Once again here I am in Kentucky where everything happens five years after everywhere else. I just now got turned on to the Trailer Park Boys, the hysterical Canadian sitcom/mockumentary about a group of Canadian ogurts living in a trailer park, and it may be the most ogurt thing I have seen in quite a while. I am not going to describe all of it because most of you already know what the show is about. But what I cannot understand is why this isn’t mandatory viewing for the entire population of the world. Here’s a snippet of Jim Lahey, the trailer park supervisor/super awesome alcoholic wasteoid buying a bit of propane from Bubbles and Julian:
Good Lord. I spent a good number of hours watching this show yesterday on Google video and I plan on buying every season on DVD someday when I have the money because this show is the funniest thing I have seen since Mr. Show.
I was writing somewhere earlier where I mentioned eating chicken and how that experience, “brings out my inner Conan”. Now Conan still rules. And I know I am kind of showing my age admitting Conan’s awesomeness after all these years but I think the kiddies now a days are jealous. I mean what fake macho clown was their hero throughout the 90’s? I can’t think of anyone. Jean Claude Van Damme? Dennis Rodman? Pfft. Dennis Rodman is NOT Conan and Jean Claude Van Damme would rather smuggle Conan’s plums in his mouth rather than battle over a +3 frost pelt. And all of you nerd types out there who are arguing who would win in a pit war between Conan and Dennis Rodman should just go back to your Twizzler orgies and your orc flavored Hot Pockets and leave discussions about imaginary medieval clandestine combat to the guys who have had less female contact over longer periods of time than you. And that would be ME. So yeah, don’t step to this boss. Conan kills all and I couldn’t get laid in nursing home full of vegetative porn stars.
But when I sit down to a big grill plate of awesomely roasted tandoori chicken served with one of those giant Indian beers… it takes me back to a time when men ate dead stuff with their hands, sex was commanded by grunts, and gruel was the #1 side dish.
Seeing the charred meat before me I begin to vibrate. The subtle vibrations evolve into a numbing hum. My spine tingles with a minute sting. My eyes roll back into my head and drool begins to froth underneath my tongue and seeps out of my mouth in a stream of chilled fever. My inner orb erupts imaginary molten gravy. I revert back to my primordial being: a cave dwelling, dork virgin dice carver er, berserker psycho stompforce… whatever!
Everything goes blank. Then slowly as my vision clears, all I can see is a room full of naked MILFs rolling around on one another holding succulent veal shanks in each hand, sweet grease tickling down to their armpits, all of them moaning in a rolling chorus of sensual coos, “Fooooogbeef… Foooooogbeef…” Someone pukes…
I unzip.
Suddenly the roof opens up and sunlight momentarily creeps in only to be shadowed by the bed of a dump truck. The dump truck’s bed tips back. The shadow grows. Then little specks of shadows fall to the bottom of my love moat and when they hit we discover them to be Chic fil-a sandwiches. Soon enough there is a mountain of chicken sandwiches for us to nest upon. We begin to feed. From holes in the wall slaves push through all manners of gas station vending machine desserts retrieved by means of a time machine. Ogres lift large hoses that shower Panera bread’s cheddar broccoli soup down in torrents. Faces slam into vats of steamed, peeled shrimp. Turkeys are punched to retrieve fistfuls of greasy, white meat. Nymphos slap their guts with handfuls of chicken schmaltz moaning in slow motion as their mouths curl in all manner of orgasmic contortions. Children are fed like birds as their mothers spit out mushy blueberry muffins into eager maws. Faces look to the sky as buckets of tomato gravy are poured upon the heap of writhing flesh.
I belch to a flurry of drunken worship.
My minions pelt me with steaks and pancakes as I take my seat upon my throne made of knotted pork jereky rinds and oysters shells. Goblets made of molded, fried chicken breasts are filled with pungent ale that I gulp down furiously then eat the meat goblet in one marauding chomp. My eyes grow wide. MUHUHAHAHAH!!!!! I AM THE BERSERKER DOMINATOR LORD OF SPORTS AND GRILLED MEAT!!!!!! WORSHIP ME AND BEGIN THE COMPETITIVE EVENTS!!!”
