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.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Question: If you were not a writer, than what would you do?

I have to be a writer. Here's why. This sentence makes me very upset.

First part's fine. Then shit goes off the rails.

'Than' is wrong. It's then. Then what would I do.

Here's the second problem. Agreement. It's not the end of the world, but it's the kind of thing that gets programmed into your brain after years of trying to be good at something. 'If you were not a writer, then what would you be?' is far cleaner. Or, conversely, 'If you didn't write, then what would you do?'

If you don't get it, fine. Feel free to chalk it up to me being a curmudgeon, and continue to enjoy and participate in my blog. If you did get it, feel shame. I'll assume my hacking away at your attempt will send you to other, lesser blogs, with far nicer folks at the helm.

I make mistakes, too, but the premise here is that I have to answer your questions.(That means your question works as a headline for my blog post, painting me in a particular, ungrammatical light.) Sometimes, I'll edit tiny mistakes, but this? This got me twice, felt like a weird poop, and - as a triple whammy - didn't inspire me content-wise. What I mean by that is, I'm not excited about answering what I'd do if I wasn't a writer, because that's the opposite of achieving my dreams. Being forced to give this up to do something else is my nightmare.

So the answer is die in a gutter alone. Or fake a pregnancy. I might try some murders?

I guess the real answer is another kind of writing, because it's the only skill I have that I could monetize above minimum wage, but then I'd still be a writer, and that would be me failing at answering. If you don't understand that see 'you failing at questioning'. It's above.

Short Answer: My back hurts. That means I can't do much in the way of menial labor. So I'd have to use my brain, and that would totally suck. If I was in a cubicle I'd burst into snakes. (That's not a typo. I would burst into a dozen or more snakes and slither off into the crevices of the building.)

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Question: Any advice for an aspiring writer?

Run! Run as fast as you can! Find overalls and a broom! Borrow money for trade school! Make a halfway decent LinkedIn profile! Learn to knit! Anything! Anything other than this! Fucking run!

Now that I've got that out of my system...

Don't be shitty is a good place to start. This is accomplished by straight up not being shitty. Here's how you figure this out. Can you write good? Did you realize that should have been 'can you write well?' You're shitty.

No, no, no, but seriously...

Writing for most people is super fucking hard. So you're likely shitty. Give up. Maybe even run.

Have we got that our of our system? Do you want the real skinny?

It's not that hard. Just do it. If you suck, you'll get better. Here are some tips that can help you get started.

1. Finish things. Don't start shit and not finish shit. That's dumb. You have to learn how to finish.

2. Once finished, get opinions. It would be nice to know in what way you're shitty. That's how you learn. Make sure to take it that way as best you can. Of course it sucks when someone thinks you're shitty, but just accept that's going to happen. A lot. If one out of a thousand people like what you do, you'll be rich and famous.

3. Fill your head with things you need. Obviously, you have to be a reader to be a writer, but you can also read books that specifically help you write. You need a style guide, first of all, (The Elements of Style by Strunk and White is the de facto best option) and probably a book like Stephen King's On Writing to get some honest perspective.

4. Create good habits. Writing is work. Hard work. Get ready to institute some gnarly structure in your life. It's very difficult and extremely rare for writers to write 'whenever they want' or 'whenever inspiration strikes' or 'whenever the muse arrives'. Toss the 'whenevers', sit the fuck down, and write.

5. Set realistic goals. And I do mean realistic. If you try to write two thousand words a day (like Stephen King) you may find yourself weeping in the corner after six days of definitive failure. I suggest a grace period of a few weeks wherein you discover what you can comfortably accomplish. If that's sixteen words a day, so be it. Lock that habit it, then grow from there. Also, do a little math. If you write say, a conservative five hundred words a day, you'll have a book in no time. Which leads me to...

6. Take baby steps. There's a lot to learn, some of which is almost impossible to describe. How do you cast aspersion on a character? Right? So here's the trick. Take it slow and steady. You are the tortoise, with glasses on and a will to share your creativity. If you want to write a novel, the shortest length acceptable is about 60,000 words. At five hundred words a day, that's only four months. Not bad, tortoise. Not bad.

