porkjerky plog
Band Of Idiots
They are everywhere.
You won’t find them discussed in history books, though. Or protesting a professional sports team whose mascot demeans them. And anthropologists haven’t found any of their ancient abodes to dig through to study. Nor are they are entitled to open a casino on their native lands because they aren’t listed as one of the 564 recognized tribal entities by the Department of the Interior.
But just like the one I found two Fridays ago, I keep seeing more and more of these indigenous people. The Tribal Arm Band Tattoo Tribe as I like to call them. I believe the males of the group are called Douchebags and the females, Whores.
While most of them are easily to spot having branded themselves with not so ornate bands between their biceps and armpits, their actions also give them away. Here’s some other ways to spot the Whores:
- Mechanized bull riding.
- Fears that her 3 year old son might be gay by some of the things he does/enjoys.
- Doesn’t believe that 50 pounds overweight and/or an enormous c-section scar disqualifies them from wearing a halter top.
- Innate need to prove their toughness by arm wrestling Douchebags.
And here are easy ways to quickly identify the Douchebags:
- Driving while smoking, but being careful to exhale and hold the cigarette outside the minivan. This helps hide their tribe affiliation from their non-tribal significant other who hates that smoking is part of their culture.
- References his penis by the name he has given it without the need to ever explain the reference because everyone around him knows it because he alludes to it so much.
- Faux hawk, frosted tips, tweezed eyebrows, Axe body spray, soul patch and a Hot Topic heavy wardrobe.
- Always telling no one in general to cowboy up, man up, get their ‘something’-on, how he rolls or whatever has just occurred is what he was talking about.
I truly believe this great tribe, both the Douchebags and the Whores, need to get the recognition they deserve. The recognition other tribes have had and take for granted.
That is why I’m volunteering my services. As soon as you want me to march the Tribal Arm Band Tattoo Tribe along the Second Trail of Tears to some shitty part of the country—Detroit, Memphis, shallow graves, off a cliff—just let me know and I am on it.
Writing This Post About Writing This Post
Guess what dickshafts, I am trumping your boring pathetic blog posts about your boring pathetic lives. All you fucks who have ever blogged about essentially nothing, I am going to show you how it’s done.
Right now I am writing this blog post. How fucking riveting is that? A blog post about writing this blog post I am writing.
While I am writing it right now, it all started yesterday when I unfortunately found hundreds of thousands of posts that contained phrases that related to boring every day activities. Phrases like ‘I just got off work’, ‘going to bed’, ‘brushing my teeth’. Somehow, boring pathetic piece of shit bloggers thought it necessary to let the world know abut the minutiae of their boring pathetic piece of shit lives.
Complete vapidness. It’s like they are grasping at anything they did in their life so they can blog about it, thus give their boring pathetic piece of shit lives meaning. At that point people are almost blogging just to be blogging.
Almost that is.
I found a way to out do them. And I am typing it as I type this. Normally, the next sentence would start ‘As an aside…’, but its going to be about writing this blog post I am writing so there is no fourth wall to break (actually I think I will leave it in but strike through it). As an aside, (pretty fucking clever huh?) I don’t know why I put things in parenthesis, this whole fucking thing is parenthetical (even more fucking clever huh?).
I would be remiss in writing this blog post about writing this blog post if I didn’t tell you what I am not going to write about. I’m not writing about the shit I took today. Nor how I woke up, showered, took things from and returned things to the refrigerator, which shoe I put on first, if I left my house through the garage or front door, what station I had the radio in the car on, how long I had to wait at the traffic signals on my drive, how many potato chips I ate, how many hours I spent sitting on my fat ass, how often I looked outside or any of the other million things everyone does in a typical day.
Nope, all those things are way too exciting and substantial for this blog post that I am currently writing. Ubervapid. That’s my goal.
I am jacking up the mundanity a level. I am writing this post about writing this post I am writing. Yeah, I am taking your mundane pathetic life and lowering it an excitement level.
Without this blog post I am writing I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Creativity and banality have finally intersected. The literary singularity is neigh.
And now I am done writing this blog post about writing this blog post I am writing.