Someone farts.
Suddenly, I awake face down in a plate of bones. I look up to see people huddled in the corner of the room, their eyes pulsating, focused on my every move. It’s lunch time and I am at Kashmir’s all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. I stand up and everyone clutches one another and closes their eyes as if their final doom is upon them. I belch, wipe away bits of shredded chicken meat from my face, and throw a hunk of cash onto the table like James Caan in the Godfather after he breaks that guys camera.
I walk out of the restaurant and flex in the street. I look around and the streets are quiet. Surveying everything I feel a surge of energy begin to rip through me. I grit my teeth, clench my fists, raise my hands up to the sky and growl, “SPOOOORTS!!!!” in my best cookie monster death knell. Lightening flashes across the horizon as I make my way to the deli to get one of those things I like.
It’s all about finding your inner barbarian and unleashing it without remorse. We all have one. They’re buried within our awesome zones somewhere near our belly button or wherever. How does your triumphant barbarian express itself? What brings out YOUR awesome?
She’s covering all of the bases with these ogurt looks. To the goofy surprised look, the mid-sneeze look, the booger picking “I hate my life” look, and finally the look of the pure bred, full on crazy biatch (she’s REALLY good at that one). Although these photos acknowledge her unsophisticated inner being of truth, her ogurt, that doesn’t mean I am going to vote for her. She can look ogurt all day long but for my vote she needs to do something ogurt. How about eating some chili with her hands at a tire throwing contest or maybe she can belch out a candle at an amputee fraternity keg party? Does she even like sports? These are just starters of course, but they adhere to her inner freaky and show to the world that she is indeed a human being and not the dumpy eyebrow pandering robot we all know her to be.
“The goal of Paulville.org is to establish gated communities containing 100% Ron Paul supporters and or people that live by the ideals of freedom and liberty.”
I don’t know what else to say… I suppose I could rant on about how idiotic and paranoid Ron Paul’s supporters have proven themselves to be but I don’t think I need to. This site pretty much sums it all up.
My sense of humor hovers around the area of bog foam and toe jam on a squashed turd weevil. It’s low brow, classless, immature, and all encompassing. I still laugh when the Subway girl grabs the mayonnaise tube and there is only a small bit left and…
Then a momentary flash of imagination hits and I am at a party in the late 1970’s. All of the furniture and the carpet are colored lime green, brown, yellow, and florescent orange. Fondue pots and Nerf footballs. Someone just took off the John Denver record and put on Steve Martin. Straight guys wearing ascots. Tinted glasses. Womb brooms. All of the men have thick sideburns and the women have eyebrows so thick they look like stapled muskrats. Everyone is wearing sweaters with clumpy, disjointed yarn designs on them. And there I am hunkered over the food table, eyes bulging as I am quietly grunting yet furiously stuffing every pore of my face with garlic meatballs dipped in bleu cheese and cabbage fondue. I swallow just long enough to blink, stupefied inside some sort of gravy toxic shock, then, like a celebratory Viking, I glug down a warm Schlitz. An hour later I’m crying my life story to a wall of pet rocks.
*Blink*
The Subway girl squeezes the mayo through plastic nipple and you feel light headed and again drift back in time to the next day after the party slumped over upon the cold lips of the toilet. Then as she squeezes the last bits of mayo out of the tube the sound triggers the memory of those triumphant, nuclear beer shits after the best Arbor Day in years. You giggle with relief. Yessss……
Honestly, I laugh at everything and everyone. Don’t get so over protective about your kid. When he or she falls down looking like a drunk with a lumpier head, I’m gonna laugh. Get attacked by a cougar and it bites off your eyelids? No apologies. I’m gonna bust on you. So whether it’s the greasy fart noises of mayonnaise containers, fat girls falling, sports bloopers, or making fun of someone at the expense of their sanity, I’m probably going to laugh and will encourage others to join. Yeah, I know it may not be very nice but damn, if you didn’t laugh at everything how can you laugh at anything?
