Tag: hahaha (page 5 of 6)

Funny Shit

May 4, 2011 / 13 Comments

WWYD: “What Would Yaga Do?”

I think I’m supposed to be using my bloggery-space today to talk about the death of Osama bin Laden. Eh. Nah. You’ve already heard it all and the great thing is that we live in a country where we’re all allowed to express whatever it is we think, be it triumph or bloodthirst or outrage or fear. For my perspective, I was raised in a house where a kind of frontier justice was the order of the day, so do with that as you will. Even still, today’s post then perhaps comes at a good time, where I decide to turn my old dog’s blissfully ignorant ways into a brand spanking new religious path. Please to enjoy.

The old religions just ain’t cutting it no more. And so I like to let my brain visit the territory of “new religions,” coming up with spiritual paths that have not yet before been seen, imagined, or followed. It’s like, I’ll run into the living room and I’ll yell to my wife: “Tacos! What about a religion based on tacos? It could be, I dunno, Tacoism, or, The Church of Fuck Yeah, Tacos. What do you think? We could write the holy book on a flour tortilla, the words written with grill marks!” And at that point she looks at me like the lunatic I am, and I run off to…well, probably chase moths or gum a light-switch if I know me.

And boy, do I know me.

This time, however, the idea for a religion was not mine, but rather, hers.

We were in the car a day or two after putting our old shepherd, Yaga, to sleep, and we were reminiscing: how she’d chase him around the living room, how he’d eat great muzzle-fuls of snow, how he’d lay under the table and get up suddenly and whack his head on the table without giving a shit. We joked, even with tears in our eyes, about how even though he was gone he’d never be gone because we will endlessly find piles of his hair in untold corners — they’ll blow in like tumbleweeds, a fuzzy reminder of the dog we had, the dog we loved. I even said, hey, if we really wanted, we could just collect some of that dog fur and tape it all together, then stick on a pair of googly eyes and we could have another Yaga — if not a doppelganger, then at least some kind of hairy idol, a graven image of the old beast.

Mostly, though, the talk orbited what a good, sweet, and dopey dog he was.

It was then that she said, “We should aspire to be more like him. Instead of What Would Jesus Do, it could be WWYD, What Would Yaga Do?” It seemed like a good idea. Our modern lives are filled with a number of woes and stresses that are largely manufactured for no other reason than to fill spaces: whether it’s getting angry in traffic or feeling self-conscious about X, Y or Z, we all have our own self-spun stressors.

So, I thought, hell with it. Let’s do it. Let’s print that shit. Let’s get a gospel together and throw together some tenets and — boo-bam — we have ourselves a religion. I always say that those we love gain immortality through our memories, right? Why not take it one step further and make a whole damn religion? That requires, though, that I come up with some precepts based on WWYD, and here they be.

Yagaism. The Gospel According To Goofball. WWYD?

Ignorance Is Truly Bliss

Yaga wasn’t dumb, though you’d think it, sometimes. He’d have this look on his face like… “What? Is something happening? Where am I?” Hell, other times you wouldn’t even glean a confused internal monologue: instead in that stare you’d hear crickets chirping, brooks babbling, a breeze shaking a field of wildflowers. But he wasn’t dumb. He figured things out all the time: doors, baby-gates, how to steal food when nobody was looking.

Instead, I prefer to think of him as blissfully unaware. Life was just easier when he could sit there and pant and stare. Doubly true when allowed to do so outside a car window.

The lesson: sometimes it’s good to turn your brain off. Shut that shit down. Take some time and tune out the noise: the news, social media, work, your nagging inner monologues.

Become the cricket chirp, the brook babble, the wind-in-the-wildflowers.

Pain Is Fleeting

At some point, Yaga must’ve gone from cat to cat and stolen their many lives. He was a stone’s throw from immortal, that dog. Rat poison, chocolate, onions, elk attack, Lyme disease, cancer of the paw, falling down steps, a ride in a cop car. And none of that speaks to the daily indiscretions of Yaga thunking his head on something. He’d stand up or look around and — bam — nail his head into the corner of a TV stand or the underside of a coffee table.

It never fazed him. Even the rat poison. (Not that I recommend feeding your dogs rat poison, mind you. He learned how to open a cabinet and ate a whole box of D-Con. See? He was smart. But also: ignorant.)

The lesson: Do not let pain and indignity affect you. Let it roll off you.

Endure the head-whacks, the elk-attacks, the bellies full of rat-killer.

Sometimes, You Just Gotta Stop And Sniff Some Asses

Asses and crotches, actually. I was told that he was a mix between a Belgian Shepherd and a Chow-Chow, but you ask me, he was a hybrid designer pooch born of a certified Crotch-Hound and Ass-Terrier. Come to think of it, he also had a fondness for smelling the pee-spots of other pups, wherein he was clearly deciphering some secret message left behind by the Subversive Canine Network. I guess that means he was at least 33% German Piss-hund (aka “The Urine Spaniel”), right? Yeah. Point is, he always took time out of his day to suck in a stubborn noseful of urine, crotch, or dog butt.

The lesson: Take some time out of your day to enjoy the little pleasures.

Inhale the sacred pee-fumes, crotch-vapors, and nether-scents.

When In Doubt, Pee On It

Speaking of pee, Yaga frequently contributed his own “golden messages” to the world. Tree? Lawn chair? Shrub? Small child? He’d pee on it. You give him half a chance, he’d pee on the little dog, too — she’d be squatting down and he’d figure, “I’ll add my own secret message to the puddle!” except the only problem was, he was so eager, he’d start up before she was even finished, forcing her to dart out of the way of his incoming stream. Let’s just be thankful she was quick on her feet, yeah?