If A Tree Fell In The Woods, How Many People Would Blog About It?
Is there nothing too mundane or trite to blog about?
“I am going to the store”
726,990 blog posts
“I just got off work”
219,771 blog posts
“brushing my teeth”
722,396 blog posts
“cunt turd ass booger”
1 blog post
“going to bed”
30,888,602 blog posts
“my new hair cut”
172,353 blog posts
You really believe the world needs a boring record of your boring life? There’s a reason reality shows film for 6 months and only produce 16 episodes that run 48 minutes each—there’s only so many hours in a day the Real World cast can fuck, yell at each other, stumble around drunk, cut themselves to alleviate their pain and get abortions. At some point they wash their clothes, eat, piss, bathe, clip their toenails, do dishes and sleep.
But no, go ahead, everyone is riveted by you chronicling ever dull moment of your dull life. Please, every time you even swallow, exhale or crap make a note of it.
No Son Of Mine
I’m like most people, I’m not a huge bible thumper—unless and until it suits me. So that’s why I’d like to take the moral high ground, cast some aspersions and say that some things are just wrong.
Jesus didn’t die on a cross and hide all those eggs for nothing. He wanted to give us a better life and eternal salvation. In return all he wanted was for us to be good, charitable, practice faux-cannibalism by pretending a stale cracker was his body and live our lives according to his gospel.
Again, when it suits me, I don’t think that’s too much for him to ask in return.
Now, I don’t know if people are born this way, or they learn it. Doesn’t really matter, in me and Jesus’s book, they all end up in hell just the same. Even if you’re not religious and consider yourself open minded, this has got to be really devastating for any parent to hear:
Mom, dad, I’m a professional blogger.
Its even worse than being asked by the state highway department for your child’s dental records so they can identify what they think is a corpse. If my kid came home and said that, I don’t think I could stand it. I would be like,
I didn’t raise you this way. You weren’t taught that this type of behavior is right. Were did I go wrong? No, lord anything but this.
Ain’t no son of mine going to be a professional blogger. Get out of my house before I go all Abraham on you.
Here’s a list of pages I was able to find within 15 seconds where someone referenced themselves as a professional blogger:
http://www.labnol.org/about.html
http://shesright.org/2009/01/27/im-a-professional-blogger
http://abhisays.com/blogging/benefits-of-being-a-full-time-blogger.html
And best yet, if you want to join the unprestigious ranks of self-proclaimed professional blogging head over to the Job Boards at Problogger.net. You’re parents will be so proud.
Saying you’re a professional blogger is like bragging about the fattest girl you ever fucked (fyi, really god damn fat—thank you very much—and ugly to boot). No wait. Its more like bragging about the fattest, ugliest girl you ever dated for a month in the hope of fucking, but it turned out she wasn’t into you and the most you ever got was a hug before she stopped returning your calls. That’s what saying you’re a professional blogger is equivalent to.
Shit Eating Morals
Do PETA fucks just learn to live with the clap? Penicillin itself is derived from fungi, which makes it ok for them to ingest. But syphilis is alive. A virus is a living thing too, they can’t in good conscience kill syphilis can they? Even if its killing them, right?
Like fur, meat and leather, using antibiotics is murder.
Wow, being so idealistically better than everyone else sure has to be tough. Lots of moral conundrums.
Oh, here’s another. Suppose the WHO isolates the most heinous intestinal parasite ever down to 12 cases. This worm is fucking nasty. It lodges in your bowels lays massive amounts of eggs, causes explosive bloody diarrhea, engorged ass polyps out the, well, out the ass, massive internal bleeding, paralysis, possible coma. I mean this thing is the holocaust. But we’ve killed it down to just a dozen people, we have them quarantined and we’re giving them medicine and if they are lucky, 2 of them will survive.
If those people die the parasite dies with them, if they live the bug gets killed off. So, its virtually eradicated. Its just a matter of time before we wipe this horrible thing off the face of the earth. Unless…
You’re a nutjob PETAtard. Do you just sit naked in your protesting cage all day throwing blood on shoppers coming out of Macy’s or do you get off your ass, stay true to the cause and find one of those 7 people and eat their shit?
