Search Term Bingo Don’t Give A Shit


Man, it’s been a while since I did me up a Search Term Bingo. You know why? Because, I gotta be honest, the search terms coming in to this site have been… disappointing, at best. It’s either people searching for content about writing advice (booooo-riiiiing) or really trite searches for pornography — big dick, donkey dick, goat porn, and so on. One supposes I brought this upon myself. After all, here in this bloggery-space I speak frequently about writing, doling out dubious advice to any who will listen, and further, I do so with great sticky gobs of pornographic language.

Still. Given a long enough period of time, some truly absurd search terms still have managed to float into my analytics page, and thus I give them to you for your abemusement (not a word).

Please to enjoy another incarnation of Search Term Bingo.

pictures of bingo tattoo on ass

This — this — is forethought. See, my biggest concern about getting a tattoo (besides the fact my father once told me and my friends that you never get a tattoo because if you ever have to kill somebody that’s how “they” will find you) is that, man, when you get old, that shit might look nasty. I get an anchor on my arm, by the time I’m 80 years old that thing’ll look like it was made of chocolate and got left in the sun long enough to a) melt and b) get skin cancer. It’s worse you get a tat in less, erm, public places. That tramp stamp of a thorny vine now looks like a tangled briar full of skin tags. That tasteful butterfly on your boob starts to resemble something out of a Salvador Dali painting (“is it dripping? Am I on mescaline again?”).

I mean, how do you explain that to your Grandkids? Last week, and this is for real, I went to baby class with a dude who had a kick-ass almost full-arm ink-job of the Predator. Except then I’m thinking, geez, when this guy’s like, 79, what’s he going to tell all the grandkids? “That scary motherfucker is Predator! Predator gonna hunt you! He’s invisible! Eat your Wheaties! Stop stealing my teeth!”

After that, all the kids are just like, “Dude, Grandpaw has lost his shit. And he smells like pee.”

But, you getcherself a bingo tattoo — bingo board, chips, etc.– suddenly you’re hot shit at the Old Folks Home. “Didja hear? Old Lady McGee has a bingo card tramp stamp. That Debbie McGee is a cup of tea!”

cooking light magazine screams at you

Do magazines scream at you? Really? Like, actually yell? “Hey! HEY! HEY HEY HEY! Raaaar!” Right from the magazine rack? You might wanna check your meds there, hoss.

And, frankly, even if magazines did scream, I don’t know that I ever imagined Cooking Light to be the type. I kind of envision Cooking Light to be a fairly polite magazine. A light clearing of the throat, a soft and gentle entreaty to buy, perhaps a golf-clap should you decide to procure.

What the hell does it yell? YOU! YEAH YOU! BUY MY SHIT! YOU’RE A FAT TUB OF FUCK YOU FUCK! YOU NEED SOME LOW CAL VITTLES, YOU TUMESCENT TURD-BOX. WHAT DO YOU JUST EAT HOT DOGS AND BIRD SUET ALL DAY? YOU SMELL LIKE SAUSAGE! YOU BETTER COOK LIGHT OR YOUR HEART’S GONNA POP LIKE A ZIT! PBBBT!

I guess if you ever walk by a magazine rack and you see someone just weeping next to a copy of Cooking Light, now you know why. A very rude magazine, that Cooking Light.

boozing out my wife

My favorite thing about weirdo search terms is how often they’re poorly or oddly phrased. I don’t know if it’s a translational issue or people are, I dunno, just dumb as a sack of kickballs, but “boozing out my wife?” What does that mean? You fill your wife with tequila, spring a hole in her with a crochet needle, then drink the booze that squirts from the puncture wound? She’s not a balloon. I mean, unless she is? Weirdo.

book about judge who can suck the spirit

That’s my favorite book. It’s the latest from Stephen King and John Grisham: HABEUS CORPSEUS: ADVENTURES OF THE SOUL JUDGE, BOOK ONE. It’s not even out yet, and it’s still my favorite book.

masturbation with beef tongue

See, I just didn’t need that image. And neither did any of you. But that’s just how I roll. When bad shit gets into my brain, the only way I can feel better is if I shake my head like a dog with an ear infection and get a little on you. Now you have to live with the image and it’s your curse to either keep it to yourself and go cuh-razy, or share with others. It’s like an Internet meme version of THE RING.

college sucks unicorn

Is “sucks unicorn” part of the new lingo? “Man, that new movie sucks unicorn!” “Mom, this Beef Stew is so bad, it sucks unicorn!” Except maybe it’s like, the opposite — so, if something sucks, it’s bad, but if something sucks unicorn, it’s really awesome. Because college was great. College was all booze and orgies and reasonable grade-point-averages. College totally sucked unicorn.

