Utter Nonsense. Sheer Tomfoolery.
Dingleberry McSlingus
Once upon a time there was a little boy named Dingleberry McSlingus. He was devil-eyed dingus, that boy. About as dumb as they get. Legend has it the local Elk’s club administered an IQ test to an old can of Barbasol shaving cream and it scored higher than the boy. Tough to navigate the world when you’re dumb as nails. But he tried. Oh did he try. What was lost in brainpower was made up for in sheer determination. Whatever Dingleberry wanted, he got. “Stay away from that McSlingus kid!” the fathers warned. “He might just steal your soul!” He never stole no souls, but he did steal. If you could name it, he stole it: Butter, bread, bowling balls and overalls. If it could be stolen, he found out how to get his sweaty little McSlingus palms on it. One time the Pookajoongus girls found him finger blasting a fourteen pound bowling ball out West of the Gleeb River and called the cops on the boy; but by the time they arrived the ball had already been robbed of its innocence, now a slave to the emotional trauma it had endured. "It’s sad to see another ball go down the road of irrevocable harm," thought the townspeople, but hey… what are you gonna do? He’s a McSlingus. And a McSlingus is gonna slide their dirty little McFingers into whatever they can. Sometimes you can’t fight fate, and sometimes fate is an entire bloodline of inbred numbskulls finger fucking a bunch of bowling balls like it’s 1962 all over again. Rumor has it the family bought up all the Worcheshtire sauce from Mississippi to Maine in the 1980’s and bathe in the stuff on the 13th of every month. This can neither be confirmed nor denied but if you try to get in that barn they will kill you, make no mistake about it. Little Barry Pock learned that the hard way. Poor kid didn’t know any better. Went out beyond the fence looking for his baseball and thought the barn looked like an awfully neat little place he hadn’t explored before. Next thing you know he was getting his head blown off by old man McSlingus without a question asked or answered. The Pock parents tried to sue old man McSlingus but he was so deep in the judge's pocket he could feel the man’s pecker rise at the sight of dawn. Crazy what sheer determination can do even in the complete absence of any cognitive function whatsoever. They never stop, the McSlinguses. The dogs seem to do the brain work in the family, leading each McSlingus to the proper place where work should be done. Some people wonder if that technically makes them slaves but by Billy if they aren’t the richest cats in town then my name isn’t Tinkerbell McTuts. Crazy what can happen when all you do is farm all day. One thing will always remain true in this world: man’s gotta eat. Nobody really knows who’s in charge at the McSlingus farm. It could be the dogs, it might be the cattle, but more than likely it’s that broad from Baggenstein. Word got around some female from the faraway town saw herself a good old fashioned opportunity and wooed one of the McSlingus boys into a consensual or non-consensual relationship. Nobody knows which; it’s hard to give consent when you’re too brain dead to know the difference between dick and balls in the first place. It’s just a miracle she didn’t get her tits blown off. One of the college kids accidentally flew a drone over the residence one day and claims to have seen a woman talking to a bunch of dogs, so it can only be reasoned she’s the one in charge. Whether it’s the Baggenstein broad or not is beyond anyone’s guess, but it sure as shit ain’t something you make up if you’re a college kid from Preston who never knew about the damn McSlingus family to begin with. Nobody really knows what to do about the whole situation. People are certainly concerned, but at the same time the crop output from the McSlingus farm is absolutely unrivaled. The town eats cheaper than a hotty-too-naughty on a first date. I tell you what if a lady got the bacon she don’t have to pay for no grease, you catch my grits? Anyways, the whole situation is a moral dilemma of epic proportions. Some suggest we blow up the whole place and just be done with it once and for all, but Danny Dives made the point that a McSlingus never dies and it’s reasonable to think the whole attack could just make the family mad. It’s that Dingleberry kid that really gets us worried. He’s the only one since Gargleglut to wander into the town like this, and we all know what happened with young Garglegut McSlingus. Damn kid broke into a Walgreens and swallowed so much women’s deodorant his intestines exploded and coated half the town with his half-digested shit storm. God help us.
