porkjerky plog
Anusplasty
Oh hot fudge covered shit sundae, I love the healthcare system in America. Oh sure, people complain about the unimportant, minor aspects of our system—it costs too much, it’s too beaureacratic, it’s hard to find a good doctor, they don’t spend enough time with the patients, blah blah blah.
What a bunch of grade A, triple inspected horseshit.
Not to get all rush limbaugh on you, but I guarantee you that no country with socialized health care comes even close to us. Especially, when it comes to very important medical procedures like titty bigifying, sucking fat out of lazy fucks, make Joan Rivers more plasticky and shooting poison into the lips of wannabe MILFs.
What a great nation we live in. While other countries are fucking around, wasting resources on trying to end communicable diseases, making sure everyone is covered and providing adequate access, the U.S. government agency in charge of our healthcare (FDA) is tackling the important issues—like setting a minimum age to get breast augmentation.
God bless the USA.
After finding site after site after site after site extolling the virtues of making your cunt pretty (I swear to god its true: Labiaplasty on Wikipedia), I am sure as shit that some ugly, insecure bitch has asked a plastic surgeon to tighten the crow’s feet around her brown eye.
Or maybe she let herself go and wants to liposuction out her asshole to get it to the size it was on her wedding day. Or maybe, just maybe it doesn’t look exactly like she wants, so she got a picture of Julia Robert’s and wants the surgeon to give her the pooper of a movie star.
Trust me, chicks are pretty dumb, I am sure it has happened. Some bitch had to be the first to go “Hey doc, how about you cut off my nipples, put in some bags filled with saltwater in where those holes are and sew my tits back up so I can look hot.”
Some where, somehow there is a woman with an ugly asshole who thinks plastic surgery on her shitter will bring her happiness and self-esteem.
Revenge, Best Served Steaming
I went to the zoo to see the ape pit
Chimp, I don’t like what your tossing one bit
I crapped in my hand
Took aim, wound up and
In his mouth. Damn dirty Ape ate my shit.
Self-Fulfilling Shitty Blog Post, Deux
Sorry its been so long since I last posted, but like I said, I just don’t shit on Saturdays. Maybe I was raised wrong, maybe I’m just not living up to my full shitting potential, maybe gorging on Velveeta smothered porterhouses every Friday isn’t such a great gastronomical decision. Who knows.
What I do know, is that I am back and a couple pounds lighter.
Genius-level irony intended, today’s post is about blogs who reference their lack of frequently posting. Which is as riveting as the story of my grandmother riveting in 1940.
Again, like I said about posts about trouble with blogging, no one gives a fuck about your blog in the first case. By the transitive power of who gives a fuck, no one gives a fuck that you haven’t posted in who gives a fuck long.
You may have picked up on this yourself when everyone wasn’t mobilized to contact you to find out what was wrong and to see if you were ok. All the phone calls, emails, texts and comments you didn’t get in the interim period between your last post and this post about not posting for so long should have been your first clue.
But no, go ahead and reference it, everyone and their comatose aunt Linda wants to hear.
Get Off Your Ass, Science
Horrible horrible news everyone. When science pulls bullshit like this, its no wonder people turn to the bible for knowledge.
It’s 2009, we have mapped every strain of a human’s DNA, they can clone any fucking animal you want and Maury can swab the cheeks of 15 guys who gangbanged a tramp and determine which one is the father of her little bastard, but science is incapable of telling me which dog shit in my yard?
Fuck you. I wrote to about 25 god damn DNA testing services advertising online and of the 15 or so who responded, not one said they could help me out.
Science has turned into the 42 year old fat, balding, pot-bellied loser who was the star quarterback for his high school—always living and talking about the glory days. Sure he’s on disability now and drinks his weight in Natural Light every week, but god damn if he couldn’t throw a tight spiral when he was 18 and he’s not afraid to tell you about it.
Repeatedly.
Well guess what, science? We are tired about hearing about how you gave us Tang and almost ended polio–that was 50 fucking years ago. Get off your ass and give us something we can use for today’s problems.
