Auld Lang Search Term Bingo

It’s the New Year. Which feels like a good time to revisit my favorite past-time: SEARCH TERM BINGO.

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.

This is distinctly NSFW.

Please to enjoy.

how writers deal with angry wives

Two words: Bear mace. You heard it here first. Wife comes in. She’s all cranky. She’s like, “Caw caw caw, you forgot to feed the children! You pooped in the sink! All you do is write write write! You never tend to my needs!” And then you fumigate her with a stream of bear mace. FOOM. And then she divorces you and probably calls the police and she also takes half of everything, which because you’re a writer means she gets 16 dry lentils, half a chewed-up pen, a ferret, and a bucket full of brothel tokens.

Alternate theory: maybe if you weren’t such a dipshit she wouldn’t be angry. Assface.

making my own Frankenstein

Okay, technically Frankenstein was the doctor. You know, the dude who made the monster. I don’t recommend making him. Frankly, that guy was kind of a dick. Total God complex.

One assumes, however, that you’re making the monster. To which I say: good for you, and if you need body parts, I got ’em cheap. I have some real off-the-rack stuff, too. Like a duodenum.

Who has two thumbs and a spare duodenum? This guy.

Actually, come to think of it, I have more than two thumbs. I have a whole tray of the damn things. They’re just rolling around like loose marbles. They’re starting to smell, so you can have ’em cheap.

By the way, don’t think you need lightning or anything. This is the year 2010 2011. This is the future. These days, you just need a couple car batteries and a cattleprod to get that sumbitch up and walking around. I have like, three Frankenstein monsters toddling around my woods right now. They mostly just bump into shit and bite each other, but it’s still pretty fun. You know, for the kids.

gussy squart

Ahh, good ol’ Gussy Squart — Wild West six-shootin’ bank robbin’ cake bakin’ prostitute outlaw! Cantankerous! With a mouth that tastes of scorpion venom and one eye that always winks. She’s got garters made of sand vipers and an old noose still around her neck. You best watch out for Gussy Squart. She’ll shoot you dead between your eyes and steal your penis to sell to the Devil, she will.

No, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

there’s a cold going around

I love this phrase. You hear it in winter. “There’s a cold going around.” Yeah. No kidding. It’s fucking wintertime. I’ll make a risky bet and say that I suspect there’s more than one cold going. Maybe two, even three! It creates this weird false sense of solidarity. You’ll be at a family gathering, you’ll cough, and Uncle Morty says, “Oh, you got that cold? I had that a few months ago.” Well, fuck you, Doctor Morty. Thanks for being Ground Zero for my lung plague. I’m going to invent a time machine and go back in time to destroy you, thus ensuring that I never get that one cold going around. You jerk.

oh fuck no

Oh fuck yes.

balloon-juice

I don’t know what this means. I only know that it has some vaguely grotesque sexual connotation that I cannot for the life of me pinpoint. I cannot help but picture some sweaty late 40s sleazeball who smells like hoagie oil and cider vinegar, and he’s all like, “Heh heh heh, you want a little balloon-juice?”

And then? You hit him with bear mace. FOOSH.

i got my husband a beard head

And I’m sure he appreciates it. What… ever it is.

lagunitas cappuccino stout gives me gas

So that’s you I’m smelling over here. I’m all like, “So what smells like someone took a beer shit in a Starbucks latte?” and it’s you. Well done. By the way, here’s a tip: just don’t drink that stout anymore.

some people are afraid of clits

And some people are fucking crazy. The clit is nothing to fear. The clit is wonderful! The clit is like a little weeble wobble. The clit is a cute little mouse poking her head out of the wall. The clit is equal parts “magic jellybean” and “button that, when pressed, brings a rain of candy that falls on the heads of the just and unjust alike.” What the hell are you afraid of? It’s not going to bite. It’s not a goddamn Moray Eel. Calm down. Learn to love the clitoris. The clitoris is your friend, not your enemy.

dipshit husbands

Guilty as charged.

i just beard-raped you

Wow. Holy shit. Uhh. Okay. I think we need to break this down a little.

First, no you didn’t. I’m sure I’d know it if you did.

Second, what does that even mean? Like, you stuck your dick in somebody’s beard? Or you stuck your beard in somebody’s dick? I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s a colloquial term like, you held down your roommate and gave him a beard-burn on his tummy? Which, for the record, is really weird.

Third and also for the record, rape is maaaaybe just a little overused as a colloquialism, don’t you think? “Our team got raped today on the field.” One assumes this is not true, given that they were not sexually assaulted against their will. Of course, were you to say, “Our team got murdered today on the field,” somehow that doesn’t feel as wrong. Wonder why that is? I blame that cold that’s going around.

special forces beard growth secret

What’s awesome about beards is that they can never be kept secret. You cannot hide the beard. The beard is self-evident. It’s literally in your face. Special Forces, special as they may be, can’t keep that kind of secret. I don’t know why they’d want to keep it hidden, either. You want to terrorize your enemies, you do it with your SPECIAL FORCES BEARD OF DEATH. Braid bullets into the hair. Paint it with the blood of your enemies. Stick leaves in it and use it as camouflage.

too much active voice in fiction writing

True that. You know what else? Too many awesome, active characters in fiction. Frankly, you ask me, there’s just too much good writing going around. Me? I say, more passive voice. And characters that we hate. And books that are written by Snooki. Welcome to the publishing trends of 2011. Boo-yay.

sphincter won’t open

Did you try a crowbar? A speculum? A ferret?

Give me a call. I know a guy. A little WD-40 and some C4 and he’ll have that sphincter open in no time.

goosebumps thrill pussy

I love their music. I particularly love their new song:

laser jane fuck hard

I smell another t-shirt. Not coincidentally, I also smell jet engine lubricant and a piquant erminey odor.

I don’t know who Laser Jane is, by the way. One wonders if she’s a G.I. Joe character.

where do they use the bathroom in ghost adventures

Really? This is what you’re wondering about that show? Not, “Is it real?” Not, “What’s the creepiest thing they caught on camera?” Not, “How does Zak Bagans manage to keep that emo kewpie haircut in place?”

It’s a TV show. They probably use a bathroom. Christ, they probably have a buffet table set up by craft services just outside the lockdown. They don’t just defecate on the floor like dogs. It’s not like you see Zak carrying around a thermos and he’s just whizzing in it all night long.

Actually, I can kind of see that.

Or maybe they just wear diapers. Black leather GHOST ADVENTURES diapers. With sterling silver skull pins holding it together. Makes sense, given how often it looks like they’re voiding their bowels in fear.

aaron from ghost adventures is a pussy

Wow, that’s kinda harsh, don’t you think? I mean, it’s probably true, but harsh. Aaron, that poor bastard. Aaron is actually my favorite of the bunch. They always stick that sad sumbitch in the worst places by himself. “Dude. Bro. This is the floor where the Satan worshippers cut off the heads of 60 children, and now every night the demon-ghosts of those 60 children rise up out of the floorboards and rip off the ears of anybody standing there. Aaron, you’re going to be here all night by yourself.”

words we no longer use

“Flangtrop.” “Snargometer.” “Rimpleteat.”

ducky fat eyes

HEY. Who said you could call me that? Nobody’s called me that since Martha Stewart Craft Camp. “Har har har, Ducky Fat Eyes doesn’t know how to macrame,” they’d say, and then my eyes would ooze duck confit and the room would smell like goose grease and they’d all stab at my face with their crocheting needles and lick them. Those were hard years for me. Hard years. Ducky Fat Eyes. You animal.