Amoebas in a leglock

Free up a bunch of corks and build a fake cheese wheel to throw at sandcastles built during AA meetings. Embed a barrel of frozen snow peas in the middle of a cake walk creating a barrier to the elderly’s circular sugar trance. Do an unannounced limbo at a funeral for a stranger. Plant corn in a random gully. Go to the ocean and sink yourself while punching the water. Talk to a specialist about getting tattoos on your teeth. Break into a lab and attempt to put an amoeba in a leglock. Go forth and create for yourself a frenzy of crazy. Let’s all go insane and lose ourselves in our own comic psychosis.

Slap bread displays. Argue with specialty produce. Get offended at the presence of an iguana. Learn yourself to say, “I don’t even care”. Grow a crustache. Wear a cloak and a monocle and scoff at coffee drinkers while eating a Twinkie. Announce to the world over the intercom at Wal-mart that you are a sleuth on a blimp.

I write here because I need to exercise the demons of my beer deprived brain. Someone crush some pork rinds and make a paste so I can rub into my skin the grease freaky. I am in need of a shift in motivation and priority. I am searching for the key to unlock my own psychosis. I want to quit thinking and perform and create and leave a lash on this fearful world. Someone give me the words to entrench myself… become consumed. Leave the world and focus on the hum of my skull.

My Morning Feast

No this is not a sloppy post about post-hippy music. It is about the morning’s bounty in toast form. Breakfast, bitches.

Towering stack of crunchy bread slathered with all manner of sugary muck stabbed with a two foot long ice pick then eaten with a cartoonish gulp like a drunken Fred Flintstone. Toast. Peanut butter and honey and bacon toast sandwiches as your Granny picks the ticks out of your hair while the Pekinese licks out your toe jam. Pine cone sap jam wadded up into baseball sized clumps melted down into buckets with ripped hunks of bread toasted by a Zippo lighter dunked in the sap jelly awesome. Little houses made of toast that are crushed by children then eaten by beagles. Toast discs flying across the room in a domestic dispute over egg yolks and body hair. Political manifestos burned into the sides of toast then passed out at Tupperware parties that start the revolution to overthrow a lot of governments.

Fucking toast, man.

Feed me like a bald eagle.

Just chew up something and spit it into my mouth. I will guess what it is and re-feed you. Oh, God its love!!!

(pause)

Michael Jackson was buried today…

And all I could think about was an awesome girl re-barfing food into my mouth while beating me with a whip made of beef jerky? Now hold on… HOLD ON! I know that’s pretty gross (for some of you). And I don’t really think I would like to spend EVERY Sunday evening being fed Hot Pockets like a baby eagle but I do think that the object of my undying love is a girl who is willing to spit food into my mouth like a zoo creature. A woman like that holds no fear and is truly free.

Unlike Michael Jackson. Did he know true love? The Ferris Wheels and the pony rides? Yeah… alright. PYT? Uh, I’m not going there. His idea of love was a bizarre combination of his desire to remain a five year old mental patient mixed with society’s insatiable appetite for moonwalking. He was half ogurt. On the gloved hand he lived on his own terms and didn’t really give a damn what everyone thought. Plus, he didn’t have a nose and grabbed his crotch with compulsive frequency. Cha-mon! The creative side of him was fearless and inspiring like true ogurts are known to be. His brilliance was driven by his lack of fear.

But then again, on the non-gloved hand, he was a prisoner. He wasn’t free and lived in perpetual terror. He bought the lie with so much gusto it turned his brain inside out. He let society’s expectations of him dictate his life. Some would argue that his imprisonment was unavoidable due to how he was thrown into a life of insanity by a freak out of a father and that argument has merit. Like all others who become embroiled in the vortex of fame and self-importance he lost. To others he was a monster end of story. He was crushed under incredible public scrutiny anytime he did anything (some well deserved) and drastically altered his appearance with disturbing face stretchings and frightening chemical peels to retain his false sense of celebrity appeal.

