Dick.
I haven’t done one of these in a while, and I was looking at my stats/analytics (June is over! It was a pretty good month) today so I noticed some search terms worth sharing. So here’s the newest “Top Ten Google Search Referrals Of The Day”:
10) science of butt sex – I wasn’t aware there was a science to butt sex. Unless you’re really into comparing the ingredients of different water-soluble lubricants.
09) geek girl want to fuck
08) old man costume ideas
07) rotten mcdonalds
06) how fungus could have traveled to a fungus free zone
05) i feel like a fuck up – You and me both, buddy.
04) he called me a fungus
03) www.arial porn – I like to think this person is so obsessed with porn that they tried to search Google for a website but suddenly became overcome with the desire to see two people fuck.
02) why do people blog? – I’m still asking myself that same question.
01) how’s bono – With any luck, dead.
• Newsflash! Testosterone makes people suspicious of one another. And here I thought that we’re suspicious of other people because they end all their sentences in, “Or…did I?” and laugh maniacally. Had I known it was plain old testosterone making me suspicious of an old roommate I might not have been so careless when I let him continually tip-toe across our room in the middle of the night to steal money from my desk. Wait a minute…there’s a statement in the middle of this article that has me baffled. “…the effect does not occur in cautious individuals, because the hormone would make them so paranoid that they would become socially disabled.” What the fuck!? Is this what’s wrong with me? Do I have too much testosterone in my body? Is that why I power down like an energy-saving robot whenever I’m forced to leave the comfort of my bedroom? Socially disabled. Do I get an exclusive parking spot with that? Because I’ll totally take that on as my “thing” if I don’t have to park so far away from the bar. [story]
• In my ongoing quest to take down Jonathan Gold (who has never done anything wrong by me, and is but an innocent bystander in my quest to attain the highest levels of fame) I have started reading an article — a single article on the Internet — that teaches me to eat like a food snob. That’s right, I’m learning about what I’m supposed to say to make me sound enlightened when I eat things. Sure, I can’t make analogies to foods I’ve had before that you plebeians will never eat because they’re from some remote part of the world YOU can’t visit or because they’re so foul no one in their right mind would dare try them, but I am at least learning what different flavors taste like. Why don’t you try doing that in your next review, Mr. Gold? Instead of telling me about how you’re eating amongst a crowd that I AM NOT A PART OF AND WILL NEVER BE A PART OF, talk about…you know…flavors and stuff. It’s just an idea. [story]
• There’s a flying car now. I don’t know how it works, but I know that I want one! For ever since my childhood (ew, I started a sentence with “For…”?), in the mid 1980s, I would often daydream about the year 2000 when I would have my very own flying car. Mom…dad…I’m ready. Buy me that nice new car I never got when I turned 17. When all the other kids at school got new Jeeps and new Beamers I had to drive a 1985 Dodge Daytona that never really worked, and it didn’t even have a tape deck. You can make up for the irreparable damage this did to my teenage psyche. You can reverse the effects of growing up “middle class” with no new car and no leather seats upon which I could finger bang dozens of self-conscious high school chicks. If I had a flying car I’d have gotten my first blow job way earlier than I did, and it wouldn’t have come at the expense of my dignity (she was chunky). Buy me a flying car, mom and dad, so that I can fly back in time and wrestle my penis out of that crazy girl’s mouth! Oh God, I just remembered how veiny her tits were. Everyone thought I was cool in high school because I got some ass but as it turns out it really sucked. Thanks a lot, memories. I want to kill my brain now. [story]
