Monday, August 21, 2017

Question: Mouth, Anus, Vagina (if you had a vagina) - A frozen poop, a somehwat large dildo, and an average sized really smelly/dirty penis?

Good lord.

Is this a question or a form you have to fill out at the door of a warehouse orgy?

Are you trying to ask me what I'd prefer? There's a question mark, but that just might be self-reflexive, like, you're worrying about what's wrong with yourself.

I'll try to break it down, I guess.

Mouth - Obviously nobody wants the frozen poop in their mouth, unless it's ever-so-briefly. I'm guessing you expect me to work it until completion, which is pretty much a flavorless, reverse tootsie pop, until the filling hits your lips. No thanks. I don't want a dirty ween on my tongue, either, so I guess the answer is lip-stretching - but assumedly clean - dildo.

Anus - I guess the frozen poop ain't so bad on account of the 'where shit goes' rule, but cold stuff up the butt is a real hemorrhoid catalyst. I'd probably go with the penis, because its filth level wouldn't be so relevant. Also, I don't want that area stretched by a somewhat large anything. Assuming the smelly penis is average in size, it wins.

Vagina - This is a slam dunk for the dildo, in theory. I certainly don't want cold or poo in there. But the thing is, if I did have a vagina for a day, I'd like to get fucked in it. I also assume that my vagina would be as putrid as That Thing in the Fridge in the Tupperware, so denying a dirty penis would be judgmental.

Short Answer: I guess that means the penis wins, if that's even what you were asking.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Question: What our your thoughts on fate, free will and rubin sandwiches?

I think that fate is the reason you spelled the 'reuben' in 'reuben sandwich' as 'rubin', otherwise free will exists and you chose to be a dumbass.

Short Answer: I don't believe in any of that shit. Reubens are okay, as things that are good because I'm tired of the really great shit and need variety. (Reubens are the mulligatawny soup of sandwiches, in other words.) As for the rest, science seems to think that our genetics are the best indicator for who we are and what we do, which leaves higher concepts in the dust. Free will specifically? Use it at your leisure, to make yourself feel strong when choice is the best option. Like, say, if you fall into a lake, and your body won't swim itself.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Question: Turd Wilkenson?

I don't know, man.

I feel like maybe this was something that happened in real life? Maybe someone is referencing a joke from a particular night of debauchery that I can't recall?

Obviously it makes me think of Turd Ferguson, which if you don't recognize, is a reference to a series of SNL sketches, and one in particular, where Norm Macdonald - as Burt Reynolds on Jeopardy - writes that his name is Turd Ferguson. But if you're reading this blog, you likely already knew that shit already.

So you can see why I might think this is a reference to a reference, a nod to a real life situation. Does that make any sense at all?

Kendra Wilkenson was a playboy model. She had a TV show. I never saw it, but I guess it's possible she pooped at some point. Or maybe has a turd of a personality. Other than that, I don't know. Wilkenson is often spelled Wilkinson, which cuts off some other interesting (boring) possibilities.

This is tough, 'cause 'Wilkenson' kinda rings a bell. Like maybe it was a name I made up on the spot to give to some ridiculous character, or to illustrate the humor of a particular moment. "Wilkenson, remove the turds, please." Something like that.

Short Answer: I'll only continue to ramble, so lets cut the turd off here, shall we? Wilkenson?

Note: Now there's a little play running in my head about a guy who is so rich that he has his butler Wilkenson come into the bathroom and chop his turds off for him with an over-sized cigar cutter.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

Question: What's the appropriate response when you enter the single washroom at work and find poop in the bowl?

Here's a neat thing.

When I read this, I pictured a crystal bowl full of hard candy, in like a station in your bathroom, near where the towels and possibly the bathroom attendant chair is. As crazy as that may seem to you, it ain't as crazy as me picturing you walking into said bathroom, and seeing a perfectly, well-formed tube of feces sitting atop the aforementioned candies.

Now that we've gotten that out of our system, let's address the turd in the toilet bowl, so to speak.

The appropriate response is to flush. (Unless you want to play Layer Cake. But that's messed up. Especially at work. I only play layer cake with my wife.)

In addition, you could also go on an outraged witch hunt. Throw subtlety to the wind and start yelling at everyone you see. "Did you leave a goddamned shit in the toilet? Did you? Did you leave the shit? Was it you, Dana? Fred? A shit? Did you leave it? A shit in the goddamned toilet? Shit?"

Short Answer: Flush. Make a puddin'. Rampage.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Question: Fuckin' trundles.

This definitely isn't a question.

I also can't help but feel that the trundles should get to have their say.

Oh, and...what the fuck is a trundle? See? That's how you ask a question.

Trundle is a verb, is it not? To move slowly, heavily, awkwardly, noisily, unevenly? Are you referring to trundle beds?