You heard it here first. If something sucks unicorn, then it is actually really rad.

when your family won’t read your novel

“When?” Heh. Hah. Yeah. Your family won’t read your novel. At least, not if you’re me.

“Mom, I wrote this hyper-violent book about vampires and zombies.”

“That’s nice, muffin.”

“Mom, you never call me muffin. What’s up?”

“THAT’S BECAUSE I’M THE SOUL JUDGE, MOTHERFUCKER! RAAAOOOOWR! READ COOKING LIGHT MAGAZINE!”

energy drink enema

That will fucking kill you. It’ll just — I mean, seriously, don’t do that. If you’re shoving a can of Four Loko up your keister and doing hand-stands to get a fast buzz, just go buy some meth. I’m not condoning meth use. I am, however, condoning meth use over jacking up your colon with a ice-cold flush of Red Bull. Neither’s a good choice, but at least with the meth you’ll get a lot of vacuuming done.

what sexual favor would you do for money

Uhh, hello, I’d do them all.

You didn’t specify the amount of money, did you? High enough dollar value, I’ll do whatever crazy sex monkey maneuver you got on the books. The Omaha Steam Vent? The Crispy Parrot? The Albanian Goat Herder? The Garden Weasel? The Filthy McGlinchey? The Winking Narwhal? The Anal Robot? The Eisenhower Lemon? The Cadbury Egg? The “Speak Into The Microphone, Mister Mayor?” The Panna Cotta Di Vida? The Eddie Munster Goes To Church? The Bishop’s Asterisk? The Stinky Ampersand? The Sad Donkey Meets The Happy Rabbit And Together They Destroy Democracy? The Brown Note?

I’ll do ‘em all for the right amount of cashola.

Hell, for ten bucks I’ll do ‘em all twice.

what does goose poop look like

It’s amazing, because the only way I can answer this is by saying, “like goose poop.” Because it’s true. Goose poop looks like nothing else, ever, except goose poop. Goose poop is self-defining.

hunch hunch, what what, buh bo


And seriously, why are you not watching ARCHER?

porn on my milk in my cup of tea porn

I like the symmetry of beginning and ending your weird little poem with “porn.” How artful.

artful sphincter

Well, not that artful, no. The “Artful Sphincter” is the name of my movie review column where I critically destroy pretentious foreign films with words like “poop” and “sack-licker.” Because, y’know, artful.

im in the water and what the fuck is that

IT’S THE SOUL JUDGE.

No, I dunno what it is, c’mon. For reals, I too believe in the power of Google. If I need a recipe, I go to Google. If I need to know when the next SOUL JUDGE book is coming out, I Google that shit. If I’m looking for a step-by-step explanation of how to do the famed sex move, The Elephant Leg Trashcan? Google.

All that being said, if you’re in the water with — well, something, be that something a shark, a gator, a sharkogator, a pugranha, the Pope — then what you need to be doing first in your order of operations is get your stupid ass out of the water. Then — then – Google your little question. If you’re on your smartphone and Googling that while still in the water, you’re totally going to get eaten. Or your orifices are going to be home to the offspring of some kind of mutant catfish. You’re in a horror movie, is what I’m saying, where you’re the dumb guy who gets dead. Google can’t save you now.

buckingham mountain ghost goat stare

Ahh, the fearsome “ghost goat stare.” I remember it so well.

Wait, what? I used to live on Buckingham Mountain (grew up there, and it’s not a mountain but rather, a very large hill), and while I remember ghosts, I do not in fact recall any of them being goats. Especially goats who stare. There was, however, a living goat on Buckingham Mountain. He hung out with a donkey. This isn’t a sexual move, by the way, but rather, an entirely true story. Why is it that donkeys and goats get along? I’ve seen that pairing many times in my travels. And by “travels,” I mean, when I drink Windex and stroke out on my kitchen floor for a couple hours.

books and tits

I smell a new blog name.

Forget “terribleminds.”

This blog is now called “Books And Tits.”

fat guy pink pony

I smell a new sitcom. Or maybe a new sexual move.

beard the fuck on

I want to marry this search term. This is a great exclamation to say to your friends to encourage them.

“John, I’m going to ramp my Vespa over a seven coffins full of bees. Then, when I land, I’m going to speed-write SOUL JUDGE, BOOK 4: MAGUS OPERANDI while hatching a falcon egg in my mouth.”

“You know what I say to that, Steve? I say, beard the fuck on, sir. BEARD THE FUCK ON.”

Yeah.

Beard the fuck on, faithful readers.

Beard the fuck on.

43 comments

  • I’m getting so damn tired of visiting this blog at night, then having to head to Best Buy first thing in the morning to buy a dry keyboard. Not to mention my family giving me goat stares.

    Keep this up and I’m going to have to quit you, Chuck–maybe take up with the fat guy on the pink pony.