7. Do you. This rule pretty much contradicts most of what I just said. You have to be you. After all, unless you're writing a technical manual for vacuum cleaners, this is art. Embrace that! Make it a capital word. Art! You are now an artist and you have to let the inner beast out to roam free. This is going to be different for every person, but here's the way I do it, to give you at least one example.

Me: I write linear, no jumping around. I write characters first, and they tell me the story. I don't shy away from things because they might not be 'marketable'. I always make the scarier choice. I accept that I can be considered niche. I understand that rejection is commonplace and doesn't mean I suck. Some days I think I suck anyway and I allow it to motivate me to get better.

(Also, some days I'm in the corner with you, crying and eating worms because nobody loves me. That's okay, too.)

8. Don't try to show off. You probably have some skills, or you wouldn't be considering this pursuit. You don't need to prove to people that you're good. You're a storyteller, not Mark Twain (or whoever your Mark Twain is). Tell the story. Use the words that help tell the story. You don't need to impress people with the way you write, not yet. You'll develop your own Voice through repetition. It will come, you can't force it. And here's a bonus tip: Ignore the old adage 'write what you know'. That's great for some genres, but you have to trust yourself as a creative. I've never been to Saturn, but I can write the shit out of a story that's set there.

9. You will suck. Man, you're going to be so shitty at first. Here's the thing, though: you won't even know. You'll fear it, and others may say it, but you won't know how shitty you are now until years later. But that's cool, 'cause that's how life works. You're always learning. It's a good thing that in five years you'll see the garbage you used to produce. That's how you'll get good enough in the long term. In the short, let out the beast, edit with as much brutality as you can muster, and gather a few trusted readers to help you out. In no time you'll be 'not shitty'.

Short Answer: Huh. I had some things to say about this. Cool. Maybe I'm not shitty, now.

Note: Also, on the whole 'write what you know front', you can pretty much learn anything in ten minutes on the internet, so go for it. You don't have to do days of study anymore. I often stop in the middle of what I'm doing, go online, and learn the name for that thing. It works just fine. 'Write what you know' does have merit, but if you don't inherently understand it, don't worry. If you do, apply as necessary. I pretty much just make everything up. Why not? That's what some of us are best at.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Question: If someone were to fuck with you how would they go about it?

I guess they could murder my wife.

It would take some real effort to handle that situation. First of all, if I came home and she had been murdered, it would take a lot of effort not to fuck her one last time. Especially if the corpse was still warm. (Then again, I've never fucked a really cold person so that could be neat.) The point is, then, while fucking my freshly dead wife, I'd have to try to be respectful of the way she liked getting fucked, and resist all the heinous stuff I could now in theory do to her, because she's basically a lifeless, lukewarm sex doll. That all sounds like a ton of work, and I could easily consider it 'getting fucked with'.

I guess another way to go would be to assault me sexually. Then I'd have to put up with dicks in my holes, and I'm not sure how good I am at that. I mean, I've said before I'd suck a dick for a lot less money than you might think, but I don't want to disappoint anyone. At least if I got violated in the rectum I know they'll have a good time, and that's some solace. It will take a lot of effort to not be too neurotic. I'd like to lose myself in the moment, you know? Get shipwrecked, swept away, taken to an earth-shattering place by the process of having someone force their penis into my two or so orifices. What a drag!

Giving me lots of money would fuck with me pretty hard. I'd have to figure out what to do with it, learn to be responsible, deal with a lot of bureaucracy and bullshit. I'd probably have to learn some things. Ugh.

I guess you could help me with my aspiring career as a novelist. What would I do with myself if I couldn't identify as a struggling artist? What would be the fuel that runs my daily existence if I managed to achieve my loftiest goal? That could really fuck with me.

Organize an orgy surprise party for my birthday? Awkward!
Give me a handjob on the bus? What if we get caught??!?!
Clean my house when I'm not there? What a violation!

