Sunday, October 5, 2014

What Would Jesus Do? Rollback Prices!


If Jesus came back today, he’d probably wind up working at Walmart.

In this economy, and with his sketchy work history and lack of formal education, the King of Kings would almost certainly have to settle for minimum wage. Let’s face it, healing lepers isn't exactly a marketable skill these days; besides, there’s no reason those whiny fuckers can’t get off their blotchy asses and get a full time job with health insurance like everyone else. Whether by Medicaid or Son of God, free healthcare creates a false sense of entitlement and that shit is everything that’s wrong with America. Well, that and the gays. Luckily Jesus’s healthy affinity for hookers would at least keep him from being accused of that heinous crime against Capitalism, despite his secretive, all-male dinner parties.

Those sanctimonious sausagefests would be short-lived anyway,  as once our Heavenly Host got a few glasses of wine in him he would become belligerent: righteously proclaiming his dad is better than everyone else’s, and calling for toasts celebrating that the guests were unwittingly participating in cannibalism.

Jesus’s divine parlor trick with the eternal loaf of bread would be a hit with pigeons the world over, but anyone with any sense is trying to watch their carbs these days. And that water into wine thing is neat and all, but the world is running out of fresh water fast and oldboy’s over there turning perfectly good Aquafina into fucking Boone’s Farm.

Quickly becoming a social outcast, Jesus would probably turn to the holier-than-thou hobby of trolling the internet, shamelessly smiting blasphemers in comment sections on every corner of the World Wide Web.

The Beloved would thrive, however, as a greeter in the godforsaken entryway of the local Walmart, where he’d be stationed in an exploitative P.R. stunt by the almighty acne-stricken assistant manager. Despite the toothless gawks as he waves his holey hand to entering and exiting guests, he would be revered for his kind demeanor; though he would suffer a write-up or two to appease a few creeped out customers, to whom he’d profess his unending love as they shamble to the Dorito’s aisle.

While Jesus met his doom during his first go-round with mankind on Good Friday, his demise in the 21st century would come on the most sacred and cherished of modern days: Black Friday.

In a futile attempt to bring peace and goodwill to the Superstore, the Savior would be trampled to death by crusading shoppers, who rejected his Word that there were enough bargained-priced Keurigs for everyone. The fallen Messiah would be martyrized by Fox News as another casualty of the War on Christmas. Walmart would issue a statement that the company was devastated by the Divine Son’s death, and in tribute they would Rollback prices on both Bibles and flat screen LCD TV’s.

And on Cyber Monday the heavens would open wide, and the middle finger of God would extend to all the Earth, and the whole of humanity would be damned; for a demon spawn would spew forth from the cooch of a Kardashian, dooming the world to an eternity of reality TV meltdowns, anal bleaching, and gluten-free pizza crusts.

 Amen, and shit.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Real Women Have… an Inferiority Complex?

I spend a lot of time bitching about oversensitive jerkoffs on the internet.  I do it because, well, complaining is kind of my thing, and I prefer to do it while not wearing pants. Plus, what the fuck else is there to blog about, bumper stickers? Pffffft. 

I'm constantly criticizing all of the keyboard killjoys out there that are so quick to cry butthurt over every stupid little thing that could possibly, through some warped invocation of Six Degrees of Separation, offend Kevin Bacon.  

You mad, bro?

But I have a confession to make: I have become one of the crotchety old crybabies. And the imaginary issue that zaps the sand in my vagina into bitter shards of glass is the Real Women Have Curves campaign.

And the common sense to never ask a stranger when their baby is due.

Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I hadn’t been blessed with the body of a 13 year old boy, but honestly both sides of the calorie-counting coin tend to grind my protruding pelvic bone. But then again, that pointy fucker rubs against everything. Seriously, ouch.

I realize the “Only Dogs Like Bones” propaganda is supposed to be payback for society’s alleged love affair with skeletal fashion models. A love affair which, I would dare say, doesn’t even exist outside of the fashion industry anyway. And the misrepresentation of the average woman is such a new thing, right? It’s certainly a far cry from the good ole’ days of wholesome, curvier sex symbols. You know, like Marilyn Monroe.

Why the hell are we basing a woman’s worth on her body measurements anyway? There are plenty of more pressing matters to pass judgment upon. For instance, does she like Nickelback? Is she a Nascar fan? Does she watch Grey’s Anatomy? There’s no need to deem a woman inferior based on something as trivial as her weight when there are so many better, non-aesthetic reasons to completely despise that bitch.

All women are unique, and every single one of us is beautiful.

The hair on the mole of her third chin is simply stunning.

"Real" women are tall, short, heavy, thin, black, white, gay, straight, rich, poor; really anyone that doesn’t have a grotesque appendage dangling between their legs that drains them of all common sense. Seriously…  I’m mostly straight and all, but let’s face it: penises aren't exactly adorable.


I’m not trying to go all “angry feminist” with this post. either. I might burn my bras on occasion, but only because I get cold and my itty bitty chestnuts don't really need the support anyway. No, I’m just sick of constantly being told to “eat a damn sandwich” when I don’t even have a pretty little wife to make me one.

I realize men have to deal with annoying body image misrepresentations as well. You rarely see pudgy or balding men modeling suits or the latest designer line of man purses.  But where’s the backlash, boys? I mean, I’ve yet to see a “Real Men Have Beer Guts” movement. So why do women do this to each other?

