that gold-digging glob of guano Anna Nicole Smith ALL the above mentioned people were insanely talented.  How they lived and died was excrementally sad. (Sorry there’s a poop pun quota to make.) And anyone who can’t empathize for those who eventually turn to drugs or depression as a means to deal with living under the media microscope is just a callous colostomy bag. But with that being said… come on. We all know from our 2nd Grade anti-drug presentations what happens when someone gets hooked on the booger sugar. Be sad if you need to, but flush the bewilderment bullshit.

Let’s focus on the REAL amazing feats of the fecally famous; as in, how the hell are these turds still kicking?

-Keith Richards. At age 68, this fanny fruit has ingested more drugs than have ever existed in the entire country of Columbia.  Not only is he still alive, but he’s supposed to be touring with The Rolling Stones yet again this year. The fact that his heart still beats defies all laws of physics, chemistry, and reason. Sure he looks like he just walked off the set of The Walking Dead, but when the world finally ends it will be just him and cockroaches.

-Charlie Sheen. No explanation required, really. This butt baby must be immune to cocaine, HIV, and hepatitis. Hot Shot, indeed.

-Tina Yothers. Come on, would anyone really be surprised if Tina Yothers flushed herself? Half of you are saying, “WHO?” Exactly. Google it.

Then there are those celebrity deaths that were met with NO shock. Patrick Swayze; Farrah Fawcett. “But they had CANCER! That shit KILLS!” says that argumentative little fart flower in my head. Exactly. We’re somehow less surprised when people die of a seemingly random disease that defecates death on whomever it desires than if their own lifestyle does them in.

Society sucks shit.

RIP, Whitney. 

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Get To Know Your Feces Flinger

Greetings, Poop Army! After duping a few other blog owners into liking me, I have learned something about myself: I blog wrong.

Some blogs are used to keep friends and fans abreast (yes, I picked that word just so you could chuckle at 'breast'--you're welcome) to the writer's achievements, while also providing insight and commentary on the inner workings of their craft; some portray everyday life in a colorful and entertaining light; others share advice and tips on how to live life to the fullest (sorry, none of those uppity assheads can be bothered to befriend me). Regardless of the blog’s purpose, all of these have two things in common—the reader feels like they’re a part of the writer’s life, and they are actually updated on a regular basis.

But here… well, I just bitch about random things while sprinkling in synonyms for fecal matter for flavor. And post intervals are about as regular as an octogenarian whose sole sustenance is red meat and cheese. All you really know about me is that I’m a bipolar techtard that hates Tim Allen, John Mayer, and hair feathers, yet has a weird obsession with alliterative poop puns. Okay so actually you know quite a bit. But still, 90% of my Facebook following thought because of my love for bathroom humor I was a guy. (Although to be fair, they may have stumbled across some topless pics of me—from neck to waist I could easily be confused for a 13-year-old boy on the ever popular Doritos diet)

So without further ado-do, here are some fun facts about your Purveyor of Poop:

-I made a suicide pact with my geriatric cat, Jebus—I told him if euthanasia time comes for him, it will be my time as well. However I stormed out of the vet’s office when they were preparing my death juice and estimated my weight 10 lbs higher than it really is. Dicks. (Don’t worry, Jebus is still with us—he turned out to only be having an allergic reaction to bullshit and they make shots for that.)

-My best friend is a drop dead gorgeous pin-up model, which was a complete shithead move on my part. All of us average looking girls know they should surround themselves with the ugliest people they can find, for that one beautiful chance of being referred to as “the cute one.” Luckily she’s an epileptic high school dropout, so despite my multitude of mental disorders and passion for all things poop, I’m the one with the GOOD brain. Ha!

-In my youth I effectively transitioned from grunge, to goth, to neo-hippie. Now that I’m older and dropped the flannel, black vinyl, and tie dye I’m simply referred to as a lazy, apathetic pothead.

-I have no rhythm, but can do the Thriller dance in its entirety. Being stiff-hipped and awkward is beneficial when trying to represent a dancing corpse in full rigor mortis.

-I’m an attention whore who suffers from social anxiety and borderline agoraphobia. In the old days (i.e. 1997) this would have been a problem, but social networking was built for whack jobs like me. I have a grand old time drinking and dicking around with my 4000 Facebook friends from behind the safety barrier of my computer screen—just don’t send me an event invite. Ever. Not only will I not show up, I’ll probably spend two hours in the fetal position whimpering that you would dare ask me to go out in public. I’m hoping to become insanely internet-famous so that I can finally achieve my lifelong dream of being a socialite shut in.

-I’m on the first year of my second marriage. My St. Patty’s Day wedding was the stuff fairy tales are made of.  I walked down the shamrock-littered aisle to the hopelessly romantic ballad Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns n Roses, and the ceremony was followed by a pub crawl full of epic drunken debauchery. Did I say fairy tales? I meant 80’s music videos. Same diff.

-I have a 4-year-old daughter who is the LIGHT of my LIFE. <I hope you read that like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, because that’s how it was intended. Otherwise it seems all sappy and that shit is NOT my style.>

-I was voted “Class Slacker” in high school and have effectively lived up to that high expectation set for me in adulthood.

-I work a day job that forbids me from talking about it on the internet, which makes it sound a shit ton cooler than it actually is.

So there, now you know all the pertinent poop about your bullshit bistro. Does this mean I’m going to start blogging “correctly” now? Doubt it. Posting on this blog is like shitting a watermelon; after each dropping there's a lot of confusion, some crying, and one extremely sore asshole. There's a healing process before I can safely poop profanity like this again. 

Honestly, I'm not clever enough to make my daily life seem even remotely interesting to anyone. Even the voices in my head get bored with my antics. As far as career updates, well, watch the water swirl next time you flush the toilet and that about sums it up for now. And if you actually want advice from the self-proclaimed Queen Shit of Turd Mountain, perhaps you should stick your head in that flushing toilet because there’s something seriously fucking wrong with you. Have you ever read this blog before? I’m a hot mess, and by that I mean a steaming pile of freshly shat excrement. The best advice I can give you is to step around it.