The lesson: One of two, choose your own.

Either, “Mark your territory and own what’s yours,” or, “Reality is determined by those things upon which you can urinate; if you cannot cast your urine upon it, then it does not exist.”

Behold the golden truth, the gleaming stream, the pee-pee dance of leg-lifting enlightenment.

Life Is Too Short To Poop In One Place

I just can’t stop talking about one’s bodily waste, can I? Well, this is terribleminds, after all. Hey, shut up, it’s relevant. See, Yaga was not a conventional pooper. Your normal dog, well, he’ll find that one magic place to poop and there shall he deposit his little contribution. Yaga, on the other hand, was not content to merely sit still. He walked when he pooped. That’s right. He did what you might term “The Dooky Shuffle,” or, as we sometimes called it, “The Circle of Love.” He’d poop and be all like, “Hey, I want to smell that flower over there,” and so he’d shimmy his way over toward the aforementioned flower, dropping the equivalent of an upended can of syrupy yams as he went. He did this all his life.

The lesson: Life is short so be like the shark (or Snow Shark) — poop forward, or drown. Embrace life and never stop moving. Put differently: don’t let your shit weigh your down.

Unfetter yourself of spatial anchors, heavy weights, needless waste.

Unconditional Love Will Get You Through The Day

Yaga was a beast made of love (and, well, 80 pounds of black, wispy hair that had the ability to choke even the most stalwart of vacuums). He loved anyone and everyone without fear, without condition. A serial killer could kick down the door wearing the skins of our neighbors and Yaga would greet him like that serial killer was a lost uncle deserving of only hand-licks and crotch-nuzzles. I’m sure many found Yaga’s unhindered love unsettling — our other dog, the Taco Terrier, is far more like us as humans. She’s distrustful and uncertain. You come at her with a free hand she’ll wonder what you plan to do with that hand. Something sinister? Probably. Thus it is deserving of scorn.

Yaga had no scorn. Hell, the little dog would sometimes bite his face and he was totally okay with that. Tail wagging even as she clamped down on his slobbery jowl. Because, y’know, man. Love. Sweet love.

The lesson: Love beyond the margins. Love unconditionally. Find trust. Don’t be so pissed off and suspicious all the time. Bliss out. Radiate dopey-faced happy-making kindness.

Exude love despite the facey-bitings, the interlopers, the heaps and mounds of cynicism and distrust.

The Best Thing You Can Do Is Be Near To The Ones You Love

Yaga’s number one goal in life: to be near to those he cared about. He was a Velcro Dog through and through. Wherever you were, well, that’s where he wanted to be. You feel bad now because, at the time, it feels annoying. “Hey, do you mind not being up my ass? I’m trying to do laundry.” “I love you.” “I know you love me, but I need to move and not trip and die.” “I love you so much.” “Fine, yes, I love you too.” “Okay.” He was the canine version of a six-shooter or colostomy bag: forever at your hip.

It was, I suspect, his greatest pleasure. He’d sleep by our door at night. He’d hew close if outside. You move from one room to the next, even in his last days, he’d slowly rouse his numb haunches and follow you.

The lesson: The ones you love and who love you in return are the ones who count.

Become Velcro, duct tape, and super-glue when love is on the line.

WWYD?

Some dude cuts you off in traffic? Ask yourself: WWYD? What Would Yaga Do? He’d love that guy unconditionally. Or pee on his car.

Lose your job? Smash your toe on a house robot? Suffer a breakup? WWYD, motherfucker. He’d ignore the pain. He’d pretend everything was all good. No questions asked, buddy.

Not sure where to go? What to do? Confused? Dub-Dub-Why-Dee. Yaga wouldn’t think twice. He’d just void his bowels and keep on trucking. Long as he’s near the ones he loves, it’ll all work out in the end.

All hail the mighty slack-jawed tongue-wagging prophet.

All hail, Priests of Yagaism.

All sing the hymn of the question, What Would Yaga Do?

Amen, so say we all, and woof-woof.

May 3, 2011 / 120 Comments

Why Writers Drink

“I usually write at night. I always keep my whiskey within reach.”

— Faulkner

*slides glass of whiskey over*

There. That one’s on the house.

Fact: writers drink.

Every writer drinks. Total boozemonkeys to the last. Sure, you say, “But I don’t drink,” except, you probably do. You go to sleep, fugue out, and your writer hindbrain takes over — it’s like flinging open the cage door and letting out an enraged, deranged orangutan. Just because you don’t consciously drink doesn’t mean your crazy orangutan soul isn’t up at 3AM, dousing himself in the mini-bottle of tequila you unknowingly hid in the Holy Bible. So, don’t tell me the story that you don’t drink. Next you’ll try to tell me you have a mannequin for sale that only comes alive at night, when I’m alone with her in a department store.

Man, I’d so bang that mannequin.

What were we talking about?

Right. Writers. Drinky-drinky. You drink. You don’t drink, then you might not be a real writer. Being a real writer isn’t about how much you write in a day or how many books you’ve published. It’s about how big your liver is. Your liver doesn’t look like a lumpy kickball, then you and me, we’re not on the same page.