Choose your moral high ground carefully.
As Useful As Tits On A Corpse
What a great month for breast implant companies. You can’t buy this kind of marketing.
But daddy, they will not only help me feel better about myself but if in case I get a quickie Vegas marriage to some violent Cannuck who bashes my head in, stabs me 75 times, rips my jaw bones out, cuts off my finger tips, filets off my tattoos, moles, scars, all the skin on my face and all other identifying marks on my body, stuffs me in a suitcase and throws it in a dumpster, the police can still use them to help identify what’s left of my corpse. So you see, it would be stupid to not get them.
Existentialism At Its Finest
You ever look up into the night sky, with those thousands of stars, light that has traveled across galaxies spanning trillions of miles taking years to reach your puny pupil, and spend a moment trying to contemplate and comprehend how huge the universe is, how small you are in comparison and wonder if at that exact moment you are trying to reach some sort of enlightenment about life if there is some fat fuck flying from Cincinnati to Oakland who’s jammed into a Southwest lavatory taking a huge crap directly above your head?
Yeah, the night sky really boggles my mind too.
Logical Destiny
It’s amazing the decisions people don’t know they make. Namely the decision they make to not explicitly make decisions.
I think most people live their life in the Forrest Gump method—just floating through like a leaf in the wind. Wherever life takes them is where they go. No need to try and direct it, maybe take some initiative and aim for a destination. Nope, they are just content to float through life reveling in whatever good comes their way and cursing luck for the bad that happens along their path-of-least-resistance life.
They never realize that they are somehow responsible for all of it.
That’s great if you’re Forrest Gump and are lucky enough to have all those great adventures and nice coincidences occur. But what’s a more realistic expectation of someone who unconsciously decides to not make decisions in their life?
I saw it for the 453rd time at the mall today.
He was pushing a kid in stroller with another 2 kids tugging at his XXXL Carmelo Anthony jersey begging for a cinnamon roll while he angrily apologized to his equally overweight wife for not remembering to grab the Bed, Bath and Beyond coupon from their Windstar dashboard with personalized license plate ‘HLLRZR’, a garter hanging from the rear view mirror and Sponge Bob sun shades on both back windows.
Well pardon the hell out of me for being more concerned that Dylan didn’t take off into traffic than remembering to get that god damn 20% off coupon for more stinky lotion you don’t need. I know I know, and I heard you both times—I just didn’t do it. Okay? Jesus Christ I screwed up alright. I am so sorry I forgot to get your precious god damn coupon.
For some reason, that only made me smile a lot. It wasn’t until I saw the tribal arm band tattoo that I really started beaming. Tribal arm band tattoos always make my day for some reason.
Actually, this reason: In my mind I pictured that guy 10 years and 120 pounds ago, drunk, in a tattoo parlor at 2 in the morning with his 5 best friends getting that ink done. Thinking to himself how fucking-A kick ass cool that tattoo will be and how great his life will now turn out because of it. It was a sign that he was his own man. He wasn’t going to take no shit from no one never (his words). He was the master of his destiny and life was going to bow down to him.
What a boss fucking tattoo.
It might have been the last real decision he made in his life.
From then on though, all the other decisions he made in the previous 10 years which led him to that exact moment in both our lives where I was watching him get yelled at for forgetting to grab a coupon, were probably not ones he actively chose. He just took life as it came, and like a Plinko chip that started out with so much promise, it somehow landed in that slot at the mall with me gawking at him.
I’m not saying it was a bad non-decision to just take what life gave him as opposed trying to not be that guy in the mall with the 3 booger eaters, 1 fat wife and no coupons. Honestly, anyone with a tribal arm band tattoo probably doesn’t make the best decisions in life and just going with the flow probably isn’t a bad alternative to whatever shitty explicit decisions he would have made.
I’m just saying it was beautiful in a painful sort of way to know that he existed and had that existence. It wasn’t karma, it wasn’t fate, it wasn’t the easter bunny or any other thing that doesn’t exist. It was what I like to call ‘logical destiny’.
