End of semester: tears like turds

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 bored.

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.

Baloney Scarecrow

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.

Lunch meat is the new straw.

I freak people out.

I like to tell stories. But when I do, I’m too much for people. I have been told this before but this weekend it kinda hit home with me just how true this really is. I mean, I get into talking about stuff and I’ll go crazy, bounce around, and flail my body like an electrocuted Jason Newsted looking praying mantis while yelling about the proprietary jiggle of a fat girl’s gut quake or how if Hillary Clinton suffered a prolapsed uterus we could use it as a burial cave for discarded waffle griddles padded with pickled toe knuckle meat from aborted dwarf wombat babies named Rambo.

It gets pretty dramatic and people usually run scared or try to punch me out of fear. I was told by a sober person that I scared away multiple patrons from entering the bar this past Friday. They were on their way in as I was in the middle of a story about how I had drunken, zombie sex with a vagina that looked like a mix between the Toxic Avenger and an Arby’s Big Montana roast beef sandwich that got splattered with a sledgehammer dipped in bulldozer grease. I’m telling this with full descriptive hand gestures, facial ticks like someone having a seizure, and drunken yelps that warm sleeping bums across town with enough hot air to launch a sports blimp. Some people laugh but most (aka “normal people”) treat me like I am a Cambodian testicle flea who lives off Pol Pot’s bag cheese. To them, I am the worst of the worst.

And it’s kinda awesome.

These snobby yuppie types seem to have no sense of humor whatsoever. Pretentious, New Agey types who won’t stop protesting for the rights of broccoli long enough to laugh at someone getting clubbed in the face with a kickball or the pretty faces who have absolutely zero soul outside of their Roofie or Viagra fueled “O-face”. These folks REALLY hate me. I mean, they do have a sense of humor but it’s either wine and cheese snark or bland, prescribed pop culture humor that oozes defeat to some MTV ad master. Try belching a hockey score to these people and they look at you like you’re leftover sludge underneath the pond scum barrel floating in a pool of slug urine. They sneer, huff and puff, and then they run screaming as your third handful of Cheetos gets smeared across your pasty gut during your fourth sports beer coma of the afternoon. No worries. My ogurt force field usually keeps snotty yuppies and humorless prudes of the boredom army at bay. But on occasion, this invisible ogurt vapor of mine enters into the mental stream of normalcy. This confuses people and they reach a decree that I am too enthusiastic about awesome or pork meat or unexpected, full-contact slobbery that I must be psychotic. But you know, having the entire population of a stuck up city think you’re a walking elbow rash is kinda awesome. So yeah, I know I am too much for people but that’s just how the puddle plops. Now pass me that sauce and turn on some sports. My ogritis is flarin’ up!

A great soundtrack for your next dinner party

The next time you invite friends over for jello and clam loaf or whatever you people eat for dinner, be sure to click on this link and let it play in the background. Or even better, if you have young children sit them down in the room and let this play for a few hours. Trust me, they will love you forever.

Click this link, then click a track and it will repeat itself.

RAUGH.

If celebrities moved to Oklahoma…

I’m sure many of you have already seen this but for those who haven’t… look out for the funny.

Oklahoma Celebrities

Ah!!

I love it.

Raugh!!!

Ogurt

Raugh!!

Sharp objects for homeless people

I am thinking about a project for my theater class that involves set design for an updated version of Oedipus Rex. And for some reason I got this idea to do a google search for “Sharp objects for homeless people”. You see, I am going to set the updated version of this classic Greek tragedy in a homeless enclave of sorts. Oedipus will be naked underneath a brown trench coat, his body covered in shit and dirt and old taco grease after spending a week eating garbage from a dumpster behind his favorite Taco-Tico. He is revered for his garbage eating ability and for the fact that for the first years of his homelessness he survived on tad poles and tree sap. (The iron stomachs of homeless people are held in high regard. I bet you didn’t know that about America’s homeless population. The eating contests in many urban slums are legendary. It’s an ogurt thang. You wouldn’t understand.) So he returns to the shanty town after weeks of prowling alleyways looking for the most lucrative dumpsters he can find. He finds dumpsters teaming with garbagy awesome and is heralded by his special sect of homeless men. This Oedipus is the king of the garbage eaters.

Sports!

Now this is where I get confused because somewhere along the line he has to bang his mother, kill his father, then poke out his eyes with a sharp object. It cannot be a brooch like the original story so I am thinking broken chop sticks or maybe he can rub some sort of poison bark all over his eyes until they rot out. I see him humping some lady covered in newspaper, he’s cross eyed with an overflowing mouthful of brown lettuce and chow mien noodles. He finishes, stands up, and pounds his chest with his fist grunting like a constipated ox. Then he grabs the chop sticks and slams them into his eye. Blahh!!! End of story.

I hope I get an A.