Amoebas in a leglock

Free up a bunch of corks and build a fake cheese wheel to throw at sandcastles built during AA meetings. Embed a barrel of frozen snow peas in the middle of a cake walk creating a barrier to the elderly’s circular sugar trance. Do an unannounced limbo at a funeral for a stranger. Plant corn in a random gully. Go to the ocean and sink yourself while punching the water. Talk to a specialist about getting tattoos on your teeth. Break into a lab and attempt to put an amoeba in a leglock. Go forth and create for yourself a frenzy of crazy. Let’s all go insane and lose ourselves in our own comic psychosis.

Slap bread displays. Argue with specialty produce. Get offended at the presence of an iguana. Learn yourself to say, “I don’t even care”. Grow a crustache. Wear a cloak and a monocle and scoff at coffee drinkers while eating a Twinkie. Announce to the world over the intercom at Wal-mart that you are a sleuth on a blimp.

I write here because I need to exercise the demons of my beer deprived brain. Someone crush some pork rinds and make a paste so I can rub into my skin the grease freaky. I am in need of a shift in motivation and priority. I am searching for the key to unlock my own psychosis. I want to quit thinking and perform and create and leave a lash on this fearful world. Someone give me the words to entrench myself… become consumed. Leave the world and focus on the hum of my skull.

My Morning Feast

No this is not a sloppy post about post-hippy music. It is about the morning’s bounty in toast form. Breakfast, bitches.

Towering stack of crunchy bread slathered with all manner of sugary muck stabbed with a two foot long ice pick then eaten with a cartoonish gulp like a drunken Fred Flintstone. Toast. Peanut butter and honey and bacon toast sandwiches as your Granny picks the ticks out of your hair while the Pekinese licks out your toe jam. Pine cone sap jam wadded up into baseball sized clumps melted down into buckets with ripped hunks of bread toasted by a Zippo lighter dunked in the sap jelly awesome. Little houses made of toast that are crushed by children then eaten by beagles. Toast discs flying across the room in a domestic dispute over egg yolks and body hair. Political manifestos burned into the sides of toast then passed out at Tupperware parties that start the revolution to overthrow a lot of governments.

Fucking toast, man.

Feed me like a bald eagle.

Just chew up something and spit it into my mouth. I will guess what it is and re-feed you. Oh, God its love!!!

(pause)

Michael Jackson was buried today…

And all I could think about was an awesome girl re-barfing food into my mouth while beating me with a whip made of beef jerky? Now hold on… HOLD ON! I know that’s pretty gross (for some of you). And I don’t really think I would like to spend EVERY Sunday evening being fed Hot Pockets like a baby eagle but I do think that the object of my undying love is a girl who is willing to spit food into my mouth like a zoo creature. A woman like that holds no fear and is truly free.

Unlike Michael Jackson. Did he know true love? The Ferris Wheels and the pony rides? Yeah… alright. PYT? Uh, I’m not going there. His idea of love was a bizarre combination of his desire to remain a five year old mental patient mixed with society’s insatiable appetite for moonwalking. He was half ogurt. On the gloved hand he lived on his own terms and didn’t really give a damn what everyone thought. Plus, he didn’t have a nose and grabbed his crotch with compulsive frequency. Cha-mon! The creative side of him was fearless and inspiring like true ogurts are known to be. His brilliance was driven by his lack of fear.

But then again, on the non-gloved hand, he was a prisoner. He wasn’t free and lived in perpetual terror. He bought the lie with so much gusto it turned his brain inside out. He let society’s expectations of him dictate his life. Some would argue that his imprisonment was unavoidable due to how he was thrown into a life of insanity by a freak out of a father and that argument has merit. Like all others who become embroiled in the vortex of fame and self-importance he lost. To others he was a monster end of story. He was crushed under incredible public scrutiny anytime he did anything (some well deserved) and drastically altered his appearance with disturbing face stretchings and frightening chemical peels to retain his false sense of celebrity appeal.

This isn’t a hate piece. This is a minor rant on the tragedy that was MJ’s life and how he moved away from himself and became a horror show. He acquiesced. I’m sincere in these views and how fear wrecks everything. This blog is about being ogurt for chrissakes which btw, is the total opposite of fear. Because to go out in public like this:

You are most definitely ogurt and cannot give a FUCK what people think.

And MJ is a prime example of this. The first thirty years of MJ’s life? AWESOME. In the moment, each second better than the last. A creative master with an entire planet receptive to his energy. The last twenty five years? A complete nightmare. Fear took over and warped him into bleached skeleton sideshow clown. He lived a sad and twisted life. So when I think of the fear that controlled his life for the last twenty years I am moved to want the extreme opposite. I think about love and how love feeds upon fearlessness…

Now feed me like a bald eagle!

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!

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….

Whirling tornadoes lunch meat wrapper house for swamis.

Swirling funnel clouds touchdown upon the earth in random bursts. Suddenly they all collide into one gigantic, swooping tornado. Inside the funnel sits a fat man. A garbage swami. He hovers a few feet from the ground, crossed legged with his hands folded at his forehead, praying, meditating inside the dumpster gale. The howls of the tornado wind whir at his back. There is silence… Then he burps and quickly reaches out to the side of the tornado to grab at random garbage caught in the throes of the frenzied wind. He pulls his hand back holding a gas station ham sandwich wrapper and eats it. He burps again and returns to his prayers.

