Examples of how to ogurtly enhance a picture

Here’s one:

Doh! Some would say that when a random albino nerd pops its head into your myspace lovefest picture that it will “ruin” the shot. But I say it makes it more ogurt (waaay more ogurt) thus better. But what do I know? I am just a paunchy Louisville goofball who exercises by pacing my house thinking of sports inventions using baseball bat sized beef jerky in Olympic style events for the irrepressibly unsophisticated.

Bwaugh!

Click here for the rest of the pics.

Baltimore is the most ogurt city on the planet.

Oh Baltimore, Baltimore, Baltimore… The Charm City. “The land of pleasant living”. STD capitol of the United States… Steamed crabs, fried muskrat, Natty Boh, the O’s, UTZ crab chips, heroin, The Block…

Oh Baltimore, how I love thee.

Seriously this city is so off the wall ogurt it is difficult to put it all in one little blog post. My first time in Baltimore my friend warned me that in the 80’s Reagan slashed social funding for the mentally handicapped so they had to empty all of the insane asylums and that’s one of the reasons I would see so many freaks on the streets throughout the city. He was right. I saw grown men yelling at themselves, people walking aimlessly in the middle of Charles street, homies in trench coats scurrying around the porn pawn shops on The Block… Everywhere you looked there was something abnormal going on. Well, normal for Baltimore but for an outsider like myself it was much like a circus for the batshit insane.

And I loved it.

Girls in grocery stores with long, nappy, green dread locks that looked like giant alien turds, hypodermic needles strewn all over the sidewalks, filthy couches that doubled as rest stops for drunken, homeless mooks, creepy trannys glaring at you through stale cigar smoke at the Rendevous, Hampden, gravy poured on everything, hey hon!, Donald “The Singing Bush”, and that accent… Oh that Baltimore accent. I could go on all day about how much Baltimore rules and never mention John Waters.

We here in Louisville feel like we have cornered the market on ogurt horse racing style debauchery with the Kentucky Derby. But in Baltimore, for the Preakness, they have the Running of the Urinals which is when brave souls run across the tops of the port-o-potties while the crowd hurls beers at them.

Win: Baltimore.

You won’t be judged in Baltimore. They welcome freaks. There are so many cracked out people and events going on there that it truly has a culture all its own. The things that go on in Baltimore are proprietary for that city. The food, the people, the language, the music, the sleaze, everything. There’s no other place like it. It’s a one of a kind place and my nomination for the most ogurt city on the planet.

Funtown Auto

Hilarious car advertisement from Bobby Hacker. Apparently Funtown Auto will finance ANYONE and oh, don’t forget your checkbook…

Check it out on the “Cars” link:

Cars on FunnyOrDie.com

My fort is made of imaginary corn.

“It doesn’t make any sense to uncover your fortunes before they are hatched. You can percolate with the rest of us and ponder the moment as the big, bright fortunes ahead of you spawn again. It can only occur when the time is right or when you favorite possession becomes coated with tears. Lose them. It is a mystical persistence and one that fate is reluctant to unleash.”

You’re drunk and passed out at the kitchen table of your parent’s house. Your Mom shoves a giant cake with white icing and lit candles in front of you. You awake, startled.

“Happy Birthday!!!”

You take a deep breath and your drunken imagination begins to soar…

Dark gardens where shadows grow cold from stones dripping the waste of insect breath. Fog curls slowly into a spiral before your feet and you enter to a rush of chills down your neck. Cold, clammy air thick with steam clogs your pores and tickles your ears. A bead of sweat rolls down across your temple. Dissected bodies of wingless bats cover the walls and the exit door rattles from the wind outside the dungeon wall. Clenched teeth. The shadows move. Two eyes appear from the darkness, yellow like stained teeth, yet bright like a lost gypsy’s lantern. The eyes move toward your face and the shadow engulfs you in a warm breath then escapes returning you to the cold dampness of the dungeon’s core. You open your eyes.

“Make a wish!!!”, everyone screams.

You belch and slam your face into the middle of the cake.

The Trailer Park Boys

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 here 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.

Find your inner Conan.

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 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?

Barak goes off on Hillary Def Jam style

Hilarious mash up from Barely Political.com:

Hillary Clinton is ogurt.

Just look at these pictures:

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.

Ron Paulville!!!

You have got to be kidding me:

“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.

I have the sense of humor of a third grader.

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……

“Chips and a drank!?”

“Huh?”

I’m betting on Dorf remakes. Easy Money? Essential theater. Remember Harvey Korman and that movie The Longshot? Yeah, there’s Tim Conway again, followed by awesome. And it keeps getting ogurt. Barth from You Can’t Do That On Television? Let me explain. It goes: God, Kirk Gibson, then that guy. (Doh!) I own three hockey fights video on vhs AND I live alone.

Wait…

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?

Kentucky Derby

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.

See ya in a few days.