I get two comments frequently here about this site. One, “You sure do use a lot of profanity.” Well, I’m sorry. Profanity is fun. Profanity is a circus of language where the clowns are all insane and the elephant just stepped on a trapeze artist and something somewhere is on fire. Two, “You sure do talk about drinking.” Well, I’m sorry about that, too. We writers drink, and we like to talk about drinking, and we like to talk about drinking while drinking. It’s just our thing. Deal with it. And drink this while you’re at it.

You want to know why? You want some deeper instruction on the booze-sponge that is the penmonkey?

*clink*

Here goes.

Wistful Poetic Romance

Hemingway’s daiquiri. Faulkner’s mint julep. Stephenie Meyer’s “no-no juice.”

Okay, I’m not really sure about that last one. Point is, writing and drinking have long been paired together, arms locked in a poetic tangle — we envision the writer by his typewriter, a glass of Scotch in one hand, an elephant gun in the other. The whisky lights a peat fire in his belly, sends smoke signals of bright and bitter brine to his head, fills the chambers of his mind with the fermented bullets of inspiration.

It’s absinthe and poetry, brandy and prose, a lovable drunkenness leading to the potency of fiction.

Of course, the reality hits home when it’s 10:30 in the morning and we’re sauced on boxed wine, idly wondering when we got vomit in our own hair (it’s been long enough that it crusted over, a crispy bile-caked cradle-cap). Later we’ll look back at the work we wrote during that time (“Is fluvasham a word? Is this a grocery list? Funions? Really?”) and recognize that the romance and inspiration we so dearly sought is as empty as the wine box we’re presently using as a foot-rest.

Because Other Writers Do It

You know how like, there’s a state-bird? “It’s Iowa! Our state-bird is the one-eyed caviling corn grackle!” Well, if the state of Writerdom had a state-bird, it would be the whiskey-sodden rum-warbler.

Try this experiment: go to a genre convention or writer’s conference, wait till… well, it’d be optimistic to say 5pm, but let’s go with that, and then ask around to try to suss out where the writers are. Seriously, don’t even bother. Because I know where they are. They’re like elephants and tigers and flamingos who have found the one fucking watering hole in 1000 miles of Kalahari hell. Hint: They’re at the bar, dipshit. Drinking. They might not have money for food, but by a good goddamn they certainly have money to wet their writerly whistles. Where did you think you would find them? The library? The health food store? Okay, sure, you might find them at a pet store holding turtle races or playing mind games with ferrets, but that’s just because they spent all their allotted booze money.

You want to hang out with writers, you go where writers drink. And if you don’t drink with ’em, they will sense that you’re different. And like rats who smell an imposter, they will nibble you to bloody ribbons.

Because Holy Fucking Shit, The First Draft, That’s Why

That first draft can be a beast. I’m constantly in search of a good metaphor for what writing a first draft of anything long-form is like, but for now, let’s just go with “drowning in a sea of bees.”

So we get to feeling like, dang, I could really use a little something to take the edge off, you know? Something to dampen the misery of endless stings. We might try, I dunno, stretching, or a cup of tea, or a few bites of chocolate. And that’ll tide us over to the 20% mark, but somewhere along the way we need a life preserver to keep us afloat. We need a goddamn drink. (Well, frankly, we probably need an insidious mix of black tar heroin, methamphetamines, and ayahuasca — we can vacuum the roof, write a bestseller, space out with machine elves, then battle the gods of Xibalba over a game of severed-head-basketball. Thankfully, those things are difficult to procure. Unless you know an Inca.)

One gin and tonic might keep us afloat. Two gin and tonics eases the coming of the first draft, a kind of chemo-spiritual pelvic widener to help birth this story-baby. Seven gin and tonics and we end up soiling ourselves and drawing pictures of boobs on our computer monitors in permanent marker. Or we end up writing The Da Vinci Code. To-MAY-toe, to-MAH-toe.

Still, you drink, you feel 100 feet tall and bulletproof. Stephen King ain’t got nothing on you. I mean, except the fact he’s lucid and doesn’t suffer blackouts that require him to wear a diaper.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On

“I just finished the book! Time for some wine.”

“I just sold a story! Time for some wine.”

“I just got through a particularly rough chapter. Time for some wine!”

“I just got halfway through a sentence. Wine wine wine wine wine.” *drunken pirouettes*

Eventually we end up in a piano crate under an overpass with a three-legged incontinent terrier named “Steve,” and we tell passersby how we “just finished that novel,” and they’re all like, “Sure, whatever, homeless-person-who-smells-like-Maneshewitz-wine-run-through-the-urinary-tract-of-a-diabetic-raccoon.” And we wave our manuscript at them. And by manuscript, I mean “genitals.”

Aww, Sad-Face Need Boozytime

The opposite end of the spectrum arrives. Hey, rejection. Hey, book’s not selling. Hey, a bad review. Time to drown your sorrows in booze the way one might drown squirrels in a rusty washtub! Die, sorrows! Die!

It seems like a good idea until you remember the idea that alcohol can serve as a depressant. Then you end up on the lawn with your laptop, yelling at some rejection letter or negative review. “You don’t know me. You don’t know shit about shit about — urp — shit, buster. I wrote my fugging heart out of my butt for you and this is what I get? I’mma genie! Genial. Genius. That’s it. You shut up. Quit lookin’ at me, possum.”