Never underestimate the hunger of a fat guy who likes to hang out around garbage. He may risk his life to feed, but he will feed. Yes… he will feed.

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!!!

The future of music

This guy.

Klang! I’m pullin’ wart hair.

On the day of my wedding I will ask my bride to skip tradition and braid my wart hair then spit beer into my mouth…

I now pronounce you man and wife!

See, I got these wart hairs sprouting out of a mole on my back. Been there my whole life. I love ‘em. They’re mutants. My mutant love advisers. I ask ‘em about stuff and they tell me yay or nay when the woon dang gets for real. If a girl don’t cut the mustard I will hear my wart hairs argue yes or no or disperse advice like good wart hairs are prone to do. In essence, when my mind fails (as it often does), they get the job done.

When the braid is completed the message is clear:

An ogurt queen has been crowned and my wart hair will finally shut the fuck up!

Sometimes those hairs piss me off and I cut ‘em down or pluck ‘em out and in a matter of minutes it seems they grow back as if to say, “Is that all you got?! We ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

Schizo-mind controlling wart hairs, beer spitting brides, gum snapping white trash girls shearing eyelids off of drugged beagle puppies in a cold, moldy root cellar… Whoa!

Damn…

I need a vacation.

More incredible ogurts (pictures)

These are some random pictures of ogurts, ogurts, and more ogurts!

WAUGH!!!

Oh yeah!!

Thank you Captain Awesome for once again bringing the win.

I have no idea…

Take a deep breath and let the ogurt wash over you…

Ogurt Santa Extravaganza!!

Mall Santas are traditionally some of the most ogurt things on the planet. We’ve all seen Bad Santa, right?

Well, that’s just the starter course. Here’s a round up of the main courses from throughout the interwebz courtesy of Captain Awesome.

Ogurt Santas!!

BWAUGH!

Walls of Rambo Snarls

I awoke from a nightmare last night dreaming that I was trapped in a prison cell surrounded by the snarled lips of Sylvester Stallone. The snarls covered the walls. Every time I moved a muscle they would shoot back the quote from Rambo II:

“Murdoch…”

That’s all they said. “Muuurdoch…..” over and over. Afterward I could hear the sound of his fist squeezing a spit stained microphone from a VC prison camp. After a few hours, it became quite terrifying (or maybe I was just drunk?). Swirling sounds of snarled lip schizophrenia like a swarm of HGH drugged, mutant cricket moaning chants to their enemies followed by a slight record screech.

I convinced myself I was in a new hell. The hell of the Rambo Snarls (this could be a band name.). I was dreaming so I knew I could combat this omnipotent mandibular scourge with a creation of my imagination. So I thought of the first thing that came to me: a hot spatula covered in pancake grease (drunk + hungry = pancakes) and I began slapping Rambo Snarls in every direction. With each slap the snarls would dry up and I woke up with my fist covered in blood while punching my tuba into a flattened brass clump. Quite the nightmare I can assure you that.

I wonder where he gets it?

(That’s his Mom). RAUGH.

“Get got gone!” A day in the life of God.

Roasted fetal pigs are squeezed by eyeless dwarf slaves oozing hot grease upon a gyrating belly. Ants use gut hairs as a springboard to dive into a pool of liquid lard that has collected in a vacuous naval cave. Celebrating atop crusted lint rafts, ant babies cheer as they float along this vacation fantasy voyage in a belly button gut lake of boiling pork lard courtesy of the Lord of the Pork Hoard (God). Big steamy zits explode like fireworks from curdled jelly geysers across the pock marked mountain of the belly’s flesh. Fleas scold their children while riding atop tears of armpit sweat rolling quickly towards a bruised crotch.

“Oohh let me party!”, God screams to drunken minions who stand around holding offerings of onions and broken sporks.

Another peach is tossed against the chamber wall.”Get got gone!”, God bellows to the confused congregation.

Eager wenches arrive spraying mouthfuls of stale, ‘Ling (Pure Beer). Warm fountains of stain and lust coat the messiah in ogrismic triumph.

Bulldogs rise from their beds of chewed celery to be fed globs of mayonnaise while flutes whistle brightly from nymphs after dawn.

God roars (then pukes a little) making goats scurry towards the pine cone stocks when at the same time drugged squirrels roll up into pyramids, then disperse.

Welcome to another day in the life of the King Mongrel who’s name could be Otis or Lurlene or Evan Bixwell III. Whoever this person or cosmic force is, they subsist as a crowned glop of opioid and clam fritter mish mash who sits atop an edible throne and who takes a break from their ogurt impulses only to award belches anointing imaginary lordships to rocks.

“BUURP!!! Now you’re a king!” commanding a stalagmite brought from a rumored Martian prison ownership of a tract of gutter swamp inside the Frost Zone.

“That’s right… Now give me my wash.”

Hired cretins in wheel chairs dump bedpans of bark sap into a soak vat. God climbs in and waits for sports.

A quick update

After arriving home from Florida, entertaining guests, and now settling back in to my home I am ready to get back on it. It’s been awhile but ogrosity never sleeps. I am working on a few things right now but I just wanted to drop a quick line and let the fellow ogurts out there know that I have not forgotten our quest. I shall return VERY shortly and return to the dissemination of unique verses regarding the behavior and lifestyle of the minions of brutes and trollops within the special chasm where ogrotic vapor swallows our entire core. Oh yes, ogrismo never sleeps. See you shortly in the coming days.