porkjerky plog
Rectum? It Damn Near Killed Me
Here’s a sentence that will blow your fucking mind: This crap scared the shit out of me.
Yeah, wrap your feeble brain around that for a minute.
Times up, onto the poop. I was fine until I grabbed the camera. From this side of it, it seemed like an average crap. Everything came out alright, wiping wasn’t a problem. When I was done I got up, pulled my pants on and went for my camera. It was then, right as I was focusing that I saw this turd and started to freak.
Look at it–Mother cocksucker almighty that had to hurt. Just seeing it, convinced me that I had to have injured myself pushing it out my ass. It’s like the first time I got a bloody nose as a kid. I was smacked in the face with a soccer ball. It stung, but I didn’t want to seem like a pussy so I kept playing. A couple outs later I wiped my hand across my nose because I felt what I thought I was snot, but it wasn’t. It was blood, lots of it. I stopped caring about not being a pussy and freaked out. It didn’t hurt any more or less, but seeing tangible evidence of my injury scared the shit out of me. So I tore off, running home as fast as I could, screaming like the little pussy I tried to pretend I wasn’t.
And that’s very similar to what happened when I saw this right angled turd. I mean come on, that thing had to hurt, didn’t it? I thought maybe I was in shock, and my body was protecting me from the amazing pain I was actually in. You know, like when a drunk driver gets ejected as his car rolls down a hill and lands on top of him crushing 80% of his body. They are coherent, talking to the EMT, making plans to stay at home and drink next week, and not feeling even a tinge of pain, but in reality they have been physically cut in two and only have moments to live.
I feared that was me. So, I immediately dropped the camera, pulled my pants back down, backed my butt up to a mirror to and checked my asshole out. I just knew I was going to have to go to the emergency room and get some sort of surgery done on my rectum. And we’ve all seen the pictures and heard the stories about people and their assholes in the emergency room. No matter how true it was, nobody down at the hospital was going to believe my injuries were just because I shit a turd that came out sideways.
Thankfully, while I expected to be able to see my own stomach through a retired porn star sized hole in my ass causing me to live my life never being able to produce a fart that was capable of making a sound, I didn’t. In fact, I am perfectly fine.
Don’t Order Yet, Here’s What Else You’ll Get
Ok, where was I? Oh yes. Affiliate marketing sucks shit.
Actually, doesn’t any type of marketing suck shit? I mean that’s it, that’s your life? Selling shit. And technically, marketing isn’t even selling shit, its ‘creating awareness’ about shit. At least sleazy salesmen talk to humans. Marketers sit in offices at computers and think of ways to trick people into shelling out money for shit they don’t need and don’t have the balls to be there when the people eventually fall for their scams. At least used car salesmen make physical contact with you by shaking your hand, looking you into your eyes and directly lying to you.
So in my quest of all things shitty on the internet, I found affiliate marketing. If you will direct your attention to the far right column of this page, you will find a section titled ‘Shitty Sites I Get Paid To Link To’. Those are all the programs I belong to.
Here’s how half the scam works: I sign up with a program to be their affiliate marketer, I get a user id and some code to create links to their products. I paste the code into my site and whenever someone clicks on them they go to some other site with products that no one wants to buy. Especially off the internet (“Oh, No Jason, you’re so wrong. I, all my friends, family, coworkers and passing acquaintances do our enema kit purchasing at enamakit.com.”). When the dumbasses click on those links my id gets passed so they know you came from that particular link and I (in theory) get a kickback when you actually purchase your enema kits.
And dumb motherfuckers with blogs buy that shit. Not the products—no one does that. I mean bloggers actually think that signing up and putting shitty links on their blogs that they will generate sales and get rich off this pyramid scheme. Many blogs are nothing but affiliate marketing cesspools, each post about a new, great product they are shilling.
The other half of the scam is that there’s tons of businesses who wedged into the middle of all this. Put your mouse over, but don’t click, the links that say ‘Constipation Cure’ and ‘NoMore Hemorrhoids.com’ you will see they both go to the same site—ClickBank.