The Bottle Muse And Her Lugubrious Liquor-Fed Lubrications

We get stoppered up, our word-fluids corked up and bricked off like the poor fucker in Cask of Amontillado and we suffer that most mythical of conditions, the bloated beast known as “Writer’s Block.” And so, to answer one myth we turn to another myth by seeking our Muse, and in seeking our Muse we figure, hey, screw it, why not throw a third axis of mythic deliciousness in for good measure? Thus we seek to conjure the Muse in the vapor of our own boozy ruminations, guzzling some manner of alcoholic spirit to stir the metaphorical (and thus entirely unreal) spirits that purportedly guide our writing lives and have power over our own mental blocks.

It rarely works as intended. Oh, it provides lubrication, all right. We end up inspired. We find ourselves inspired to eat a box of microwave taquitos and drunk-dial a passel of exes before kneeling down and praying before the Porcelain Temple of the Technicolor Hymn. It’s just, y’know, the one thing it didn’t help with was putting words on paper. But at least we get a good story out of it.

Because Holy Fucking Shit, The Final Draft, That’s Why

You hit a point where it’s like, I have these 80 billion copy-edits, I have to cut limbs off this baby before anybody will adopt it, and I have to do it all on deadline. Daddy needs some vodka.

The story goes that Hemingway said to write drink, but edit sober, but man does that feel counter-intuitive, right? Editing is like surgery. And you wouldn’t go into surgery without anesthetic, would you?

Once again, however, there exists that cruel line. A drink or two might make the process more palatable, but a baker’s dozen and, whoo boy. Before you know it you’re slurring made-up racial slurs at your own manuscript, and in a sudden sweeping rage you highlight 20,000 words right in the middle and — *click!* — delete it, and then just to be sure it’s dead, you salt the earth by erasing all your backup copies and shattering your external hard drive with a croquet mallet.

It’s The Only Way The Demons Will Stop Jabbering

I’ll just leave that one there without comment. Do with it as you will.

SHUT UP QUIT SPEAKING YOUR INFERNAL POETRY IN MY EAR TUBES GRAAAAAAFRGBLE THE STORIES ARE TRAPPED INSIDE MY HEAD LIKE A GOURD FILLED WITH SPIDERS

Uhhh. I mean, what? Nothing.

Sauce Up, Writer Folk

So, what do you drink, writer-types? What’s your favorite drink? Even better — favorite drinking story?

And yes, for the record, awooga, awooga, disclaimers: I am not an alcoholic, you should not be an alcoholic, and writing is not made better or more magical by drinking. This is just a funny post (with maybe a hint of truth to it) about how writers are so frequently drinkers. So put down that oak cask with the squiggly drinking straw shoved in its bunghole. And get back to work.

“Alcohol is like love,” he said. “The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.”

— Raymond Chandler

March 16, 2011 / 36 Comments

Do You Speak The Ancient Baby Language?

And so our intrepid heroes descended into the dank, rank dungeon — the portcullis before them shuddering and shedding rust as it rose into the stone. Down below, they heard the gibbers and wails of… babies. Human babies, hungry for attention, their glistening teeth emerging from pink gums hungry for the blood and souls of heroes! Our two protagonists knew that this day would not be won easily; the babies were armed with Binkies, Boppies, and Bjorns, the wretched weapons of goblin children.

— From The Heroic Cycle Of Der Wendighaus, Book 72, Tenet 17

This past weekend, we went to Babies R’ Us.

The horror. The horror.

First and foremost, let me express my utterest disappointment that you cannot, despite the name of the store, procure any actual babies in this place. I figured, hey, we’ll pick up a baby for rent or purchase, we’ll see how we like it. We’ll train and practice on this baby so that when we finally expel our own into the world, we’ll have a little practice. Nope. They do not rent or sell babies at the inaptly-named Babies R’ Us.

Second and nextmost, let me express my complete amazement and jaw-dangling astonishment at the sheer wealth of baby goods for sale (“wealth” being a bit of a double entendre here given the cost of many items). You walk in there and it’s like, “Here, presented for your edification, are seven thousand strollers.” I don’t believe that adults have as much choice in automobiles as they do strollers for their children. Or car seats. Or carriers. Or bouncy things. Or formula. Or, or, or.

I feel like I’m an explorer trying desperately — and failing with equal desperation — to understand an alien culture. Boppy? Bjorn? “Have you checked out Badger Basket? What about My First Nuk? Foogo! Fuzzibunz? You probably need butt paste. I love my Bumbo!”

I just want to throttle someone and be like, “FOR GOD’S SAKE SPEAK ENGLISH OR I WILL SLAP THE PACIFIER OUTTA YOUR MOUTH.” Like babies aren’t going to be complicated enough, now I need a translator just to figure out what crucial products will help keep my progeny alive and not utterly ruin him as a human being? Can’t I just wash the baby in a tin pail? Can’t I rig up something with duct tape to keep the little tyke upright? Is it really unethical to feed him breast milk from a Super Soaker? Were there always Babies R’ Us installations throughout time and space? Did travelers on the Oregon Trail stop at the Babies R’ Us along the way? “You have killed a buffalo. Your baby requires a Bumbo. You have died of dysentery.”

What would the pilgrims have done if the Indians hadn’t already set up a store at Plymouth Rock?