Hi, my name is Jason and I live in an area heavily populated by goddamn dog walkers. Them and their filthy hounds always jaywalking in traffic, always in the way, always walking in my yard, and always, always, always letting their dogs shit in my yard–and I am sick of it. The local authorities were virtually no help. They reluctantly told me that I technically could file a report and seek damages against any god damn pet owner who let their filthy mutt crap in my yard, but I they made it pretty clear that it wouldn’t be a high priority to them and I probably wouldn’t have any luck unless I had mountain of hard evidence.
Well guess what you fat ass cops? I am going to get that mountain of hard evidence and make you do your goddamn jobs.
have already installed a hidden, motion activated video camera to cover the area of my yard most often crapped on and would like to know more about your DNA matching services to undeniably identify and prove which dog crapped on my yard.
So, is that possible? If I provide you with a dog turd and about 10 tissue/hair samples from dogs in my area (don’t ask how I got them, but I got them) will you be able to tell which one that turd came from? Then finally I can show those inconsiderate puppyfuckers that I am quite literally not going to take their shit any more.
Thank you,
Jason
Rapetacular Blog Award
Its time, because I fucking feel like it, for another When I Fucking Feel Like It Shitty Blog Award.
Todays shitty blog, The False Rape Society, is shitty in a new, bad way. Bad as in not funny. Most past winners covered topics that were shitty (Texas AIDS, Depressed Single Mother, fat kids) in a funny way. Today’s blog covers a shitty topic in and of itself—false rape accusations.
They won because the information they are passing out is shitty, as in should never have happened and people should go to jail because it did.
Now the back story. I talked to an old friend this weekend and he made me remember a cunt we used to know. Fair disclosure: neither of us fucked her, but one of her more popular past lays made me coin a new term: ‘regretful fuck’.
She, like a lot of girls, mistake a regretful fuck for rape. You know what I mean, that ugly guy at the bar or maybe your roommate’s unattractive cousin or the guy you went out with once but can’t seem to shake? Somehow he was so persistent and you possibly so drunk, that, to shut him up, you fucked him. Then you realized you shouldn’t have.
That’s a regretful fuck. And in a lot of girls’ minds that’s rape.
Sorry ladies, but there is no legal recourse for you fucking someone, who on second thought, you shouldn’t have. Whining, finding you at the emotional right time, badgering or somehow coercing you into bumping uglies is fair play. Just because you got fucked and then fucked over by some asshole douchebag, loser doesn’t make him a criminal.
The worst part is that the cunt we knew was both too ashamed to report it to the police (in my book, you’re not raped unless you go to the cops) and overly proud of it, dropping it into just about every conversation she had. Everyone knew she was ‘raped’, but no one called her on her bullshit until I asked for details and then told her she wasn’t.
And that’s why I love and hate the blog at The False Rape Society. Its story after story of crazy snatches who had reported people as rapists, then the truth got out that they weren’t.
When I say story after story, I mean it. This year alone there have been 151 posts. Last year 412. More than a story a day about poor bastards who got fingered by a bipolar bitch.
So, congratulations to The False Rape Society for its shitty blog and a big fuck you to the psycho cunts who made it all possible.
Crapology 101: Thermodynamic Equilibrium
Science fair time is coming soon kids. Let today’s crap be your inspiration and I am sure you will bring home the blue ribbon or gold medal or star trek uniform or whatever worthless crap they are giving to kids who have no friends and suck at sports these days.
What’s the melting point of crap?
What’s the boiling point of crap?
Which state of matter of shit has the highest specific gravity?
Of course, what I would like to know is how awesome is my ass? Look at that picture.
Today, my rectum achieved the triple point of shit. I barely had my ass on the toilet and out shot about a liter of hot air, immediately followed by 2 tiny turds and then the spigot turned on. That’s right, I produced shit in all three states of matter simultaneously.
Or if you’re a retard just looking for participation points, you could always mix baking soda, my crap and a couple squirts of vinegar for the best volcano ever. Cliche, but kick-ass cool.
The Case Of The Unexplained Pubes
I know I know. This is where you tell me ‘I told you so.’
It was a grandiose plan and I admit that. In hindsight I guess you could say my eyes were bigger than my asshole. In my heart I believed I could do it: Blog for one year about all my shit. I guess I just pinched off more than I could chew.