They’re a middleman for middlemen. If you have a shitty product and want to scam those with shitty blogs into displaying links to your site in a misguided effort to find buyers for your shit, you sign up with ClickBank. If you have a shitty blog and want to display links to shitty products in a misguided effort to make a commission you sign up with ClickBank. Then ClickBank marries all the dumbfucks (bloggers and sellers) in a misguided matrimony where everyone is trying to get rich of this intertubes thing.
The moral of the story is, whether your teaching your cat to shit in a toilet, haven’t crapped in a while or need to flush out your tuckus, please use the links to the right so that I may become richer than my wildest affiliate marketing dreams.
Scam I Am
If the web teaches us anything, well any 2 things, they are that whatever sick fucking disgusting, morally reprehensive crime against nature makes your dick hard—someone has already been filmed/photographed doing it; and the most important thing in the world is making money. Actually, judging by my nearly 3 million google results for ‘Fat Transexual Pay Sites’, those two aren’t mutually exclusive.
Sweet rolls of cock-hiding blubber, when I started this shitty blog (Never. Never. I repeat- never will that get old), I was amazed at how horribly bloated with crap the web has gotten because of blogs. Everyone and their strap-on wearing grandmother is pouring pablum onto the net, blogging about who gives a fuck. That’s why this plog was started, I wanted to see how I would do blogging about literal crap
And I wanted to sell out doing it. And not just, ‘Well I think I can make a little money as a side project/hobby’ type of sellout. I wanted to sellout like ‘This is the most important thing in the world and gives my life purpose and I will do anything and everything including sell every ounce of self-respect, pride and decency for just one more dollar’.
You know the type of bullshit sellout mentality. I mean, have you seen these fucks with their shitty blogs and Adsense bullshit on it? Trying to make $14 a month from you stupid fucks who encourage them by reading blogs. They aren’t experts on the subject, they are barely literate, in fact most of them copy from Wikipedia and paste whole articles into their blogs and call it a post, but somehow they think they deserve a fifth a cent a click out of users because that’s how the way the web works. And when they do get that fifth of a cent a click their mind starts racing about to how to bump that up to twenty-one hundredths a cent a click. Bite my nut sack.
So in my quest to wrench every twenty-thirds of a cent out of this site I can, I stumbled upon affiliate marketing. Its like Amway, but …
No wait a minute, scratch that ‘but’, its exactly like Amway. Pyramid scheme, creates middlemen who really do nothing, not profitable for anyone other than those at the top, people with self-respect are embarrassed for you when you mention you do it and people who have or hope to have even modest success are very cultish about it. Yeah, no ‘but’ about it, affiliate marketing is Amway for the web.
Here’s a scary aside: I write these posts in Word, then copy them up to my plog. The first 2 times I typed ‘Amway’ (capitalized), the last time I typed ‘amway’ (uncapitalized). As soon as I typed the lower cased version Word put the red squiggle error line underneath it. I right clicked and it prompted me to change it to the capitalized version.
I might be in over my head with this one. Amway is entrenched. That’s how deep Amway’s reach is–its got to the Microsoft Word dictionary. Yeah, I might get fucked on this one. Well at least I will be able to have a post about the Cease and Desist I receive from them. Hopefully, they will take into consideration that I went back and dutifully followed Word’s advice and correctly capitalized their name.
Anyway, back to affiliate marketing assholes. As I was saying: They suck shit.
Shitstorm A Coming
Wait just a second. Nope, not yet. Not yet. Just a few moments more. Let’s fully digest this. Almost there, getting closer. Hold on just a little longer. Oh ok, here it comes. I think we are starting to understand the full gravity of this situation. And its not pretty. Let’s take just a second to reflect, don’t want to have a knee-jerk reaction to this.
Alright, deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Ok, Now. Now’s the time. Start going ape-shit, panic ridden crazy now. This is not a test.