• “More than 100 clowns have taken to the streets in El Salvador to protest against the murder of a bus passenger killed by two ‘impostor clowns’.” First of all, how does one clown know the other clown is an impostor. They’re all wearing makeup. I’m not convinced that this whole “impostor clown” thing isn’t a vile subculture deep inside the clown community, members of which are currently trying to label unwanted characters as impostors. The very same impostors, in fact, that they themselves really are! I’m not quite sure what any of that means, but I’m suddenly feeling the urge to travel to El Salvador. When I was in 8th grade I had a crush on a girl who wasn’t first generation Salvadorian (but she said her mom was, and I never met her mom, but I have it on good authority that she was a real Salvadorian woman). Oh how the Salvadorian girl and I would play! We played twice. That was it. One time I pulled her pants down and saw her Salvadorian ass. It was…it was alright, for an 8th grade girl’s ass. This was maybe 12 years ago. I’m sure these days 8th grade ass looks better because those girls are all bulimic. They all want to be on Gossip Girl. But that’s not the point. In fact, none of this has been so much as tangentially related to the point! The point, if you will recall, was that…clowns…protesting? Come to think of it, I don’t remember what the point was, or if there ever was one to begin with. Read the article yourself. [story]
• As the UK papers painted it last week, there was “fury” in Arizona as one restaurant decided to offer up lion burgers in celebration of the World Cup. Oh, how there was fury! Mighty protesters shot fire from their fists, and rained down lightning bolts like Zeus the God of Thunder! It was like an episode of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, I tell you. …With all that fury… and, uh. No? No fury? Nevermind. I guess some people became angered when they read that a food joint in little-known Phoenix Valley, AZ decided to serve lion-meat hamburgers to their paying customers. And I’d be lion if I didn’t say I wanted to try one of those burgers. What? Come on, I had to make that joke. Don’t roll your eyes at me! Fuck you. I think what’s more outrageous than serving farm-raised lion meat at a restaurant is the fact that these people thought lion meat was the perfect way to celebrate the World Cup. Because the world Cup is being held in South Africa, where there are (at the present time) only a few lions. That seems a bit fundamental. Like, a lion equals Africa. The same genius who put that together was probably thinking along the lines of, “Oh, the World Cup in is Africa this year? Well, why don’t we cook up some lion meat and call it a ‘Simba burger’, and we can dress in painted rags and pierce our ears and noses with gold discs and chicken bones like the dark people photographed in the pages of my National Geographic magazine. The white waitresses can wear blackface and go topless so that their puffy, floppy tits can hang out over their distended, starving bellies like their Biafran sisters!” Tell you what, why you’re at it, why don’t you amend the signs near your cash register to reflect that your establishment accepts Visa, MasterCard, and blood diamonds? [story]
• “In a piece of cutting political commentary, a group of artists have protested about heightened security in the Russian city of St. Petersburg by drawing a giant 220ft-long penis on a drawbridge.” Since when is drawing penises considered a protest? If you pass out drunk on my couch and I take a Sharpee to your forehead and brand you penis-face does that mean I’m a protester? I wasn’t protesting against the folks at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. when I posted an In The Butt sticker on their sign. I was simply making a joke. A very funny joke. About analstuff. Should there be a space between anal and stuff? I kind of like it more as “analstuff.” I think I just made a new word. Someone, quick! Get UrbanDictionary on the phone! [story]
• I don’t know how this whole Google Voice thing works, but since I’m pretty sure I can delete my account if I’m not satisfied with the service, why don’t you call my Google Voice phone number and leave me a message. Tomorrow I’ll post the hilarious computer-generated transcriptions of all the calls I receive. And I think I’ve set up my account so that it will no longer ring through to my regular phone or provide callers with my real phone numbers. I think. Because…that would totally suck. Imagine if I accidentally gave my real phone number out on my blog…and a thousand people called me…some of whom might wish me grave bodily harm. Oh the nightmares! The night terrors! Haters and Pitchfork columnists coming out from their parents’ basements to insult me! Slinging insults like “faggot” and “retard” like David did his stone towards me, the Internet Goliath that I am.The horror…the horror.
(415)-938-6487. That’s 415-9FUNGUS. I dare you, prick.
Xasthur – Victim Of Your Dreams
Afflicted Man – For The Few I Please
The The – Helpline Operator
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