Up until walking into that store, I figured I at least had a primate’s understanding of how to take care of my young. Feed him. Put him to sleep. Don’t try to shove rocks into his soft spot. Make sure to bathe him once every six months so that he doesn’t build up some kind of exoskeleton composed of calcified baby grime. But walking in there, you’re suddenly confronted with a wall — an actual wall — of bottle options. Big bottles, little bottles, various nipple attachments, some help with Colic, others give your baby the strength of five angry chimps, AHHHHH *head asplode*

Every piece of baby minutiae — every object one could ever imagine buying for your infant — comes in a thousand varieties. Choose the wrong one, and your child may grow up a con-man, a serial killer, or worst of all, a politician. It’s a whole lunatic industry. A churning hell-beast belching diaper-scented steam and leaving behind a crass rime of baby powder like the ashes of the dead. And this shit ain’t cheap, either. We spent a little while testing out “gliders” — aka the future’s version of a “rocking chair” — and of course, the lower-end cheaper gliders felt like you were sitting on a concrete drain embankment studded with broken abalone shells. The moment you sit in one of the gliders that’s actually comfortable you note, “Oh, this glider is $5,000 dollars. And it doesn’t come with an ottoman. Or arm-rests. Or the actual chair. It just comes with a little baggy full of screws, and then I have to special order the rest, and coupons don’t work on special orders and AHHHHH” *head asplode*

Me, I actually liked their one rocking chair. Seriously. It was comfortable as heck. Firm back. Snug. Good even rocking motion. I told the wife, “I like this one.” She stared at me like I’d grown a dick for a nose.

We got to the store early, and it was nice and quiet. But an hour later, the place was overrun by wailing, keening crowds of mothers-to-be and families checking items off of registries.

Oh, and everything for boys either has a football or a monkey on it. First, I never owned a football as a child. I want something with baseballs, goddamnit. Second, I love monkeys. I do. But ten minutes in that store, dang, I’m over monkeys. Done with primates. It took us forever and a day just to find one crib set with woodland creatures on it (owl, fox, bear, Snooki). And given that they were having a weekend sale, we decided to go ahead and procure some of that set — including this cute li’l lamp that we’d seen on Amazon before — and of course we get the lamp home and it’s crooked. Like, really crooked. So, back it goes.

Still, we managed to get out with our lives and, more importantly, our sanity intact. But next week we have to go back to return to the lamp. Once more, into the dungeon.

Maybe by then we’ll have hired a translator.

February 27, 2011 / 13 Comments

A Bonus Round Of Search Term Bingo

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.

wisdom snake

File under, “Most awesome euphemism for penis ever.”

is it true if you pee on facial hair it grows?

True. It is, in fact, why men and women around the world often refer to me as “Old Man Peebeard,” or, “Captain Piss-Stache Of The ISS Wee Willy Whiskers.” Uhh. I mean, I assume that’s why they call me that. Anyway, the only problem is you kind of have to be like that monkey who pees in his own mouth. You’ve got to get just the right “angle of the dangle” to hit the beard properly. Wait, what’s that? I could just pee in a cup and dump that on my beard? Sure. Sure. I could do that. If I was a Communist.

do writers get paid sick days?

Hahahah! Hahaha. Hee. Ahem. Hahah. Hahahahaha! OHH HO HO HO HO woo yeah. Uhem. Ahem. Yeah. Ha. Hee. HA. HAHAHAHAHAHA. BWAAA HA HA HA HA. MWA HA HA HA GHA HA HAHA

*vomits*

*poops pants*

Man, that’s funny. That’s a good one. That’s a — a zinger.

wheres my goddam bologna sandwich?

Jesus, all right, settle down, crankypants. Did you check under the couch? Under the cushions? Is your neighborhood plagued by a known Bologna (pronounced “Ba-LO-Ney”) thief? Is it in your mouth? Your hands? Your pants? It’s got to be somewhere. Baloney sandwiches don’t just get up by themselves.

OR DO THEY.

*dramatic organ music*

girls fellating monkeys

Name of band, album, autobiography, novel, documentary, artisanal spring water brand, first child, second child, pony, spoken word poetry show, or automobile? You decide, America.

dragon age alistairs jizz

Man, I have not been keeping up with the Dragon Age downloadable content. “Alistair’s Jizz” is supposed to be a great final chapter for the character. I hear his kingly jizz sprays out and forms a dragon. A jizz-breathing dragon. True story. Happened to a cousin of mine once. Anyway, I will say though, do you think that Bioware is taking this “adult content” thing a little too far? Sure, the game was bloody and had lots of crazy fantasy-world sex — the porny D&D mystique is pretty cool and all, but a jizz-breathing dragon? Feels like they’ve crossed a line. A line written in jizz.

sometimes writing is about crapping it out

I would mock this, but damn, I gotta say: this is at times very, very true. You can do as much prep as you want. You can think real hard about it. And some days writing is just about crapping out the word count as painfully and as swiftly as you can manage. The weird thing is, it’s amazing how sometimes those days feel like crap-days, but what you really get is something better than you really expected. Of course, other days, it looks like and smells like you crap you suspected it was, but hey, hell with it, that’s why writers get nigh-infinite do-overs and take-backs.

outline two unicorns having sex

Clarification: you want a drawn outline of the two fornicating unicorns? Or, since you’re coming to me with this, I wonder: are you looking for a bulleted outline detailing the carnal peccadilloes of those two aforementioned unicorns? I guess if you were to outline it, it might look like this:

• Music begins to play (Lionel Ritchie: “Hello”)

• Unicorns begin “mating dance”

• Horns clash

• Ingestion of Spanish Fly

• Application of dragon’s hide prophylactic

• Perimeter defenses active to keep the townspeople safe

• Unicorn sidles up behind the other unicorn, whispers reassuring haiku

Well, you get the idea.

i hope my wife believes in me

She doesn’t. She emailed me yesterday. In her email, she called you a “fetid bucket of fuck-chum.” She said your manhood was “like a thread of kelp in a squirrel’s mouth flapping and flopping about, getting everything wet with its briny stink.” She said, “If he says one more goddamn word to me, I am going to eat a fistful of razor blades, Advil, and apple seeds.”

