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 Cracked.com 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 Satirical (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 HorrorHomework.com, 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.

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.