Planes will fall from the sky. Life saving hospital equipment will malfunction. Babies will not receive the food they need. Our shitty economy will falter even more. The freedoms we so proudly provide lip service to, but don’t actually use will be threatened. And god forbid, your favorite, local professional sports team; the one you adamantly identify with, defend, shell out a good portion of your income to show your support to, and who’s existence is your sole reason for living, will become harder to follow.
Yeah, start freaking out now. Push old ladies out of the way. Start looting the liquor store, raping school children and stocking up on ammo. This is not going to be pretty.
That’s right, I am talking about TV-Y2K9: The Television Apocalypse.
Just shy of a decade ago humanity was barely saved from computers and their ignorant ability to know what year came after 1999. Just like the Cuban missile crisis and Big Mouth Billy Bass, we will never know how close we came to obliterating the world with our technological hubris. We just barely avoided turning everything with a microchip into a mechanized killing machine lusting after our bodies so they could be entombed to harness the electrical charges we produce.
Now though, we face a plight so horrible, not even the most imaginative, acid-tripping, sado-maschosist science-fiction writer could have dreamed it up: TV obsolescence.
This is a medical fact: Last night your local TV stations were to stop sending analog signals to your TV and instead send digital ones. While these digital signals were being touted as more powerful, faster, stronger and able to provide better quality in a smaller spectrum, they failed to mention one flaw of the new system. These new digital signals would dramatically increase the carcinogenic radiation people in households without proper ‘digital converters’ would receive.
That’s right. These digital converters are modern day lightning rods – they help reduce and negate the effect of the hazardous radiation the digital waves have on living organisms in your household–converting and sanitizing the new digital waves in a manner that makes your household a safe place to live.
Thanks to Congress we have a few more months to live life to the fullest before we get all Silkwooded. So live it up while you can. Maybe store some sperm or eggs, brush up on your nut/breast cancer self-exam techniques, start Beta-maxing your favorite Who’s The Boss reruns and take some pictures of your pets and children so you can remember what they looked like before they had those huge facial tumors and that gray, radiated skin. Come June 12, 2009, unless you have a Y2K9 compliant TV, you won’t be able to use your current one for protection nor entertainment when the TV Tribulation comes to pass.
May the FCC have mercy on our souls.
Going To Kansas Shitty (Christ O’Fuck, That’s Witty)
God bless a shitty economy. As I was wandering the mean streets of Kansas City today, I was passed by 2 sewer workers. They turned on the flashing lights atop their truck, got out, unlocked the cover of the truck’s bed, pulled out 2 crowbars and a shiny black manhole cover. Then they went over to the side of the road where there were about 5 manholes, found the one that said KCWSD, clanged it up and off to the side and one of them literally threw the shiny black hole cover on the hole.
No clang. No sparks. Just slightly disappointed junkies. I mean, there were still 4 metal manhole covers on that corner (cable, phone, electrical, and something else) to steal, but the Water Services Department switched out theirs for the fancy new rubberized one.
God bless a bureaucracy.
When I asked the workers why, they toed the company line: that they were doing this because theft of scrap metal was so bad that since they ended up replacing them anyway, they were preemptively switching the metal ones out with less resalable rubberized ones.
I asked if they were being honest and they said they were. But I’m still not convinced that the city itself isn’t the one yanking these things up and selling them for scrap metal. I mean times are tough, and I am fairly certain I saw Kansas City in a trench coat and glasses last Thursday night at the pawn shop hocking some cop cars, a civic center and that guitar its girlfriend got it for its birthday last year. Then there’s the rumors that it sells its food stamps for 70 cents on the dollar down by the river and when times get really tough Kansas City starts giving hand jobs for $7.50 and a pack of smokes behind a couple of the Barbecue joints in the shady side of town.
Most of it may not be factual correct, I forgot to get my interviewee’s name and some of it is obviously my opinion, but damn it: You heard it hear first.
Bigger Buttholes For All
How far along did the Human Genome Project advance our ability to play god? Can they actually do anything with it yet, or is it like a read only CD? Can they make changes or do they just know what’s gonna happen based on DNA with no ability to modify it like they want?