Though, to be clear, she didn’t actually say she did not believe in you.

Hm. You might be all clear, then. Carry on.

who is the poop eater?

Marketing campaigns have become so very sophisticated. First it was, “whatisthematrix.com,” now it’s “whoisthepoopeater.com.” Man, I can’t wait for this movie, whatever this movie is going to be. The Wachowski Brothers know how to put on a good show!

all the people say sisterfucker

I can confirm this. And it’s getting weird. Everywhere I turn, everyone is saying only one thing, repeatedly and loudly: “Sisterfucker.” All the people are saying it. It’s like they can’t say anything else. It’s like Being John Malkovich up in here. Well. Okay, I guess it’s like Being John Sisterfucker.

chuck wendig why you

Why I what? What’d I do now? C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging. Chuck Wendig, why you gotta be so fly? Chuck Wendig, why you so dumb? Chuck Wendig, why you keep putting hot sauce on your testicles? Chuck Wendig, why you gotta keep wearing that badger on your head? Complete the question! No, seriously. Complete it. Comments. You. Go. Do it. Don’t make me punch a kitten.

hot sauce testicles

What? Nuh-uh!

Seriously, though, don’t put hot sauce on your junk. Once, I was cutting up a Jalapeno, and I forgot to wash my hands afterward, and from that point forward, everything I touched was tainted by the angry spice of a hot pepper. I’m not saying I didn’t accidentally masturbate… okay, all right, I didn’t actually do that. But I did rub my eyes. Jesus God on a fucking jet boat, do not do that. For reals.

can dogs go to the movie theater?

You’re asking the wrong question. The correct question is, Should dogs go to the movie theater? and to that, I say, absoflogginglutely. I mean, if you people can bring your screaming infants to an R-Rated movie, then I can bring my dogs. It’s only reasonable. The movie theater these days is basically a lawless safari anyway, so why can’t I bring a gassy terrier and an old Belgian Shepherd with hip dysplasia?

dicktillion

Is this a new number? Like, “One million millions is a dicktillion?”

Or is a coquettish dance for ruined Southern women?

Some women dance the cotillion. But those not-so-fresh Southern ladies go to the dicktillion.

neti the monkey’s paw for sinus infection

I’m going to chalk this up to Google trying to figure out what you wanted and getting it really wrong. I’m hoping that what you were searching for was actually “Neti pot for sinus infection,” because seriously, you did read the story about The Monkey’s Paw right? That story ends badly enough without shoving anything like that up your damn nostrils. Eesh.

i can write a load of shit and you will eat it up

Well, given that writing is sometimes about crapping stuff out, I guess this is accurate.

e.e. cummings shit you don’t have to eat

All jokes aside, this is from a real poem. No, seriously:

“i sing of Olaf glad and big.”

how to entertain a crippled dog

Okay, this only works if you have two dogs: one crippled, the other not-so-crippled. Take the not-so-crippled one, duct tape two of his legs together — experiment with different combinations for maximum fun! — and then have the duct-taped doggy flail around the room. The crippled dog will gaze on in ironic amusement. Okay, probably not. And seriously, don’t do that thing with the duct tape, because that’s cruel. And don’t put it on YouTube so that all of us can see it. I’m sure it won’t get a million hits.

man shot friend over cornbread in alabama

Must’ve been delicious cornbread. I’d murder a friend over certain foods. Wouldn’t you? Then again, I’d murder a friend over all kinds of things. A drink of water. A sideways glance. Standing near me. Because that’s the kind of guy I am. A murderer. A serial murderer. Good times.

how can you tell if an eggplant has gone bad

Here’s an easy test.

Hold the eggplant in your hands. Raise it up in front of your eyes and gaze at it.

Is it still an eggplant?

Then it’s gone bad.

February 6, 2011 / 16 Comments

On This Day Of The Foot And The Ball, We Will Instead Speak Of Puppies

Yep. I’m one of those guys who watches the Puppy Bowl, not the Super Bowl.

That may put my masculinity in question, I dunno. Here, let me fix that: I also like Sarah McLachlan and one of my favorite TV shows of all time is Gilmore Girls.

Wait, that probably didn’t fix anything. Shit.

Uhhh.

I like guns?

My favorite movie is Die Hard?

I have a mighty beard that destroys my enemies in its tangle of choking vines?

I dunno. It may be too late for me.

Well, whatever. The Super Bowl hasn’t really ever been a thing in any incarnation of Der Wendighaus. We were a baseball family, which is not to say we were a family made of anthropomorphic baseballs but rather, we watched a lot of baseball. I still dig the World Series. And I also love the Oscars. The Oscars are my own Nerd Super Bowl.

I’ve tried watching the Super Bowl. Ehhh? Muh? I just don’t get it. I get bored. Is that weird? I watch it, I get bored. It seems like the game is mostly about not playing the game. Dang, a football game is 60 minutes, split into four 15-minute quarters, right? So, why then does the game start at 6PM and end at 10:30PM (provided it doesn’t run over)? It takes four-and-a-half hours to play an hour-long game? The rest of it is commercials and time-outs and replays and analysis and more commercials and then there’s a flurry of activity for 30 seconds where someone kicks over the bee-hive and then it’s back to commercials and time-outs and guys punching each other in the balls or whatever. Plus, that doesn’t even account for the two hour “pre-game.” Which is not, as the term suggests, the game before the game.

