Friday, March 30, 2012

Going all Anal… and Shit

Here’s a fun fact about your feces flinger that might not be instantly apparent about a person who prides themselves on poorly punctuated (but accurately alliterated!) poop puns – I’m a piece of shit perfectionist. They say admitting you have a problem is the first step, but I think something is wrong with that step. Hold on I’ll get out a hammer and fix it real quick.

Okay I’m not THAT kind of perfectionist. Yes I like a clean house, but I *have* to have that room in the back that is just a complete clusterfuck of crap. As well as 2-3 kitchen drawers dedicated to the same purpose.  And my “mail organizer” is a poorly sorted sewer of missed RSVPs and expired coupons.

However…. some things turn me into Anal Anna faster than Debbie can do Dallas… mainly school and anything to do with my writing “career.” (And that term is used more loosely than Debbie’s ‘dugout’, if you’re pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down).

A true lady doesn’t reveal her age (or spend months crafting poop jokes, but I digress) so we’ll just leave it as I’m not a “traditional” student. I breezed through high school with a 3.57 GPA while still being named “Class Slacker.” Afterwards I decided to pursue my interests in slacking as opposed to grade point averaging, and I rocked that shit out for a decade-ish.

A year and a half ago I got a hair up my ass and decided to give it the old college try, literally. Nearing the end of my third semester, my 4.0 cumulative GPA is at risk due to only 1% leeway in--of all things--a fucking creative writing course. Apparently throwing a turd into every tale isn’t creative enough. My first “BIG” assignment in said course came back this week with a grade of 48/50. 96%. And I’m beyond fucking pissed. Especially since I queefed out a 104% on my latest Intermediate Algebra exam, and polynomials can go factor themselves as far as I’m concerned.

While I don’t really have a major (meaning the one I chose is embarrassing and I haven’t gotten around to fixing that yet) I’m supposed to be a creative writing major. Yet the class that’s destined to fuck up my GPA is an INTRO to creative writing class. And keep in mind, I *have* an A now--I just know what’s coming. Because in my very near (as in due next week) future is a giant poetry assignment, and if you’ve read this you’d know I’m no Robert Frost or Dr. Seuss. Hell, Napoleon Dynamite’s portraits are more impressive than my prose. I couldn’t shit out a sonnet if my life depended on it.

Not to mention my 10-month old writing career hasn’t landed me a giant advance for a novel to be made into a summer blockbuster film. FAIL!

So what does the perfecter of poop do when she might not come out on top? Quit. Probably. I might as well flush a year and a half worth of hard work down the drain. Oh I’ll continue wading through the sewage of this semester… but after that, I’m out. If I can’t be perfect, I might as well give up.  Right?

I’ll continue to be used as the toilet paper of society in a general purpose customer service job until the day I mercifully mutate into a lifeless mound of mulch.

Or….. I’ll build a bung bridge and get the fuck over this anal obsession with perfection and move on with my god damn life. At least I’ll always have a great ass to fall back on.

Wait is that cellulite? Shit.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Ranting... And Shit.

I keep hearing that I should blog more. Apparently successful bloggers (whatever the fuck that even means) post almost every day, even if it’s just a small stink nugget about their day, to keep the itty bitty attention span of the average internet addict tuned to them. After all, it’s stiff competition out there; I mean with all the lolcats, free porn, and social activism. (Just watch this video and you’re an honorary humanitarian! You should get an award for hitting the “SHARE” button, you thoughtful person you! Now return to your regularly scheduled donkey show.)

I can’t bring myself to do this. Do any of you actually give a shining shit about my day?? I didn’t think so. Just as I do with my feelings, I prefer to bottle up my irritation with the world until it explodes into a glittering glob of poorly punctuated poop puns. If I was as angry at nothing every single day as I am in each Turd Mountain post I’d surely have climbed a clock tower by now… and defecated on innocent pedestrians beneath me like a possessed pigeon. What, did you think I was going to go on a murderous rampage or something? I don’t do guns, people. I deal in words… mostly just alliterative synonyms for poop.

So then, what’s the fecal-minded shit slinger to do when the colon is cleansed? When the intestines have been over irrigated, leaving not even a trickle of turdwater to flow? Let’s cut the crap – I have writer’s block. It’s not that shit isn’t pissing me off; I just can’t single out any one thing that’s irritating my bowels more than another right now.

It doesn’t help that my bipolar, anxiety-riddled, manure mound of a brain has gone into super psycho mode and refuses to register anything I say, do, or write as acceptable. (I came clean about some of that shit HERE.) My first article has recently gotten some attention again, and instead of being excited about the renewed interest in the biggest break of my “career” (I’m not sure it could be called that, but my thesaurus is permanently stuck open to the POOP page so we’ll just go with it), instead I’m dwelling on the miniscule droplet of negativity that experience left me with. Seriously, the sky could be full of rainbows and flying unicorns that piss constant streams of vodka over the sunshiny Meadow of Magnificence, and I’d be oblivious of everything except the tiny turd stuck to the whimsical leprechaun’s shoe.  Don’t question me; of course a leprechaun would be there. And he would be whimsical as hell, goddammit. Even if he did fall off his unicorn. You know what shut up, this is MY fantasy world I’m shitting all over here, I can paint it (and desecrate it) however I want.