I know they can look at a baby’s DNA and go, “It’s a boy, he has blue eyes and it’s gonna be super-retarded. Not autistic, not Aspergers, not anything special, just plain retarded. Yeah, you’re gonna be wiping his ass and feeding him for the next 22 years. Oh, and it’s left handed and it can roll its ‘R’s”.
But can they actually do something about it? Like add some Adenine here. Take out some Cytosine there and exchange Thymine for Guanine in a couple spots? And not make the baby a southpaw retard?
If so, I say we give the next generation second assholes. Or double the throughput of the current model. Trust me, they will thank us.
I’m not claiming to be an expert, but anything to increase their shitting capacity would be great. Clearly, one larger asshole would be the way to go, but I think before we dive headfirst into bigger buttholes we should have some engineers run some computer simulations. A poop chute with more girth sounds all well and good, but is that going to require an upgraded sphincter as well? I mean you can’t just ream out your engine’s cam shafts and expect more horsepower, you gotta make sure everything will work with them.
I mean, What goods a bigger asshole if you can’t close it?
That’s why, maybe we go to a dual asshole system. Again, I am not an expert, before we go rewriting generation Z’s DNA, lets do some research into the details. I’m just saying, with as fat as that generation will be, it would be beneficial to give them larger ani. I’m just thinking of the children.
Ivory Soap Is Worse Than Shit
My shitter at home is sweet, with a capital everything. If I leave the door open when I crap (and really, if you have nothing to hide, love america and aren’t a terrorist, then you should) I can see the TV. Fuck reading, I can crap to Judge Judy.
Today’s turd though, meant business. No time to grab the remote, light some candles, put on some Michael Bolton and set the mood right for taking a huge greasy crap. My ass was 2 inches from the seat when the turd started kicking and I began to dilate. Worse still, there was nothing within arm’s reach to read.
Except for an Ivory Soap Bar. Pardon my French, but what a load of shit. These self-righteous, retarded marketing assfucks make my prostate bulge. I would tell you to pick up a bar of Ivory soap and read it to see what I mean, but you don’t have to. The bullshit they have been spouting is so ingrained in our minds that you know what I am talking about, although you never thought about it.
What 2 things have Ivory soap drilled into us?
It’s so pure it floats.
It’s 99.44% pure.
Just apply a little logic to those statements and you will see that they are both absurd and even counter productive.
‘So pure it floats’? Ok, you know I have Ivory soap in my bathroom. Do you know of anything else in my bathroom that floats? And would comparing Ivory soap to it be a good thing?
And, 99.44% pure what? Does ‘pure’ automatically mean ‘good’ in marketing bullshit world? Guess what you MBA cocksucker, the deposit I just made into the toilet is 100% pure shit.
So, using their own logic, lets complete the proof:
Ivory Soap (99.44%) is worse than shit (100%).
Q.E.D.
Single Mother=Shitty Fucker
Continuing on from yesterday’s theme and tomorrow’s holiday…
You know who I feel bad for this time of year—single mothers. Have you ever meet one? If your not sure the answer is no—because those cunts are proud of the term and drop it every chance they get. Never have I been in a situation that required someone to disclose both their relationship and parental status at the same time. Hardly ever have I been somewhere where even one of those stati has been germane. But anyone who is both single and a mother always finds a way to work it into whatever conversation they are having.
Its like their horrible fucking abilities is a badge of honor to them. And ‘fucking’ in the prior sentence is used as a gerund, not an adjective. Let me dumb that down for you further: anyone who is a self-proclaimed ‘single mother’ figuratively sucks at literally fucking.
Either A: They are unable to pick a good partner that would make a suitable father yet fucked a guy and got pregnant anyway; or B: They suck at fucking and can’t do it without getting pregnant. Either case, whenever I hear a whore describe herself as a ‘single mother’, I always think—‘poor fucker’, in the most literal of sense.
Worse than their horrible sex skills, these bitches are like old people: They want both your pity and respect for their lives. Old people always tell you how better and harder the past was, and single mother’s want to remind you how hard they have it and how great they are for plodding through the horrendous conditions fate brought them. Newsflash motherfuckers, my pity and respect are mutually exclusive—you can have one or the other, not both. And odds are you’re getting neither.