The Wall Street Journal estimates that in every football game, the ball is actually only in play for 11 minutes. Counter that with hockey, where it’s action action action at every turn.

When I watch the Super Bowl, I mostly want to take a nap. I’d rather watch a game of Monopoly.

Played by old people and children.

But again, everybody’s got their thing. Hell, I like the Oscars. The last Oscar telecast was, I think, 17 hours long. And they estimated that at least 21% of the audience committed suicide during the show. I mean, goddamn, getting through the Oscars is like watching snot dry on a little kid’s face. And the World Series next year is supposed to be “Best Out Of 31.” God forbid they play one game to settle anything.

Really, what I’m saying is, fuck yeah, puppies.

Man, if I’m having a bad day, the only thing I need to do is look at puppies. Puppies are a panacea. If I ever get cancer — and, given my family history, that day is coming — I plan on engaging in my own personal form of puppy therapy, which is to say I will be watching an endless loop of puppy videos. Hell, I might even buy a bunch of puppies and live with them as their pack mentor. I wonder: if you rub puppies on cancer tumors, do the cancer tumors go “Awwww!” and then slowly deflate?

Science is slow to pick up on the “puppy panacea” theory, which is why I say, screw you, science. America doesn’t need you. We only need puppies, baseball, and Jesus. And Democracy. But mostly Jesus.

Man, I’m rambling this morning.

Really, what I’m saying is, fuck yeah, puppies.

Take a moment out of your day, if you care, and deposit into the comments below something — anything, really — about puppies. What’s the cutest puppy? Got a puppy picture with a high-larious caption? Puppy video? Anything at all. Let’s engage in a little puppy therapy.

Here, let me get the ball rolling.

First: courtesy of Stacia Decker and Matthew Funk, the cutest designer puppy ever: the Pomeranian Husky mix, also known as the “Pomsky.”

Second: Lab puppies in slow motion.

Third: Iso, the dachshund puppy, playing in the snow (also in slow motion).

Fourth: “Puppy Can’t Get Up.”

Fifth and finally: Puppy Wakes Up.

There. A little puppy therapy.

Now, your turn. Then go shoot some guns and grow beards and watch Gilmore Girls.

I mean, uhhh, enjoy the Super Bowl.

January 30, 2011 / 16 Comments

Search Term Bingo Is Your Secret Daddy

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.

This is distinctly NSFW.

Please to enjoy.

descriptive words that describe a baboon

No, no, I got this. I’m a writer. This is my job. Ready? Here goes.

“Baboony.” “Baboon-esque.” “Baboonariffic.” “Baboon-flavored.” “Quasi-baboonery.” “Baboonish.” “Baboonic Plague.” “Baboondocks.” Also, the collective noun used to describe a gathering or family of baboons is a “platoon.” So, in a sentence, you might say, “I was driven from my village by a surly platoon of knife-wielding baboons — also known as the baboonic plague.”

Related: writing “baboon” over and over again drives you slowly insane, certain that words no longer make sense, assured that language is both a nonsense construct and a troublesome idea virus!

remember a gentleman always grows a beard

That is accurate. That is the test to determine the truth of a gentleman: a beard. You know how in John Carpenter’s The Thing they test everybody’s blood in those petri dishes to confirm whether or not they’re actually the titular (titter!) “thing?” Right. This is like that, except with less blood and fewer petri dishes.

All gentlemen grow beards. It is part of the Nobleman’s Edict of 1578.

However, do not make the logical fallacy and assume that beard automatically equals gent. Consider: a Tijuana donkey show is always a fun vacation-time activity, but not all fun vacation-time activities involve Tijuana donkey shows. Right? Anybody who voted for Michelle Bachmann is a jackass, but not all jackasses are Michelle Bachmann voters. See?

All gentlemen wear beards, but not all who wear beards are gentlemen.

hey fuck it its college

Dude. Bro. Right. Fuck it! It’s college. You won’t get college back. I mean, unless you’re one of those people who just can’t stop going to college — it’s like, every time you see them they’re always, “Oh, I’m going back to school to get my Doctorate in Aeronautical Caribou Design,” and then you notice the stench of Cheeto dust, cheap wine and overall poorness and it’s like, “Hey, look, a Perpetual Student.”

But seriously, that’s not the point. The point is — hey, fuck it, it’s college! You need to embrace this time. You need to go for the brass ring. Girl you like? Go for it. Internship? Take the plunge! Want to play an awesome prank and put that shiznit on Youtube? Do it up! Feel like you need to dress in the skins of prostitutes and take part in the cosmic battle of good versus evil — angels versus demons — by attacking woodland creatures in the dorm quad with that wobbly ornamental Braveheart sword you bought at the dirt mall? Hey, fuck it. It’s college! (And also possibly schizophrenia.)

vintage crazy human

Those are my favorite kind of crazy humans! Vintage whackjobs and retro lunatics. A jaunty serial killer in a top hat! A blood-covered choromaniac endlessly waltzing in his seersucker suit! A corseted hausfrau standing by her collection of fossilized dinosaur penises! Sepia-toned nutballs. Good times.

how to keep your bearded heated

Let’s assume you mean “beard” and not “bearded.”