So there you have it. It felt like passing a kidney stone, but the first inspiration (and laxative) free turd has been laid on the Mount. Aside from the Shit for Brains post (linked earlier as well-I'm too lazy to find new and exciting links for you to crap all over) this was probably my most honest post; and while we’re being honest, I fucking hated every second of writing it, as I’m sure you did of reading it. Let’s hope that stool softener kicks in pretty quick and I find something better to write about than my own shithead self.

In the meantime, how about you just subscribe to this damn blog via email or Facebook so that I don’t feel compelled to drop another bowel bomb like this the next time traffic slumps. And as always, let me know what’s shitting in your cereal. Who knows, you might just have a Turd Mountain post dedicated to you, which is about the equivalent of being the jolly clump of crap on that jubilant green midget’s moccasin. 

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Facebook Fury -- Number Two

I know I’ve pooped all over Facebook’s parade before, yet continue to use it daily and even have a fan page dedicated to this steaming pile of lingual ass splatter there (which has 1400 followers while this shithole site has 44-- things that make you go Pffffffffft) but Kimmy’s got a new bitch to pitch and believe it or not it has NOTHING to do with Timeline. I think the other 8 billion users have crapped out enough of those complaints to tide us all over until the next seismic shift in format has everyone’s colons clenching with contempt.

No, the log of lament I’m about to lay has to do with fucking Facebook following me. It trails each and every one of us wherever we go on the internet like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of our shoes that will not be shaken off, no matter how much we try to free ourselves by stomping on it with our other foot. Because there’s a two-ply parasite clinging to both of our hooker heels. Shut up, it made sense in my head.

Anyway, what I’m TRYING to squeeze out here is that Facebook is lurking behind us whenever we are on the web and reporting our every move on our friends’ (and that term is more loose than a lactose intolerant kid’s stool at an ice cream social) news feeds.

I used to think of social networking as a nice, ethereal hallway; where we can all step out of our solitude and catch up with friends and acquaintances and, most importantly, share pictures of our cats with funny little misspelled phrases sprinkled in for extra flavah. Now there’s a toilet smack dab in the center of that creepy corridor, and everyone sees your shit all the time-- regardless of how much discomfort it creates for everyone involved.

What, are you a nervous poo-er?

It’s gotten to the point where I won’t even check my Yahoo mail account, for fear of accidentally clicking on a story about the Oompa Loompa that will eventually tunnel its way out of Snooki’s vagina (speaking of things that are loose). As a result of my misclick anyone I’ve ever known sees right at the top of their screen that I read that excrement of evil and pretty soon I’m facing an uncomfortable intervention, because everyone thinks I’ve become obsessed with shithead pseudo-celebrities. Well fuck that, consider that email account abandoned. Which also explains why it got hacked the other day and sent everyone in my contacts list some sort of erectile dysfunction tips complete with pictures comparing aroused and flaccid penises, but somehow that seems less embarrassing.

Which brings me to Spotify (nice fucking segue, shithead). Apparently it’s some sort of music player that lets you listen to anything for free. All I know is it makes me lose respect for people that never did anything to wrong me because a blurb will come across my newsfeed saying “Dick Twat is listening to John Mayer on Spotify.” Dick Twat always seemed like a nice guy. Even had cute cat pictures. But suddenly I’m overcome with the urge to launch a turd torpedo at his stupid face for being such a douchebag. (For more of Kimmy’s thoughts on John Mayer, click here.) Likewise, sometimes I like to jam out to music I wouldn’t normally admit to liking. Maybe it’s an 80’s hair band ballads sort of night, because every rose does have its thorn. Or perhaps I just want to hear Mama Judd and her fat daughter harmonize about their grandpa reminiscing on the good ole’ days. Which, by the way, shouldn’t one of them be singing “dad” while the other sings “grandpa”?? Although it is country music; who knows what sort of fucked up root system that family tree might have. Anyway, these lapses into the land of music mediocrity (okay, more like music crappidity) happen from time to time when the mood strikes, but I definitely wouldn’t want that shit posted all over the internet. (Luckily for me no one reads this mound of manure so I’m still safe.)

I’m not sure what the shit this Pinterest phenomenon is, but I’m assuming it must be some sort of weirdly labeled voodoo doll with all the friends I see sticking pins into it. I personally prefer to keep all of my voodoo and other sordid sorcery private, so I refuse to investigate this site any further. But the updates need to stop. Unless someone has a great acupuncture of the ass story, I really don’t need to see who pinned what to where.

What’s next, broadcasting all of our Google searches? Should I suddenly feel ashamed for searching “image of leprechaun defecating on dead unicorn” every few days? Hey, you never know when something new will spring up.

Getting closer, interwebs. Getting closer.

What I’m trying to say is-- stop sifting through our feces, Facebook! If we want all of our acquaintances to know what we’re doing, we’ll just add a text box to our cute kitty pictures to pass it along. Or, use that little “status update” thingy, although with all the shit you’re posting for us it seems a little redundant to keep that crap lying around. Perhaps you could euthanize it but mark the day it died with asterisks on our Timelines. Right next to that time we got hammered and posted our undying love on each of our exes’ walls. (Like it was only once.)

Anyway I just wanted to end this post about unsolicited information by letting you turds know everything I’ve been up to in the last few weeks, whether you care or not. A couple of weeks ago I was invited to do a guest blog post on Holdin’ Holden, which you can check out here. I just joined the faculty of (I’m like the hot substitute teacher, minus the hot part); my first lesson can be viewed here. I’ve also been listening to Def Leppard the entire time it took to pass this colon clump of a post and have added six new pins to the doll labeled “John Mayer.”