This isn’t a hate piece. This is a minor rant on the tragedy that was MJ’s life and how he moved away from himself and became a horror show. He acquiesced. I’m sincere in these views and how fear wrecks everything. This blog is about being ogurt for chrissakes which btw, is the total opposite of fear. Because to go out in public like this:

You are most definitely ogurt and cannot give a FUCK what people think.

And MJ is a prime example of this. The first thirty years of MJ’s life? AWESOME. In the moment, each second better than the last. A creative master with an entire planet receptive to his energy. The last twenty five years? A complete nightmare. Fear took over and warped him into bleached skeleton sideshow clown. He lived a sad and twisted life. So when I think of the fear that controlled his life for the last twenty years I am moved to want the extreme opposite. I think about love and how love feeds upon fearlessness…

Now feed me like a bald eagle!

A few pictures…

A friend of mine has an innate sense of ogrosity. He can smell it, digitally, across the web and pluck out ogurt from a binary fog. He’s a bloodhound for ogurt. He just knows… Here are a few of his recent finds…

WTF creepy ogurt:

The guy above’s favorite ogurt band:

and FTW:

!!!

The snack to end all snacks

What do Dale Earnhardt and Pink Floyd have in common?

Their last hit was the wall. But oh I love sports themed meat chunks. I want to build the frame of my house out of Intimidator Meat Snack buckets. A new fort impenetrable by forces of anti-awesome. I will live in this new fort surrounded by tributes to fallen mustache gods in the form of tiny turd looking meat chewables in large buckets formed from petroleum removed from an Arabian gully.

When sports and meat combine like this its like… its like God’s blowing his nose on America. This mystical snot glop contains tiny bits of energy that cause us to wear beer helmets and shave race car numbers out of our back hair.

Worship NASCAR and Jesus and meat right now!

Pete Rose

Oh yes.

Gotta look at somethin

Cook up some sports words in a rusty wok. Bunt, kickball, shuttlecock, nose guard, Frisbee… while enjoying flatulation in the throes of a beer coma during a televised charity hockey game taking place in Hartford between pro wrestling legends vs. a group of crab fishermen. Pork rinds lie in crumb piles around the head of your bull dog. Someone burps in the dark hallway in the center of the house. Then there is silence…

Suddenly, Mamaw stumbles into the living room holding a TV tray with oyster burritos and slutch (a casserole where you mix mac and cheese and turkey and gravy and bake it until its almost burnt).

“Hell boy, get yourself up on outta there and eat you a good supper…” Mamaw says smiling.

“Sheeit… I got me one already Maw-Maw. You ain’t seen me eatin’ with the bulldawg?” You say waking from your hockey coma fart cloud. Mamaw stomps her foot…

“Hell naw. I just sat right there and thought you done said you ain’t gonna get none.”

“Well, I did”.

“Good. Well go get it.”

“I done got it!”

“Sheeit…” Mamaw snarls and plucks a Skoal bandit into her lower lip. She spits on the carpet and leaves the room. The bulldog grunts and a tiny snot bubble pops out of its snout. You turn up the television and glare deeper at the screen and sigh….

Forced chords

There is no material around that we can buy that will match the proprietary felt that stays clumped inside our vacuous navels. Just let it live. Let. It. Live.

Wait a couple of months to harvest the crop of lint that, by that time, will have amassed an intriguing variety of cloth and cheese. Make up a new origami. Load up a slingshot and torture passed out drunks by pegging them upside the head with frozen rocks of your clammy gut velvet. Build a fort for a tick. Just do something so that belly button lint persecution can stop. End the madness, people. You have the power.

LaLa land

So I am off to California for a brief spell to investigate new ogrismo. It should be abundant. LA and San Fransisco can be off the charts bizarre with a good plethora of weirdos and freaks. Huge trees, hippies, junkies, schizo homeless, dramatic coastlines, giant fake boobs, blond hair bleached so many times it whistles, MAWs (model actress whatever), Asian food, and hopefully a visit to the Troubadour. I am looking forward to some fresh ogurt. And what better place than LA?