It was just beautiful to see the logical conclusion of a life guided by personal ambivalence. That’s why all tribal arm band tattoos make my day. They all end up on ‘that guy’’s arm. Not specifically that ‘that guy’’s arm, but ‘that guy’. Oh, it may not be today the life attached to that tribal arm band tattoo turns out that way, it may not be tomorrow or next month. But somewhere somehow every tribal arm band tattoo ends up in a very similar fate.
I Got Your Voir Dire Right Here
Oh thank you Al Gore. Ambulance chasing has entered the 21st century. Not with a whimper but with a blog.
You can’t fart without hearing an ad for a parasitic attorney.
They’re everywhere: telephone book covers, bus benches, every other ad during daytime T.V., all over the not-so-local alternative newsweekly that’s owned by a billion dollar corporation and now at the latest Porkjerky.com Indeterminately Given Award Winning Blog: Personal Injury Lawyer News.
It’s a blog devoted to news about frivolous lawsuits. Actually, its main purpose is to advertise those ambulance chasers. Ads down the right column. A banner ad just below the title. Then more text ads right below that.
The best though is when you click on a title of the post thinking you will get more of the story. Big mistake. The front page lists a title and then the first paragraph of the story. When you click the title thinking you will be taken to a page with the rest of the paragraphs of the story, all you get is that title and paragraph again with a huge fucking ad. The individual pages of the blog are of no use, unless of course you didn’t get your fill of attorney ads from the main page.
The Personal Injury Lawyer News is another news aggregation blog gone horribly wrong. All it does is suck in a news story from another site, strip out the title, extract just the first paragraph and makes a post of it. What a truly noble site.
What’s that saying about lawyers and blogs? Don’t let 99.5% of the worthless pieces of shit ruin it for the other half of a percent.
Ad Bukkake
I am pretty sure humans can communicate via telepathy. Based on all the great things to come out of their extensive experimentation and dissection of Jews, the Germans had to have a good theoretical understanding and some limited implementations of it in the 1940’s. Then Bell Labs must have come along and perfected it in the 60’s at the latest.
Look at the internet—it’s over 40 years old, but didn’t start becoming main stream until 15 years ago. There was one thing that held it back.
I am sure telepathy is the same way. Its there, ready for us to all use, cheaply and effectively. The problem though, is that no one has come up with a way to junk up our mental capabilities with advertisements. So there’s really no use in releasing it to the public.
The internet sat around doing nothing for most of the world for a quarter of a century because no one knew how to jizz ads all over everyone. But then, thank god, someone invented spam. And banner ads followed. And adverblogs. And pop-up ads. And those god damn roll over ads whenever your cursor accidentally goes over a key word on a page. And as I type, I am sure leading scientists are working on the next generation of internet ads to drown us with.
That’s the way every medium we have invented has turned out–drowned in ads. When cable T.V. first came out one of its features was that there were no commercials. You paid for the channel subscription and in return all you got was the content on that channel—no bullshit ads between shows. That lasted a couple years. Now cable channels have just as many as network T.V. and like Cinderella, after a certain hour everything turns to shit and every channel has ads disguised as shows–infomercials.
Every fucking medium in the world is an opportunity to advertise shit to sell me. Even when I do break down and buy shit, without missing a beat they are already advertising to me to buy more shit right there on my receipt. I bought a pack of gum today and got a receipt 10 inches long just to accommodate all the ads on the back of it.
Every fucking medium every invented. To this day, two-thirds of the faxes I see are ads for vacations or health care scams. Email is 90% junk. There are guys holding signs outside pizza shops. Flyers on my windshield. Ads on the wall above the urinal. In the theater there ads in the form of movie previews and there are actually god damn minute long commercials for products. That’s not mentioning all the product placement that goes on in a movies and T.V.
Every fucking medium.
I dare you– develop a new method of communication and I will guarantee you it will eventually get saturated with ads. As soon as some one figures out how to force Cialis, OxyClean, Medical Transcription School and ambulance chaser ads in with our telepathic thoughts that’s the day they let the cat out of the bag and show us how to do it.
