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…