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.