Word.

Whirling tornadoes lunch meat wrapper house for swamis.

Swirling funnel clouds touchdown upon the earth in random bursts. Suddenly they all collide into one gigantic, swooping tornado. Inside the funnel sits a fat man. A garbage swami. He hovers a few feet from the ground, crossed legged with his hands folded at his forehead, praying, meditating inside the dumpster gale. The howls of the tornado wind whir at his back. There is silence… Then he burps and quickly reaches out to the side of the tornado to grab at random garbage caught in the throes of the frenzied wind. He pulls his hand back holding a gas station ham sandwich wrapper and eats it. He burps again and returns to his prayers.

Never underestimate the hunger of a fat guy who likes to hang out around garbage. He may risk his life to feed, but he will feed. Yes… he will feed.

The Kentucky Derby… Super ogurts unite!

Once again the Kentucky Derby is upon us and now, like every year, we will celebrate horses running in a giant circle by getting drunk out of our minds and stuffing every pore in our head with grilled meat. It’s a wonderful time of the year. Probably my favorite. It’s a time when ogurts flex. We eat, drink, puke, drink, eat, puke on a pet, scream at walls… it’s awesome. It’s a celebration of decadence on par with Mardi Gras and oyther heathen gatherings. So to all of you who are celebrating the Derby this year I say, “Cheers!” and get yer ogue on with proper authority. To those who have never experienced the Derby… Well… I leave you with this:

and

equals:

Now go get awesome!!!

Another day, another youtube vortex…

Clicking around on youtube can unearth some great gems. Drunks, knockouts, and of course the lovely zit videos. But I found one the other day I would like to share. It’s short, brilliant, and of course perfectly ogurt.

Then, well… let’s just say South Park always brings the awesome:

Trashbags are my homeboys

Sometimes I like to search for garbage next to strip malls and hospitals in order to find cool treasure. You see, wads of random filth can be formidable inspiration towards new careers. And I think I have found my calling…

Rapper… Ogurt rapper.

Now I know that rappers are unique individuals. They have special needs. They need bitches and cash money in order to ply their trade. But I want to be a new style of rapper. A rapper who sings about well… the inhuman ogurt. Garbage, ghost turds (dustballs), dumpster diving, beer gut schizophrenia (people who yell at their guts), gutter forts, etc. Hospital waste can unearth crusty dentures for my new grill and used wacko towels that sopped up blotchy liver spots can be my new super ogurt rapper cape. Freaky bed pan helmets instead of backwards baseball caps. These are the tools of my new trade. I’m gonna be a rapper covered in garbage that sings about garbage.

Uh, oh…

I feel it comin’ on…. Oh shi-

Yo dawg, pass me ‘dat mic!!!

“Lookin’ for a grouch covered in baloney named Oscar,
Cold pimpin’ this dumpster ’cause bitches love my quirky freak stank,
Sometimes they run and their eyes sting from my funk,
But I ain’t goin’ out like some unogrified punk!!!

Livin’ my dream like an ogurt phantasm,
Scarrin’ you for life with my belly protoplasm,
Alone with a sack of wet MacDonald’s burgers,
Robble robble, bitch! I just stole your fort in the gutter!

Ay-oooohhh!!!!

Chorus:
The baddest man on Amtrak!!
The baddest man on Amtrak!!
The baddest man on Amtrak!!
The baddest man on Amtrak!!
The baddest man on Amtrak!!”

(True story: I met a drunk freak in Burrell Boom, Belize who claimed the line, “Baddest man on Amtrak”. And he might have been the “baddest man on Amtrak” but he certainly was a drunk ogurt who slept on a dirt floor in some shack in the middle of a jungle cow pasture thus I quote him as if he were God.)

Repeat this chorus 4000 times as a legion of ogurts hurl clumps of cold grits and frisbees (Keepin’ it real, yo!) at me as I stand atop a mountain of shark meat.

