AnonymousCoworker

My blog was born on the same day as my brother. But in different years. Cause they’ didn’t have blogs in ‘82. Well, they sort of did, but they were called journals, and you didn’t put them up in a public place for everybody to read. Well, I guess Martin Luther sort of put up the first blog post when he nailed his 95 theses to the church door at Wittenburg in 1517. But that has nothing to do with my post about poop.

But first let’s get this happy crappy blogiversary anniversiblog blogersaniverseray blogtherday birgothday boggerdothday daggoggerbayger shmeltronifficate scabbleactrix frundoo out of the way.

Happy birthday to blog! Let’s try not to be as shitty this year! No? Okay then!*

Now down to some real birthday stuff. This story is part of my gift to my brother. I will be editing his comments as I see fit.

When I was about 3 or 4 years old, my brother would have been on the verge of 2 or so. My mom had us all in the bathtub for a good scrubbin’ because we were filthy kids. We had our toys in there with us, and all was right with the world. Well, at least all was right with the world with me. My little brother must have decided that he needed more toys because out of nowhere appeared two glistening turds floating in the water of the bathtub.

As he reached for his own feces I leapt from the bathtub and let out a blood-curdling scream. I knew that I needed to make as much space between that ass-chocolate and my body as quickly as I possibly could. I tried to scrambled out of the bathtub, but I was naked and wet, and my parents had yelled at us before for spilling water all over the bathroom floor. Instead I clamored onto the two outcroppings at the top of the bathtub where the tub met the wall. I had my feet planted and my arms spread to balance myself.

Meanwhile my little brother sat happily in the tub playing Dookie Boat Commander. He was apparently amused at the reaction it got out of me because he continued to show no revulsion at the idea that he was playing with two pieces of stinkfruit that he had just birthed.

My mom eventually came and rescued me, but I’m not sure what ever happened to the little turd factory. What of it broseph? Were you sad when Mom made you flush your friends?

*The blog was actually born on the 27th, but I don’t blog on the weekends.

This morning I was eating my cereal and watching the new to get the weather and the traffic report before the local station switched back to “Good Morning Dumb-dumbs” with Matt “Doucheiest douche that ever douched” Lauer and Katie “I’m still pretty right? Right? RIGHT?!” Couric.

Trying to not subject myself to what would certainly amount to a planetary pile of crap, I lazily flipped the channel up one station.

Ooh. Lucky me. I get to catch the end of a “Coach” rerun. Everybody remember “Coach”? Yeah, I thought it sucked when I was 7 and my brain was already mush from 6.5 years of solid TV watching.

So, I let the show finish out as I dug into the rest of my cereal. A few commercials went by as I was drinking the milk out of the bottom of the bowl, but when I lowered the bowl I noticed the screen had gone to a wide shot of the Earth. The I heard the familiar music and saw the “Universal” logo spinning toward the camera.

I should probably say, at this point, that I really really love watching movies. Nothing is more exciting to me than seeing the studio logo float up on screen before everything goes black and the titles start. In this case the only title was “A Dino De Laurentiis Production”.

“I know that name,” I thought to myself.

As the movie started I saw an even more familiar scene of shackled ankles trudging across a sandy surface. The camera panned halfway up the subject’s frame before I realized I was now watching “Army of Darkness”.

Shit. ‘Cause now I’m going to be late for work.

It was totally worth it though, because I haven’t watched Army of Darkness from the very beginning for about 2 years, so I got to watch all the cool stuff I had forgotten about. And it was poorly edited for curse words. Thanks USA network!

I must come off as a total potty-mouthed, irreverent, blasphemous, perv sometimes. What with all my talk about necrophilia, the Baby Jeebus, and the near constant use of swear-words, I would have no doubt that many of you see me as a freakish sideshow of filth. Some of you come close enough to laugh, while others keep their distance and observe from afar. No one would let me near their daughter, or son, for that matter, much less any other member of the family.

I am what I am. I make no apologies for the way I write, or for the drivel that drips from my fingertips and coats the keyboard with a thick sludge of poorly executed metaphors. At the same time, I want people to enjoy my site. I couldn’t care less if people like me, but I do want the to leave my site a little bit less stuck up than they were before. Not that you’re all stuck up. You’re just, ya’know, kinda titchy. I’ll let you figure out what that means.

I don’t have any particular reason to hide my identity other than it would greatly reduce the things I could blog about, and blogging is an outlet for me. I like to be able to go on at varying length about things that are probably only of interest to me. I try to make it interesting for everyone else, and better myself as a writer, but sometimes I fall short. Not like I’m trying to feed myself by making you people laugh, but it’s nice to get a comment from time to time saying that I tickled you. Not in the Michael Jackson way, but in the “made amused through the use of storytelling device” way.

I’d like to make some money off of this crazy gig, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve resisted ad programs or other things like that because I didn’t want this to be a place where you had to feel like a consumer. I wanted it to be like an ongoing electronic conversation. I think I’m a nice guy. We can chat. I can let the curse words and pseudo-fetishist comments go for a post or two. I can be civil.

But it’s no fun. For me. I guess part of it is about the shock value, but part of it is also about being able to write the word, “Penis” on the internet. Part of it is writing something that if I saw would make me laugh out loud. That’s the goal here.

Hopefully this rumination has been illuminating to you. It’s just made me more confused.

I’m a person of few taboos, and though I may not participate in many of the acts that others would call taboo, I frequently find no reason why anyone should not be allowed to do something if it doesn’t harm their fellow human.

Wanna smoke pot? Go for it. Wanna be killed and eaten by a friend? Have a blast.

But last night I found out where I draw the line.

Somebody, I believe, had been jokingly talking about having sex with a shaved baboon that was also boneless. Somebody may have to fill me in on this one because I came in in the middle of the conversation. We were all joking around about it and I mentioned that I have no problem with people having sex with animals if that’s what they want to do, and they do it with the health of the animal in mind. So no sadism against the chicken, or putting cigarettes out on the sheep. Know what I mean? Then somebody brought up my necrophilia conversation from the last happy hour and I said that I had even less of a problem with people having sex with dead animals because that way you don’t even have to worry about the animal being treated humanely, because it’s dead.

Then somebody said something about having sex with an animal until it died, and I was repulsed. Everyone looked at me in shock and said, “So THAT’S what it takes to go to far for you?”

I just don’t like the idea of an animal being killed in that manner. Gives me the heebies AND the jeebies.

I don’t know, but I can’t get enough.

Check out the description.

Anybody who wants to buy me some of these, feel free.