So, whenever I hear some skank tell me she’s a single mother—I always ask her if she’s coming on to me. I mean why else bring up the fact that she’s single? Every time she describes herself that way its like she’s throwing herself upon any man in voice range to let him know of her desperation.
Which leads us back to where I began (good god damn, I’m a good writer). This and every Valentines Day has got to be the 9/11 of single mothers everywhere. A day of remembrance, feeling sorry for themselves and gratuitously boasting about how blessed their lives are in an attempt to lie themselves into happiness.
#2 (as in ‘shit’) Winning Blog #2 (as in ‘second’)
It with great pride and regret I announce the second receipent of my ‘Whenever The Fuck I Feel Like It Shitty Blog Award’. Once you read the title you will know that it is, without a doubt, deserving of this award. However, I will still drone on afterward belaboring my case.
And the winner is: Depressed Single Mother Blog.
This one is shitty on so many levels—good and bad. First and foremost, the title is out of this world. Honestly, you add the word ‘Depressed’ in front of any blog title and it just made it 1347.2% more awesomer. As much as I hate blogs, I will immediately click on any link that goes to a depressed blog. Its like seeing a bus full of nuns crash into a van of special olympians—its physically impossible not to look, chuckle and feel better about yourself.
Really, if god didn’t want us to revel in the suffering of others then why’d he make other people’s pain so enjoyable?
When you finally get to the blog, fully anticipating being dissappointed, it doesn’t disappoint. The post at the top (which has been at the top for 3 years) is some ramblings about a lesbian group she wants to, but can’t attend. And then something about ‘The Boy’ and her uncontrollable shaking.
Confused? Well spending 3 more minutes reading the blog sure the shit ain’t gonna help straighten anything out. Who’d a thought a self proclaimed depress person would write in such a rambling incoherent style? Go figure.
Lastly, the most recent post is from 3 years ago. Did she go to the lesbian group? What about the boy? Did she stop shaking? Did she find the ultimate cure for depression? Did cupid shoot here once more and make her a depressed remarried mom?
No fucking clue. Of course if you pay close attention you will see the url to where she moved her blog. No, not a link, a url. You have to copy and paste that text into your browser to go there. Hyper linking technology is decades old, but with this blog you still have to manually type urls to follow where she went. And when you do, you will find that the new blog has been deleted.
That’s yet another great thing about how blogging is crapping up cyberspace. Write a blog for a month or two, realize no one gives a fourth of a squirt of piss about your miserable life, then abandon the whole thing, but leave it up so it clutters up the internet that much more for everyone else. God bless the age of enlightenment we have entered.
And kudos to you and your Depressed Single Mother Blog, you made my day and junked up the internet like thousands of others. For that, you’re the second recipient of my Shitty Blog Award that I irregularly give out.
Best Friends Forever
Here’s a picture of me with my new best friend: Edwin Von Fecalton.
Tell you what–we weren’t friends at first, in fact we had quite a disagreement. He wouldn’t budge, I wouldn’t budge. So there we sat for at least half an hour.
Finally, after we warmed up to each other and realized that the other made some very good points, we started to work together. Sure there was some coaxing, cajoling, negotiating and agreeing to disagree, but after that we formed a friendship that’s going to last a long time. After all was said and done we came out of our ordeal respecting each other and have moved passed our rocky beginning.
I know, I know. You are thinking, ‘Jason, turds are like farm animals; you aren’t suppose to name them. You’re only gonna end up getting attached and then in three days when the maggots are just starting to sprout their wings and the toilet has been permanently stained, its gonna make it that much harder to flush Edwin.’
You know what? Your not the boss of me so fuck off. Me and The Vonmeister are bff’s and there is nothing you nor my landlord can do about it. You just hate it that I found a friend and am happy for once in my life.
Fuck you and your turd naming rules. Lets go play foosball Eddie.