  • Man, you have interesting search terms. The only reason people ever stumble across my blog is because they’re searching for Jack Daniel’s. But Jack got me 141 hits last month!

    Beard the fuck on, man. Beard the fuck on.

    • Beard the fuck on, all y’all. BTFO.

      I hope this post really sucks unicorn.

      (@Annaliterally — Jack Daniels, nice. I get hundreds of hits for people searching out “Abby from NCIS.”)

      – c.

    • I should also note I get a ton of hits for “chuck wendig blgo.”

      I assume it’s a misspelling of blog, but it happens so often, it’s weird. Maybe it means something else? BTFO means Beard The Fuck On — what does BLGO mean?

      – c.

  • Beard the Fuck On will now need to join my phrase book, right next to “transexual ewok jester” and “Mournful masturbation”
    Blgo shows nothing other than occasional improper spelling and some company with that as a stock symbol.

  • There’s a new t-shirt coming now, isn’t there?

    “I wanna do laser!”

    “Beard the fuck on!”

    You know, you do enough of these and get people to buy them, we could do a real life video for your search term bingo. A greatest hits, as it were.

  • Your Mom must be related to my parents. My mother tries out of some sense of maternal duty but is 99% of the time underwhelmed and too honest to lie about. My Dad … well you cave in one skull in a shower ambush of naked bloodiness at 15 and he side-eyes you every time you bring up writing. *sigh*

    Beard the Fuck On is the new I Wanna Do Laser. I have declared it, it is so. BTFO MFers!

  • I don’t think my mom even got past chapter 1 of my novella. Although I don’t think she would have liked the book much anyway, so that’s probably for the best.

  • I am incredibly thankful I did not read this at work. My laughter would have annoyed the crap out of the people sitting nearby. Beard the fuck on!

  • You sir are into some kinky shit. I’ve never heard of The Omaha Steam Vent, and neither has the urban dictionary! That’s how crazy it must be. I’ve heard of the Alaskan Pipeline which I’m too prudish to attempt for anything less than… well I’m a gentleman and a gentleman doesn’t post his prices on the internet, but it’s a bit more than $10.

  • lolololol, this is some funnyassshit! Thanks to you, today will totes suck unicorns!
    PS – My mother wouldn’t read my play, either, but secretly I was glad because I didn’t want to have to explain what a “mangina” was.

  • It has always bothered me that the most common Google search that leads people to Robot Viking is, “robot viking.”

    So, you knew the name of the site. You’re aware of the site. But you’re too lazy to bookmark it? Fine. If you’re going to type the name in every damn time, just type it in the url field instead of the search bar! Ctrl-Enter motherfuckers!

    Either that or there’s some kind of cultural zeitgeist about robot vikings going on that I don’t know about it, and I’m entirely too dumb to capitalize on if I did. Damn.

  • After crying from laughing, I sent it to my sister.
    About fifteen minutes later:
    “Good night, Soul Judge!”
    “Beard on, sis. Beard on! You know? These goodie bags are going to suck unicorns. Suck unicorns until their bollocks are sore.”
    “Dude, everyone’s gonna want to bishop asterisk you.”
    “The beard is on, man. The BEARD IS ON.”

  • Wow, Habeus Corpseus: Soul Judge kinda reminds of a bad giallo horror flick I once had the “pleasure” of being subjected to.
    Also, Beard The Fuck On is now my new favorite phrase.

  • Yeah, this was the best way to end my day. I had an audition today to get into Jazz Band, and I think it MAJORLY SUCKED UNICORN! Kind of made my day when I realized that I really hadn’t fucked that shit up. BEARD ON MOTHERFUCKERS!

    My life just got infinitely better.

  • Rick, you’re thinking too small.

    Get a bunch of tshirts, a bunch of well developed women and we can have “Search Term Bingo Greatest Tits.”

    It’ll go better with the new blog title.

  • Your response to “energy drink enema” just about killed me with laughter – seriously, face-hurting, cats-looking-at-me-funny laughing. The three cups of coffee may be partially to blame for that, but at least I didn’t drink them rectally.

  • Guh, have been super busy since the move and am catching up on blogs….. just choked on my oatmeal when I got to I AM THE SOUL JUDGE. I had to scroll so I couldn’t see it anymore because I started coughing again every time I tried to keep reading and saw it. Just, yeah. You are genius.

  • I’m a hard comedic sell; Laurel and Hardy can’t make me laugh, most stand up can’t make me laugh, Monty Python can’t make me laugh, and that Netflix movie about a psychic tire made mind explode with fury.

    I salute you sir: you are an ungentlemanly scholar (my favorite type) and you have just joined the ranks of George Carland and Hunter S. Thompson by making me gasp for breath and roll around on a (rather dirty) floor. Thanks!

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