Search Term Bingo And The Revenge Of The Hamster Skin Codpiece

Time again for SEARCH TERM BINGO, little babies. If you don’t know how this works, here it is: people discover this website via some of the strangest search terms one could imagine. I pluck these search terms out of obscurity and dissect them for gits and shiggles.

Let us begin.

oatmeal fetus

If I ever find a fetus in my oatmeal, I’m going to kick that old creepy grandmother on all the boxes of Quaker Oats and knock that big black hat right off her head.

Also, “oatmeal fetus” sounds like something I would see in a David Lynch movie. ERASERHEAD II: THE OATMEAL FETUS IN THE RADIATOR. David Lynch, you so silly.

hamster skin codpiece

That sounds kind of nice.

Okay, wait, wait, hear me out.

You ever held a hamster? Soft, fuzzy little guys. I’ve never held one against my junk or anything (well, there was that one time in Petsmart, but I was fnorked to the gills on PCP), but I’m betting dollars to dingos that it would be wonderful. At long as the little guy doesn’t get nibbly. So, the next logical step would be to harvest a dozen hamsters for their skin and use the “hamster leather” to make a codpiece. Right?

It’s not like Jesus doesn’t make more hamsters every day. That shit’s right there in the Bible. “And lo, Jesus turned the temple whores into hamsters.” Besides, you ask me, the world has too many damn hamsters. Those little fuzzy-nuts have had it too good for too long.

pretty girls named janae clapping their vaginas

I don’t know why, but this calls to mind some really weird-ass variant of Double-Dutch, except instead of using jump-ropes, they’re jumping over really long vaginas.

You also don’t get to say that very often. “Really long vaginas.” Because that’s generally not how we measure the vagina, is it? We measure it by its grip, really. “That vagina is very tight.” Or, “That vagina is like a breathy grotto from whence an unholy cloud of bats may pour out.” But long? You don’t get that very often. Still, if you’re clapping vaginas, you’d think that the labia would have to have to be like open-palmed hands.

Also, that’s probably the weirdest search term I’ve ever gotten. Top Ten, at least.

Slap slap slap.

You go, Janae One, Janae Two.

You clap those va-choo-chas.

drunk moms peeing

Porn is getting chopped up into dicier niches every day. “Drunk Moms Peeing” isn’t even that weird anymore. Glance around the ‘Net you’ll find single-serving porn sites like:

Men Who Ride Giraffes Naked And Who Are In Turn Ridden By Monkeys In Diapers

Napping Lesbians

Dildos Shaped Like Forgotten Politicians Used To Grout Bathroom Tile

Chicks Dressed Like Spider-Man Banging Dudes Dressed Like Spider-Man

Buttocks Covered In Poison Ivy

Dead Porn Stars

Waffle Dick

when i cut my beard it is hard for me to pee

Uhhh. Wh… what kind of beard are we talking about? Because mine’s on my face. And I don’t pee out of my mouth. I mean, unless you count these blog posts, which are pretty much that.

my baby northern mockingbird isn’t pooping

That is the single strangest euphemism for “erectile dysfunction” ever.

piss lightning shit success

This is the name of my new self-help book. “Piss, Lightning, Shit — Success!”

It will have a followup: “Jizz, Fire, Burrito — Profit!”

is batman a pitcher or catcher

Questions like this are why the Internet was invented by Jesus and William Gibson and Al Gore in a closed session atop Mt. Rushmore. I’ll submit the question first to you, my inestimable audience.

Batman: pitcher or catcher?

The easy answer is “pitcher.” Lot of pent-up shit, that guy. But then sometimes you hear about those powerful CEOs who go to dominatrices to have cigarettes put out on their inner thighs because they like to cede control for awhile, so you kinda wonder if Batman takes rather than gives. I await your answers.

why is my wife a dickface

Probably because you’re a fuckweed. If you would stop being such a massive pube-hair, your wife would have to be less of a dickface to compensate for your utter shitheadedness.

does baby r us sell super soakers?

Because that’s how we feed babies nowadays. Bottles just get easier and easier! Time to administer formula directly to their mouths and out through their buttholes with the new Formula One Super-Soaker. Just hose down your baby with a gallon of formula. Make ‘im big and strong. Like Paul Bunyon. Or that guy who was so hella fat they had to tear the roof off his trailer to get him out.

fancy words to use at random times

“Here you go, sir, your dry cleaning. That’ll be ten dollars and –“

“BOMBASTILOQUENT!”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“VERISIMILITUDE!”