Random Blog Post
Good golly Gertrude, you’ve really gucked up your glasses this time, haven’t you? FLOOP MCSHLOOB. It’s taking every ounce of me not to go full turrets right now and I am genuinely sorry to whatever God you believe in because this post could fly off the rails at any moment. Good Monday my ass, this day’s been full of shit. What an uphill climb this one is, huh Gary Globsnobs? If you’re new to life, some days are great and some days are a grind. Granted every day should be approached with gratitude but you can grind my grits if you think life is like living on a glorious cloud all the time. Tell your optimism to take a hike, I’M SAD. I’m actually fine. Don’t text me after this, please. I’m being dramatic. I’m getting in touch with my feminine side, let me be. Speaking of touching feminine sides, have you seen the love handles on Cher recently? I honestly have no idea if Cher has love handles, I haven’t seen a picture of her in probably forever, so Cher… if you’re reading this, I am sorry. You can add yourself to my list of mortal enemies next to Neil DeGrasse Tyson. Have you ever gotten mad and then you look for more reasons to be mad? Yeah, so earlier I was mad and then I thought about Neil DeGrasse Tyson and it made me like… so much madder. I mean, we’re talking remarkably upset. Inconsolably angry. Spewing fumes. I know I’ve already dedicated an entire blog post to how much I despise Neil DeGrasse Tyson, but I don’t think it’s enough. I’m thinking it’s probably best to write a weekly newsletter comprised of nothing but me shitting on Neil DeGrasse Tyson and everything he loves. I told you this post could fly off the rails. Okay I won’t talk about Neil DeGrasse Tyson anymore. I realize he’s an unusual person to despise, but I digress. So far this is one of those posts that half way through I tell myself there’s no way I’m going to actually post this online but then later I get bored and find a coin on the counter and decide that if it lands on heads I’ll just post it anyway and then it does indeed land on heads and now some girl that used to like me is probably reading this and thinking “wow, thank God I didn’t text him the other night. Who hates Neil DeGrasse Tyson anyway?” Some posts are well-thought out, some posts are introspective and interesting, this one is… well, it’s something. Catharsis. That’s what it is! Hey there Jarvis, would you like some armpit catharsis with your carved larva? How about that for some jargon? Joe Rogan. Joe Jargon. Rogue Jokin. Nikola Jokic. Nickelback Jockstrap. Jock Rogue. Jacque Robbin. Robby Jackson. Jackinoff McRabbitSock. Stock Robertson. Robert Stalker. John Stockton. Jerry Stackhouse. Stack Rackerson. Rakuten. Roku Television. Telekinetic Clementines. Okay, we won the game. Telekinetic Clementines is a finishing move, every time. Thank you for playing the Progression Game of Similar Sounding Names, brought to you by Gary Gluestick and the Glooby Cloobs. Oh no. I have three bags of celery and they’re supposed to be used by today. I’m about to drink 72 ounces of celery juice and send myself straight to the gutter. Maybe it’s for the best, that should clean out all the gunk in my slunk. Guess I won’t be going out tonight since I’ll be spending the whole evening dumping out my demons. I can’t believe I’m actually going back for a second ginormous glass of celery juice. Good riddance. Oh balls on the wall I have to make soup, too. I’m spending the entire day preparing and ingesting liquids and writing about… what is it that I’m even writing about? I have to say, regardless of what anyone thinks about this post, I’m enjoying myself thoroughly. This is my favorite thing to do. ‘Tis nice. I’ve been working on relinquishing a lot of the pressure I put on myself to do comedy so that I can enjoy it again, and a major part of that is enjoying the writing process, which is my favorite part. As someone who is incredibly introverted and sensitive, getting on stage is mad difficult for me. Some people are energized by the stage. I am not one of those people. I’m learning how to love it, but it’s a slow process and I’m okay with that because I have plenty of love in my life, which is definitely something to be grateful for. Being a creative person can often leave you in a lonely state. It can be hard to find your place between the cracks of a paved society. I often feel misunderstood or just glossed over entirely. People think they can step on you because they have more money or a bigger house or just a house in general. I’m constantly bombarded with condescending questions about what’s next or what I’m gonna do with that? Some people don’t realize the point isn’t always to get something, but to simply do something. I don’t know what any of this leads to most of the time, I just know that I feel better when I do it, that I love doing it, and that it makes me feel like myself.