Here’s how I keep my beard heated — I warm a tray of milk squeezed from the supple teats of an antelope, and then I hover my face over the warm tray, letting the milky steam soften my beard. But see, I’m old school. You might go high-tech and instead sew a set of handwarmers or toaster coils into your facial hair.

fat guy with short short testicles

I’m admittedly stuck on the use of the descriptor “short” to describe a testicle. Are there tall testicles? Like, do some guys have testicles as tall as, say, a pint glass? Now I’m all panicked about my possibly dwarven testes. I mean, I thought they were normal. A plenty good size. But now I’m freaked out. Should they be grippable? Like the hand-grips on a Huffy bicycle?

different types of goatees

The face can be home to a nearly infinite number of goatee-styles — consider the number of hairs that could grace one’s chin (or chinnish) area, and then consider the endless arrangements of said whiskers.

Still, I can give you a few if you’re looking for ideas:

The Amelia Earhart: Goatee shaped like an airplane. Branches of mustache form the wings. Connector bit is the fuselage. Chin whiskers are then shaped into the airplane’s tail. Bonus points if you disappear suddenly while shaving, never to return.

The Turkish Scimitar (aka the Kalij): Goatee long enough to conceal a blade. Popular in Turkish prisons. Variation includes “The Randy Shank,” which is a goatee lacquered for months with some combination of motor oil, llama spit, and fry-o-later grease. Then the goatee becomes the blade.

The Hamster Party (aka the Habitrail): Similar to the Kalij, this goatee is long, but also hollow in the center to support the obsessive-compulsive laps a hamster must run. Variation includes “The Hollow Earth,” but that’s an entire beard that’s been hollowed out, not a goatee. Also, the hollow beard must be home to dinosaurs.

The Dead Man’s Party: A goatee stolen from a dead man and glued onto your face.

The Precious (based on the goatee “Bush” by Beardfire): A single hair, at least six inches of length, must thrust from the center of one’s chin. It should smell of pomade and strawberry jam.

motivational black cock

Oh, yeah, this is the new “thing” in terms of motivational posters. I bought one that shows a giant black cock — like, bigger than a fat baby’s arm — thrusting out through a bathroom glory hole, and hanging from it is a little orange tabby kitty, and the kitty’s digging his claws in and the caption reads: Hang In There!

But I’ve also seen versions that say, Don’t Cock It Up!

white rooster fucks chicken game

Wh…? What?

what do writers do after finishing a novel?

Here’s what every novelist does after finishing a book:

1.) Drink Scotch. Half-bottle.

2.) Karate kick invisible book critics.

3.) Feel sudden shame.

4.) Weep uncontrollably.

5.) Drink rest of Scotch.

6.) Throw up on a cop.

7.) Break things.

8.) Feel surge of triumph.

9.) Throw up.

10.) Fall asleep in one’s own sick.

Repeat for like, two, three weeks.

if not yet published what do I put in my bibliography?

Draw a picture! Options include: a pirate’s parrot; a smiley face; a pot leaf; a map to secret treasure; pedobear; the Led Zeppelin logo; a motivational black cock.

clit wobble

The hot new dance that all the kids are doing based on the hot new techno song to come out of Serbia? All the cool kids are doing the “clit wobble” on the dance floor!

freelancers are hot

I know I’m a sexy beast. I mean, shit, just check me out:

I know? So hot, right? That’s clit wobble material, right there.

metaphor about karate poem

I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about metaphors that are not in poems but rather, represent poems. Also: what the fuck is a karate poem? Is that a new form of poetry? Are all the cool kids doing it? Did it come out of Serbia? These days, all the awesome shit comes out of Serbia. I’m so behind. Thank Jeebus I’m one sexy freelancer. It’s my only talent: being hot. What were we talking about? Karate poems? Yeah.

van dyke beard looks like the devil

Yep. The beard itself looks like the devil. My Van Dyke used to carry around a pitchfork and prod screaming sinners wading in a pool of pitch.

laphroaig risotto

*vomits*

I mean, umm, mmmm, that sounds delicious.

It also sounds like the name of my new band.

tree tells you to kill yourself

Okay, humor aside, that is a terrifying idea. A fucking suicide tree? That tells you to kill yourself? That is the stuff of horror fiction, my friend. I’m stealing that idea from you, whoever you may be.

kenneth motherfucking arrow

YEAAAAH! Kenneth Motherfucking Arr —

Wait. Kenneth Arrow?

Like, the Nobel Prize-winning economist?

You know what? Yes. Yeah. I support this. Let’s start a new trend. Let’s be the cool kids on this one. We need to exalt smart people in this country instead of putting dipshits up on pedestals (see: Snooki, Sarah Palin). And one way to do that is to place “motherfucking” in the middle of their names.

Here’s your job. Pick a person you admire, a person of some notable intelligence and/or accomplishment, then put that person’s name in the comments below but put “Motherfucking” (or some triumphant profanity) as their middle name.

You have your task. Go.

my beard doesn’t grow on my bottom lip

That’s because you need your lip to form a seal with your upper lip. And I don’t mean like, a fish-eating flipper-clapping seal. Dumbass, beards do not grow on lips. Because, ew. Gross.

squirrel put your nuts up

Yeah, squirrel! Put your nuts up! Put ’em up good!

This is what I say to any squirrel when I point a gun at him.

Also, it’s the debut album of my new band, Laphroaig Risotto.

legos that you build with

As opposed to LEGOs that you dance with?

lady gaga smallpox

She is the infection vector, but really, we’re not surprised, are we?

piss upload mobile ferret

Poop download stationary ermine!

Whaddya gonna say to that? Huh? Huh?

*drops mic, walks off stage*

*trips on a tangle of folding chairs, breaks ankle*

*howls in pain*