We’re all up in arms about some political “War on Women”, yet we’re too busy arguing about what constitutes an adequate amount of body fat to stand up for our poor repressed, under-appreciated, over-legislated, yet gloriously resilient vaginas.

Ladies, it’s time we quit shaming each other based on ridiculous notions of size and beauty and just embrace our differences. I realize properly embracing someone that has really big boobs without seeming all pervy can be kind of difficult, but if we can squeeze small humans out of our vaginas I'm pretty sure we can manage a group hug with only the appropriate level of groping. 

So, consider this a call to action. Let's Unite our Uteruses! And I don’t mean that as a pitch for the next film in The Human Centipede franchise. Unless they want to buy it, then they should totally call me.  Seriously, I’m not busy at all.

One in three gets a free fisting!

All I’m trying to say is, can we stop with the body shaming shit already? Beauty does not have a size. It does, however, have PMS from hell once in a while and you’d better not fuck with it if you'd prefer to keep your balls intact. 

*DISCLAIMER: Turd Mountain is an equal opportunity offender, and recognizes transgender individuals’ beauty as well. However, the Nickelback rule still applies. 

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Words of Wisdom From the Pot (to the Kettle)

You know all those sappy, disgustingly inspiring articles or blog posts that get passed around the internet like <insert dumb and slightly disgusting simile here>? That shit is nauseating, and it makes us insignificant bloggers that simply post pointless vulgarity extremely jealous. Which also makes me nauseous. Although I do have IBS and an anxiety disorder; pretty much everything makes me kind of sick. Except Pizza Rolls. Those fuckers are delicious.

I can’t understand why this phenomenon of all slightly encouraging bullshit instantly going viral hasn’t hit Turd Mountain yet. Even my heartfelt (and oddly well received) cheap shot at veganism didn’t get nearly the number of views that some patronizing filth about building a perfect marriage did. And don’t even get me started on the rebuttal to a response to a tweet about an open letter to Miley Cyrus. But, I digress.

In an attempt to join the trend of telling everyone everything they’re doing all wrong, I’ve decided to write a helpful guide to surviving depression. You’re welcome.

Remember that annoying “Chicken Soup for the_______ Soul” trend? Well, consider this post a Laxative for the Bound-Up Brain. Maybe Words of Hope for the Hopelessly Depressed. Or, something to skim through to kill three minutes that won’t make you need to punch a fucking unicorn in its stupidly cheerful face.

So without further ado-doo, here are a few tips to lift you from dejected and miserable to a comfortable state of so-so:

-Find something positive in every situation. Start small! “Hey, right now I don’t want to kill myself” tends to remind us of all the reasons we really do want to, and all of our congratulatory self-talk goes down the shitter. Find a way to celebrate what you’re already achieving. “Hey, if I didn’t have crippling social anxiety and could actually join a yoga class, I bet my instructor would be super impressed with my ability to hold the fetal position for three days on end!” Now that is optimism you can’t argue with yourself about! Unless you said it all snotty-like. Then you kind of have it coming.

I am so in tune with my body right now.

-Hoard animals. Chances are you’ll be too busy cleaning up piss and puke to dwell on your misery. Plus you’ll never have to wonder if anyone gives two shits, because chances are you’ll find at least that many in your shoes.

-Drink vodka. Forget that whole “alcohol is a depressant” thing. More vodka is consumed in Eastern Europe and Russia than anywhere else in the world, and honestly, when you think of the happiest places on Earth doesn’t Yakustk immediately come to mind?

Eat your heart out, Disney World.

-Keep your therapy appointments. Spending an hour a week having a stranger uncomfortably stare at you while you try to choose the right lies to keep your ass out of the loony bin again will make you realize things could always be worse. You could have to do that shit twice a week.

-Start a blog centered around dick and fart jokes, thereby luring strangers into reading the pathetic details of your personal life. This will give you an inflated sense of self-worth, that will only come crashing down when you realize the only beings that can stomach you at your worst are your cats, and that’s just because they’re giant whores that will gladly dole out a snuggle or two in exchange for a full food dish and a clean box to poop in. (See “animal hoarding”.) But until then, you matter!

-Invest all your money in pajamas. It’s impossible to hate the world when you’re wearing fleece Hello Kitty jammies. And if you get ambitious and decide to clean yourself, what better than another pair of supercute cozies to change into? It’s like a slumber party all for you! Don’t be embarrassed; nobody’s coming to visit. Not now, not ever.

-Take pills. Lots and lots of pills. But get them from your doctor. They have the good shit. Sometimes the side effects even include "delusions of grandeur" and wouldn't that be a nice change of pace?

So, that’s it. Just follow these easy steps and you’ll be almost functional in no time! I’d give you examples of all the great things I’ve accomplished lately, but my lawyer has strictly advised against posting anything about my personal life until a few things are, um, settled. But I assure you, I’ve never been happier. You can trust me. Hey... if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.

Please kill me.

A bonus tip for my fellow weak writers out there-- End with a quote from somebody far more articulate than you could ever dream to be. For example, I can think of no public figure so inspiring to wrap up this piece of worthless drivel than the great prophet Mike Tyson: "I'm on the Zoloft to keep me from killing y'all."

If only we could all be so well adjusted.

**Legal Disclaimer: Kimmy is not a mental health professional, she’s just a professional at needing mental help. Do not actually follow any of her advice. Ever.  Please drink responsibly. Any accounts or descriptions of this blog without the express written consent of the National Football League are prohibited. And always stop, drop, and roll. Dicks.