Do you sleep on a trundle bed? This is weak. That's akin to sleeping in a drawer. If this is the case, I feel your pain. I was treated like a sock, once, too.

Sock, once, too! Sock, once, too! Sock, once, tooooooooooo!

Short Answer: If you want to sleep in a big boy bed, you can come share my race car.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Question: I'm so sick of your bullshit Keith. Why?

I'm getting a little bored with these types of questions.

Let me nip this in the bud. Look at your mother/a picture of your mother. Now think of her vagina. Now think of my penis going in and out of it. That's why you think you're sick of me. Because I pleasure your mom until she screeches like a steam shovel.

But you're not really tired of my bullshit. You're just not diversifying your entertainment enough. Maybe read some blogs written by people who don't fill out your mothers and sisters like a second mortgage application. Then when you come back to me - like your whole family always does, but for dick - you'll find me refreshing once more.

Here's a genuine reason you might be sick of my bullshit. I'm authentic as fuck. It's like a hot wind in the face, makes it difficult to breath, makes you realize you're a lying sack of crap. That's hard to take. You know what isn't hard to take according to every girl you've ever had a crush on? My fat peen.

Short Answer: I'm not sick of your bullshit. I like you.

Note: I nailed your grandmother. Yea, the one you like, bitch.

Monday, August 14, 2017

Question: Where did you go on your vacation?

I've been staring at this question for a few days now, trying to come up with an angle. I didn't mean to. I like to read a question for the first time right before I answer it, but once in a while I get screwed by the way my phone organizes e-mail, and if the question is short enough, I see the whole thing.

I'm writing this response today because it's next in the queue. Even though I have nothing funny to say about it. That's the way it goes. Once in a while I'll re-order, hope for inspiration on another day, but not often.

I went to Victoria. That's where I spent my formative years, from about 13 to 21. I have friends there, and it's bittersweet to visit. You see, I only live a ferry ride away, and yet I never take the journey. On this particular visit, this fact became a near atrocity in my mind. I dealt with some regret - not a common thing for me - and some bad feelings about how I live, where I live, and why I choose to stay away.

I guess the moral is I didn't have much of a vacation, not in the typical sense. Yes I relaxed some, yes I swam in a lake, yes I drank a few beers; what I didn't do was get that vacation feeling, that full release of all things stressful in my life. Despite the kindness of friends, I felt a little out of place and couldn't kick the idea that I was bothering the generous people around me. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism against the strange wave of regret, my mind telling me it is okay that I never visit, because I'm a pain in the ass, and people are merely tolerating me.

I tend to play up a certain persona when I'm in Victoria. I know that probably sounds weird for anyone who really knows me, but I've come to realize it's true. Though I've mellowed over the years, in my youth I was brash and offensive to some, annoying to others, and an all around tough guy to handle. I dealt with a lot of hurt feelings and misunderstandings back then; this was difficult for I never meant any harm. When I go back to Victoria, I step off the ferry and regress, feeling that the most interesting thing about me to these old friends is the way I used to be. This alters my behavior in a few startling ways. I refer to myself in the third person more, I often mention the fact that I'm 'more difficult' or a 'big personality' and I start looking for ways to justify my odd but special behaviors. All this is an effort to not be the thing I fear I still am in their eyes: a loud mouth with no real accomplishments, a clown with no substance, an entertainer without remorse.

All these things are silly. I know that. And yet, they've taken purchase, and in some symbolic sense, staying on this side of the water protects me. I feel I need to get over it, but I don't know how. When one of my old friends treats me the way I used to be treated, a response trapped in the past that I avoid with great effort in my 'new' life, I get unnecessarily hurt. It's like I have this complex about people understanding my true motivations at all times. I want that. I want things to be simple, uninterpretable. I want to be a positive entity.

The truth is, I'm not always that in my current existence. That perception is false. It's a backlash, a response to this odd persona I adopt, that I desire truth and transparency and clearness of motivation in even greater quantities. It's no one's fault, and yet it's entirely my responsibility.

My friends - old and new - would say I think too much and too hard about these sorts of things. They are right. When it manifests in their frustration, when I can tell they're tired of my analysis, it hurts me worse than anything else, because it's a condemnation of my greatest struggle. We're all tired of my shit.

I think, perhaps, your old home town isn't the best place to go on vacation. At least my wife got a week away from me. That was probably important. Working from home, I'm here all the time, and she doesn't get much solitude.

Plus, I'm handsy.

Short Answer: What's the conclusion here? We all need to go easier on ourselves, that's for sure. If we're going to be the stars of our own movies, it would help if we were also our biggest fans. Relaxation has become a big word for me. I wish it wasn't. I wish it was a state of being I could slide into with ease. Maybe if I could just relax a little.