All I Wanted Was to Help
Shelly Griffin just bought enough blue corn tortilla chips to make the pain in her eye sockets go away. She’s been having this pain, you see. I wouldn’t describe it as a sharp pain, but certainly wouldn’t speak of it is as subtle. Persistent, yes. Subtle, not so much. I mean it’s really been bothering her; enough to buy 96 oz of blue corn tortilla chips to crunch up and rub between her gums so it will at least take her mind off the eye socket stuff for a while. And look, it’s not my recommended remedy, but you’re also talking to a guy who cured a blister with baking soda. If you want to learn more about it just visit bakingsodablisterbuster.com, but do NOT click the image of a parking garage. This will lead you to a very dark place that you do not want to go. We’ve lost some really good people down there and I’d hate for you to be one of them. Anyways, Shelly Griffin has been doing grDO NOT FUCKING CLICK THE PICTURE OF A PARKING GARAGE! Jesus. How many times do I have to caution you people? It’s like you enjoy suffering. It’s like you get up every day and wonder how you can bring yourself pain and anxiety in a world so comfortable. You look in the mirror and go “huh, things are a little too smooth lately. How can I rough them up? Maybe I’ll click the picture of a parking garage to start. Maybe that’ll be a good idea.” IT WON’T BE A GOOD IDEA. Fuck. Just because I got in a seesaw accident trying to help underprivileged youth, you think you can defy me!? You think you can spurn my directive? You think it’s a silly idea to heed my advice? You really believe that, dude? Get a grip. Wrap yourself in paper mâché and roll down the grass knoll like a tumbleweed on Memorial Day. You people sicken me. I can’t even talk about Shelly anymore you people make me so sick. What an ill-advised cluster of cucks you’ve all become. It’s like you desire the detriment of your own soul. It’s like you wake up every day duller than the next and ponder upon possibilities of putrid persistence. “How can I go on even dumber than before?” “If there’s a fork in the road, how do I fuck myself?” “If only I had more hours in the day to make mediocre memories with people I pretend to like… OH IF ONLY! THE THINGS I COULD DO.” You couldn’t do shit if it was in your britches. And then you come asking me for advice like you’re actually going to take it. Like anything I say has any bearing on your broken bitch of a backbone. This is how we end up where we are as a society: broken, battered, and built like Barry Manilow. I’m disgusted and appalled. All I wanted was to talk about Shelly Griffin and her blue corn tortilla chip homemade remedy, but we couldn’t even have that.
This Might be the Best Short Story of all Time
Welcome to my humble abode. Here we have a plethora of sun-dried onions on the nightstand. Why is the nightstand in the foyer, you ask? Why are you asking so many questions? That's what I ask. Maybe if you weren't so nosy your wife wouldn't have left you for the pool boy.
Speaking of pool, I had a conversation with a Scientologist recently about concrete. He was pretty hard to understand but things started to fill in over time. Those Scientologists are really onto something you know? Onto some nonsense, that's what I say. Last time I got caught up in a cult like that it was t-minus nine hours before my thumb was in the deli manager's ass and I couldn't tell which way was up or down.
I hope your Aunt Shelly is doing okay, I heard she had arthritis of the tongue back in 95 and it flared up again after the most recent election. These election cycles sure can cloud your judgement, eh? Good golly gobble of grease we're really in for a pumped up pile of pickle piss on this one, aren't we? Lick me sideways and tickle me taintless I don't think I've been this puckered since Buckner blew the series for the Mets in 86.
I've got a custom set of Lincoln Logs in a compartment somewhere in this room but I won't tell you where it is. I'd give you a hint but that would be both insulting and demeaning to both your character and intelligence. I can't disrespect another man in my own house, as much as I'd like to. Boy would I like to demolish you into a fine pulp of pathetic paste, I really would. Oh, I would. I really really would.
This Might be the Worst Short Story of all Time
A skinny man with a cashew for an eye and a wheelchair for a face came up to me today. He said “sir, I’m not too fond of your countenance.”
“My countenance?” I replied. “How dare you question my countenance in a setting like this.”
“Mmmmmm. You’ll have to prove yourself in a battle of wits,” he said.
“You have no right to disrespect me in front of my cousins like this. I made charcuterie!” I replied, defiantly.
“Mmmmmm. You’ll have to prove yourself in a battle of wits,” he repeated.
“Well, with who am I battling?”
“With whom… With whom... And it was I. And you have lost.”
“Blasphemy!”
“You’re stupid, sir.”
“I am no such thing!” I defended.
“Mmmmmm," he mumbled on.