“Uhhh.”

“RESPLENDENT PERSPICACITY!”

“Just take your goddamn trousers. I got the skid-stains out, weirdo.”

“ENCHANTE!”

i’ve eaten so much plastic

Man, me too. Anytime I see plastic, I’m all like, “I want that inside my body.” And I eat the shit out of it. My intestinal tract is lined with plastic nibblings. Food just slides through and comes out the other side, still pretty much intact. Goddamn I’ve eaten so much plastic. Credit cards. Pen caps. Ziploc bags. I ate a whole roll of Saran Wrap the other day. Just gobbled it up. It was horrible. Why do I keep doing this?

IT DOESN’T EVEN TASTE GOOD

Oooh an old Ace of Base CD!

om nom nom

crunch crunch crunch

I CANNOT STOP

what do testicles look like on the inside

Every testicle is like a snowflake, friend. They all look different on the inside.

Mine, for instance, are quite roomy. Together they look like a mod 1960s bachelor pad with a bar that looks like a gleaming rocket. The bartender is a naked lady wearing shiny hip reflectors and an all-glass astronaut helmet. She makes a great Moscow Mule. You hear that? That’s right. “The Girl From Ipanema.” I so love all these pastels. Who wants some petit fours? Oh ho ho, JFK, you’re so funny even though you’re dead!

totorial on how to shoot wendig

The word is “tutorial,” lackwit.

…wait, maybe that’s why you’re looking for instruction on shooting me.

Hmm. Okay, I’ll cop to that. I’m a bit of a pedagogue. I got that word right, yeah? I want to make sure it’s the word that means “strict teacher” and not “guy who touches kids.”

Anyway, sure, you want to shoot me. Here’s how. First you have to find me. I’m probably at the liquor store. I might be hiding in the freezer case, guzzling chilled pinot grigio. Wait till I fall asleep — it’s inevitable, I nap like, every 20 minutes or so — and then take aim at my head and fire.

You should use a really quality weapon.

The best brand, I find, is NERF.

Yep. Use Nerf. Uhhh. Totally deadly, those Nerf darts. Fatal when touched.

chuck wendig in the shower

Now we’re talking. That’s a sexy search term. Me in the shower. Washing my beard with a fist full of Suave body wash. Getting in all those manly nooks and crannies. Using a porous whetstone to scrape all the barnacles free from my body and shed my reptilian undercoat. Yeah. Yeah. That’s right. You like my spinal bone spurs. You like my twin crotch-snakes, one of darkness, one of light, each wrestling for control of the world’s fate. Nnnngh. So hot. So wet.

wendig day sex husband

Boy, everything’s just “coming up Wendig,” innit?

This one might be a puzzler to you Americans, which is why I have chosen to include it. Like “the Hoff,” I am very popular in Europe. Over there, they have this thing called “Wendig Day,” and on that day I play the roll of “Sex Husband” (it sounds sexier in German), which is kind of like an erotic and adulterous Santa Claus-type figure? It makes more sense if you’re high. Anyway, so they have this parade, and I come sauntering out in my assless lederhosen and my alpine hat with the peacock feather, and then I give a good deep dicking to all the housewives who have lined up along the Rue de Sexy-Sexy (aka Der Bangenstrasse).

It’s a fun day! You should book a flight.

how to read expiration dates on zachary

Did you turn him over? The date is on his foot. No, no, I know, it’s a little confusing.

The year comes first! Four-digit, not two. That’s where people mess up, I think. The bad news is, Zachary’s expiration date has long been up. Which explains why he smells like spoiled yogurt. Further, it explains why the howling soul-demons are hounding his every step, trying to drag him into Hell where that past-due motherfucker belongs. Were I you, I’d stay the hell away from Zachary.

For reals.

what ails you volleyball?

“Syphilis,” said the volleyball. “I bumped rubber with a dirty kickball beneath the underpass. Now I got the syph. But bad. Don’t tell my wife. And my little baby shuttlecocks.”

letter to baby in wombat

I’m going to go ahead and safely assume you meant “womb,” not “wombat,” but just in case, here would be the letter I would write to that wombat-ensconced baby:

Dear Baby,

Get the hell out of that wombat.

You don’t know where that wombat has been.

If you don’t get out of that wombat right now I am going to leave you in that wombat and drive home and then you’ll never see me again and you and the wombat can have crazy adventures.

You stupid, stupid baby.

Love,

Chuck “Sex Husband” Wendig

will chocolate melt in anus?