Short Answer: Turns out, there are a lot of ways to fuck with me. Please don't do any of them! Please!!!

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Question: Ever thought of moving away from the city you're in? If so where would you go?

Yes. The city I live in - Vancouver - is expensive.

Here's a list of places I would rather live, if only I had the money, inclination or drive to move.

Narnia - Why? Talking lions and Christian allegory.
Newfoundland - Why? Family and the mandatory minimum fish wage.
Hobbiton - Why? Nice scenery and great professional wrestling matches.
Victoria - Why? Friends and nearly the same living situation/irony.
Just outside of Vancouver - Why? Lower cost of living and continued access to drug overdoses.
Any number of Fantasy novel worlds - Why? Likely to live life as a serf, but there's hope of knighthood and dragon-slaying glory.
Montreal - Why? Poutine and being looked down upon.
Any number of Sci-Fi novel worlds - Why? The preponderance of alien races and evolved states of being. And ray guns.
Scandinavia - Why? Have you looked into this shit? They've got it figured the fuck out.

Short Answer: I think about moving quite often, but my instinct, after years of being in one place, is to make a bold move, not a small one. That has perhaps kept me in place for longer than I'd imagined.



Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Question: You haven't been writing your blog or taking your daily sexy walks past my jerking bush, where have you been?

I've been in the jerking bush behind you, the one that overlooks your jerking bush. I've been observing your sexual frustration. Your inability to climax gets me off.

Short Answer: I was on vacation.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Question: Hey Keith. Seems like your wife must be pretty cool to let you say such heinous shit about her online. Can you describe her for us?

My wife's like...

Rutger Hauer with more tears in the rain.
Mr. Belding's awkward twin sister.
Denzel Washington's ever growing paunch.
If Raggedy Andy got a sex-change.
Carmen Miranda with penises instead of bananas.
A bottom feeding fish that moans with displeasure when you flip it over.
A toilet-colored person that smells like a toilet.
Ernest Borgnine's cat that looks a lot like him.
That show, Designing Women.
An on-the-wagon four-and-a-half.
Seven ferrets in an Anna Kendrick suit.
The feeling you get when you poop, and then there's a second cramp, and it's likely diarrhea.
Real licorice.
A tantrum thrown by a baby panda because it can't get its glasses clean.
Roadkill with tits.
The feeling you get when a movie doesn't have a post-credit scene.
The feeling you get when a movie does have credit bloopers.
Punky Brewster regretting her breast reduction surgery.
Misreading the word annual as anal.
A facial menstrual cramp.
A smarmy chipmunk that knows you want to fuck it.
How Fleetwood Mac feels about each other.
Being in a live studio audience for the Red Wedding.
A hobo with a t-shirt gun, and all the t-shirts say, 'Hobos Piss in T-Shirts'.
A woman with hot boobs, a fat ass, and a penchant for room-shredding poofarts.

Short Answer: Don't worry, honey. You're a drunk nine for sure!

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Question: Does he have a small penis or does she have a wide vagina?

Is wide vagina even really a thing? I mean, aren't there muscles down there? It's not like the waist band of old sweatpants, where it's lost all elasticity and just gapes like the mouth of a grouper fish.

My instinct is small penis, but even that's suspect. The difference in penis sizes between men is negligible, unless you get to the far ends of the spectrum. That's lengths, though, so I guess a penis could be real thin and therefore not make a lady feel...full.

("I had all dat penis and now I'm fulled up!"
- things I hear a lot.)

If sex feels too broad down there, it might be a few other things. Lack of effort, weakened musculature, position, technique. (In then out doesn't necessarily cut it for some girls, just like lying there like a damn princess doesn't do it for some guys.)

Sexual congress can take some effort, and unlike regular congress, someone comes at the end! And no hookers die! And legislation is passed.

Short Answer: I hope it's not the vagina's fault, 'cause that means she'd have to keep finding larger and larger penises to make her feel stuffed. That eventually leads to species jumping, which can get all dangerous up near your organs. (Smiley Horse emoji.)