Damn!!! Someone call Jay Z… Let’s do lunch, babe. I think I may be the next big thing.

Ogurt Theme Park

Roller coasters that move a whopping 12 feet before ejecting you out of your seat like a catapult into a pool of grits. “The Ham Wheel” where an entire Ferris Wheel is composed of sandwich ham. Whack-a-goiter…

Pay five dollars to a midget dressed like Zorro, then stand in line for an hour, walk through a short tunnel and put your head through a hole in a plywood wall while another midget dressed like Dauber from Coach blows a trombone in your face. Ride over.

Tsunami force wave pools filled with squash casserole with inner tubes made of inflated sweat pants. Free meat helmets. Find the needle in the gut flap. This is where we enslave Hoosier women who weigh over 900 pounds and hide sewing needles in their gut flaps. You dig through the cheese, find the needle, and win a prize!! (a wad of duct tape).

The “Become a Denny’s regular” booth. Do whatever you can to convince our panel of experts (Denny’s regulars from ogurt capitals like Baltimore and Louisville) that you should spend the rest of your waking moments on a bar stool at our Denny’s restaurant re-enactment exhibit slurping coffee and complaining about bizarre conspiracy theories. For example how the government can spy on us through a Pop Tart or that asteroids are in reality giant loogies hurled at the earth by God trying to wash out forest fires. Who was the greatest arm wrestler of all time?

We will designate you a regular by putting clothes on you that you can never wash again and smearing your hair with Vaseline and then send you to the Whack-a-goiter booth where you will have your goiters (after becoming a Denny’s regular goiters automatically sprout up) smashed by hateful children during your breaks from complaining and coffee slurping.

I think this could really work… I know a buddy who owns some imaginary land near a landfill that has a sewage moat around it filled with sea cucumbers and cold soap. Yeah… an ogurt theme park… If you have any ideas for me post ‘em in the comments. Oh ya. Oh ya! OH YA!!!

Forts

When I was a kid you could give me a blanket, a baseball bat, and a bottle of Scope and I could make living quarters out of it. I was a fountain of fort making ideas. A tree limb, a towel, and a lawn chair? Done. I was MacGyver of the fort industry except that my forts didn’t battle international espionage rings nor did it tackle out of work mercenaries trying to blow up a K-Mart or some shit. I just wanted shelter from dirt clod tornadoes that were being hurled at me, the screeching sounds of fat girls barreling towards me looking for a hug and a fruit roll up, nerds trying to find a companion to watch the Dr. Who marathon on PBS… I wanted the quiet nothingness of my fort. I tried to live in my forts. Dug one out of a ditch and was determined to never leave. Then it rained. But still I loved my ditch fort. It looked like a hole in some bushes until you got close enough to see that I had hollowed out the brush, lined it with scrap carpet, and filled it full of war toys (cap guns, plastic Roman swords, convenient store toy shelf machine guns, army men…) and a whole lot of awesome.

“Can I see your new fort?” People would say sticking there face into my ditch home…

“No! Go away!!” and I would say firing my cap gun in their face.

My fort. My home. I made it. I’m ogurt. Now leave me alone!

Set me loose on a construction site and I could have built an Ewok village in the pine trees behind my house. Stealing wood, bricks, and other junk sent my mind racing towards possibilities. Once made a fort by balancing a sheet of plywood against the mailbox. Boom. New house. New forts were new beginnings. I covered myself in dirt and claimed sovereignty from the United States. Me inside that dirt was a new country (albeit a country where you were not allowed to move) and a place where I could escape everything and everyone and get ogurt ON MY TERMS. No more rules… No more laws. Just…. ogurt.

I love forts. Still do. Yet these days my forts are made of empty beer can triangles and Spam tins that I am able to knock down with a belch from ten feet but so what? The instinct is still there. Forts. Sports. Maybe I just love the sound of words ending in “orts”? Norts, sports, forts, dort bort hort port…