It will. Which is good, generally, because that means it won’t stay up there and you won’t have yet another serious of embarrassing X-Rays. “Sorry, doc. It’s an Almond Joy.”

Still, maybe you want a chocolate that melts in your mouth, not in your ass.

Check out Reese’s Feces. The candy favorite of anally-fixated extra-terrestrials across the galaxy!

tits force mission

Man, I used to love this cartoon when I was a kid. I’d get up real early on a Saturday morning and I’d hear that theme song starting. Remember that theme song?

TITS FORCE MISSION

GONNA GET THE CALL

TITS IN DANGER! AT THE LOCAL MALL!

TITS FORCE MISSION

GONNA SAVE THE WORLD

SLAMMING EVIL! AS THEIR TITS UNFURL!

TITS FORCE MIIIISSSIIIIIIOOOON…!

*rad keytar lick*

Such an awesome show. Remember how the team leader, Johnny Tits-on-the-Bottom, would send out laser beams from his nipple-covered keytar? Fuck yeah. And how he had that little space monkey who followed him around? What was that monkey’s name again? I always call him “sweater monkey,” but that’s not it…

Oh, right! The Oh-Bang-O-Tang! Or “Bango The Space Monkey.”

I hear they’re making it into a movie. With Leo DiCaprio playing Johnny Tits-on-the-Bottom.

And Kathy Bates as Bango.

the writing machine of god

It’s called the world. The world is God’s typewriter. And we are his characters.

Actually, I’m just kidding. Just trying to be profound.

God writes on a Tandy 1000 SX.

27 comments

  • I had a blocked tear duct until I read this post. I cried with laughter and it cleared.

    Everyone in the office was looking at me funny (more so than usual).

  • “Reese’s Feces.” I’m going to be laughing about that one all day, for sure.

    And for proof that Batman’s a pitcher, look no further than Robin. There’s no doubt which position the boy wonder plays, and no dynamic duo can have two catchers.

  • How I love the search term bingo. It reminds me exactly how inane the interwebz can be.

    Though I hate to admit it I suspect the “totorial on how to shoot wendig” may in fact be the search of an illiterate Supernatural fan looking for a “tutorial on how to shoot a wendigo.” Unless you are in fact a mythological cannibalistic man beast. You do live in the woods…

    *Joins josin in backing away slowly*

  • Thanks for this on a Monday, it busted my shit up.

    Seriously, it came out like Oreo cookie crumble.

    The last Fiction challenge on your site, someone linked to me through “fack my wife in Dubai”

    I love the information age

  • My other half got so annoyed at the half-wailing-tribeswoman half-hysterical-cacawing sounds issuing from my gullet that started building at “perspicacity” and crescendoed at “Dear Baby, Get the hell out of that wombat,” that he stomped grumpily to the shower.

    SUCCESS — THY NAME IS “DAY SEX”

  • Thanks a lot, Wendig. This post just triggered a flood of flashbacks from my LSD-dropping days of college. Now I have to see my shrink again.

    A hamster and a talking vagina told me I can send the bill to a bearded, plastic-eating sex husband, whatever that means.

    Now my Monday is even more fucked up.

  • This post should come with the warning: “Diaper Alert! This post may contain material that causes spontaneous bowel movements!”

    Because I laughed (almost) that hard.

    Thanks, Chuck. You’re better than freebasing caffeine this morning.

  • That was fucking awesome.

    Oh, and yes. Batman’s the pitcher. Much as I love him, the dude has control issues. He ain’t gonna bend over and take it – he’ll make YOU bend over and take it.

  • So, there I am, sitting down to my breakfast of blueberry oatmeal and about to chat with my friend Janae (see above, hi, Janae!) when I read this post.

    I…

    Excuse me. I think I’ll make something else for breakfast and avoid said friend for a while.

    Also… slap, slap, slap, slap…

  • The black-hatted person on the oatmeal box is William Penn, assuming you’re thinking of Quaker Oats and not some other brand with a black-hatted person on the box.

    /knowing is half the battle …

    • Strictly speaking, the man on the Quaker Oats box is not William Penn, or so says the Quaker Oats people.

      That being said, I know it’s not some grandmother — it was a joke. :)

      — c.

  • Love, love, love the Search Term Bingo. Thanks for making my day…although now my kiddos are going to ask why I’m laughing all day and I won’t be able to tell them. It’s okay though…they already think I’m insane.

Speak Your Mind, Word-Nerds