Today, my dream comes crashing down in a huge heap of failure.
You couldn’t get any further from shitting with today’s topic if you tried. That’s right; today’s post has absolutely nothing to do with crapping whatsoever. I am not going to even try and bridge the gap. There’s no creative way you can tie today’s topic with shitting: urinals.
I used one of them fancy flush themselves models today. The kind with a motion sensor so if you shuffle side to side while you piss it overfills itself. They’re like a dance-dance revolution game for poor kids.
Since I was pissing next to someone and I don’t want to be known as a dick looker or make eye contact. So, I intently tried to focus my eyes on top of the urinal. If you’re alone your fine to look at whatever you want, and I normally just gaze in awe of my magnificent prick, often times staring at it for minutes after I am done pissing lost in a daze of wonderment.
If you ever run into me, ask to see it, it’s quite impressive and well worth the $12.75 I charge ($5.75 for seniors and children under 10).
As I am trying to avoid being a pecker peeker I noticed the top of the urinal had a pubic hair on it. I was flabbergasted. It was an unanachornism.
2009 and we still live in a world where pubes are on top of urinals. Its like finding out you have polio or meeting a girl under 30 named Margaret or getting told to use the back entrance of Applebee’s because you’re on a date with a black girl or having to get your parents to kiss at the Enchantment Under The Sea dance so as not to create any time paradoxes that would prevent your own birth.
What I am saying is that it just doesn’t happen in this day and age. Technology has made pube topped urinals obsolete. Today, if a pube is on top of a urinal, someone had to go out of their way to put it there.
Prior to the age of enlightenment (before pissers flushed themselves), I was always dumbfounded about how they got there. Then one day, I caught myself putting one there and the mystery was solved. Back in the dark ages of beepers, America Online, Clear Pepsi and manual flush urinals you had to go from holding your junk to pressing the flush lever. That meant, possibly, a stray curly hair could taxi a ride on your hand from your cock to the top of the urinal.
Elementary my dear Nancy Drew. But that was pre-911 (before everything changed). Specifically, that’s when self-flushing urinals became mainstream. Coincidence, or is that what the jihad against the twin towers was really about? We may never know.
Whatever the case may be, today we no longer have to manually flush. So my theory won’t work anymore to explain pubes on urinals. The only other straw I can grasp at is that possibly, guys are smelling, maybe licking their fingers when they are done. Other than that, there really is no need for your hands to rise above the urinal top when you’re pissing in one.
This will haunt me until my grave. I knew I should just stick with shitting, it hurts my brain less.
The Payoff
Holy balls of chocolate covered cum I am witty.
A blog post about blog posts that talk about the trouble with blogging that is interrupted because I had trouble blogging. Then I follow it up with a blog post about the trouble I am having writing my post about blogs writing posts about having trouble with blogging.
I am blogging 3 levels beyond most peoples comprehension at this point. Which of course is still 4 levels shy of blogging intelligently. Which of course, being an oxymoron and all, has never nor will ever be achieved.
Genius In The Works
Sorry, something fucked up with the end of the last post, I will fix it in a minute.
Shitty Cliched Blog Post
A very insightful, witty, huged-cocked, intelligent, gratuitously and unironically modest person (I mentioned huged-cocked and gorgeous, right) raised a very uninsightful question about blogs on mine the other day:
How many fucking blog posts exists devoted solely to peoples’ troubles with blogging?
Its like; no fuck you, there’s no simile needed. If you can’t see how fucking prima facie retarded blog posts about difficulties with blogging software are without an analogy then you’re a fucking prima facie retard.
I finally got around to figuring it out and the correct answer is at least 1,526 blog posts in the past year were about peoples problems with their blogging software. Of course, that’s on the low side because those are only the ones indexed by Google. The other idiots out there who are too fucking retarded to get indexed by Google, have private blogs or completely fucked their blogs up so bad they couldn’t even blog about it are not included.
What a bunch of shitasses. First and foremost, no one gives a sixth of a sheet of used toilet paper about any of your blog posts. Secondly, no one wants to hear about how retarded you are and unable t