It’s Derby time around here. It’s the only time when outsiders flock to Louisville to engage in the debauchery that is the Kentucky Derby. No matter what people say about this horse race it is all about sex, booze, gambling, gluttony, and mayhem.
So I have a party each Derby to celebrate this. And it’s gonna be awesome. I’m gonna cook meat, drink beer, and pray for boobs to rain down upon my head for the entire week. I’m looking forward to it as I do every year. See, a lot of people don’t like Derby I suppose it is because all of the raunch spooks them out and they don’t know how to react. I am right at home with sleaze. Not only because it is ogurt, but because I love filthy, sex drenched, drunken chaos with a rock and roll chaser. That’s what Derby is to me. I am going to make sure that this Derby is a repeat of all of the rest: a full on exercise in awesome.
I don’t know what the hell the turds and tears thing really means (maybe the sheer ogrosity of someone crying poop) but I do know that I am so burnt out on school right now that I could care less about anything be it diarrhea tear ducts or destroying the model of utopia with postmodern architecture. Either way, my mind is spent. See, I am a philosophy major at the University of Louisville, I have been pursuing this degree for the last 4 years, I am about to graduate, and I am ready for it to be over!
I love school and everything it has given me but at this stage, I just don’t give a shit about it anymore. And to think I was planning on going to law school immediately after this degree. I just can’t do it right now. Law school will be there in a year or two years. But right now I have to do stuff in the world and see what’s what with what. My brain has transformed from one of an eager college student into this new gruel that makes me want to sleep for a month with a fried okra milkshake feeding tube.
Forgive me for the lame post on the end of the semester, but I am trying my best to avoid writing a paper on postmodern film which would help to explain why I have not posted in a week or so. But don’t worry I have some goodies in queue just no time to finish them. Also, I just registered another blog that will be dedicated entirely to sports. It should be good being that sports evoke a special ire in me that no other form of human activity can. Everything should be peachy by early next week. Cheers!
Almost. Like, I am really close. I filled up my bike tires with air then I saw the new Sporting News on the living room floor and thought that maybe I needed to take a dump. It’s getting a bit too late for a bike ride so maybe some sports and a dump would jolt me out of this temporary slumber. I’m gonna give it a shot.
I was sitting in my math class today listening to my teacher talk about his baldness when I thought to myself, “Has anyone ever made a scarecrow out of baloney? What would a baloney scarecrow scare away?” Vegetarians? Okay, I kinda like that. But I suppose a baloney scarecrow would scare away anything. Maybe I’ll do that for next Halloween just to gauge the reaction. I’ll make this crucified looking baloney person with an awkward hat on. But it would have to be a giant scarecrow with LOTS of baloney and that’s kinda expensive. I suppose I could paint some wet paper bags pink and call it baloney. Slop ‘em around a pole like an Edible Offal Innovation Jesus blob thingy. Boo! This gets me thinking about scarecrows and their purpose. I know they are meant to scare people but couldn’t they have other uses?
What about the Alpo Scarecrow, the scarecrow composed entirely of canned dog food? Instead of scaring away anything, the Alpo Scarecrow would be used to attract little Hoosier babies into schools. They’ll look like zombies following their Indiana Alpo God into schools that teach them how to stir dirt and pick out scalp mites from their Uncle/Daddy’s hair. Or what about the Nerf Scarecrow (to attract nerds but it also scares away girls), or the Spinach Cauliflower Scarecrow (to scare children into eating their dinner), the Dirt Clod Scarecrow (to announce the beginning of a festival or unexpected dodge ball), or the Toenail Scarecrow (made entirely of toenails to advertise free beer. “Hey! The Toenail Scarecrow is out! Free Beer!”)? I think we could take this scarecrow thing to an entirely new level. So this October, if you lose a bet with God and find yourself in Kentucky for Halloween, be on the look out for a Baloney Scarecrow in someone’s yard. Stop by, hug it, and yell Sports! as loud as you can.
