The Mind of Spaz

I love special people.  Not special as in really pretty, or very smart, or incredibly passionate.  I mean special as in……  handicapped.

Don’t get me wrong here. I’m sure all you human rights activists are going to get on my case about how they are people too and they have rights and I shouldn’t be making fun of them.

But why not? Everybody makes fun of everybody.  If you’ve been reading my site you’ll know that I’ve made fun of the religious, the morbidly obese, the ugly, the drunk, vegetarians, young people, old people, dumb people and idiotic people. You see, I have to have a poke at the handicapped or I WILL be offending them!

Moving on.

How can you not enjoy the antics of true mental spaztics? Take a Movie theater for example.  An action movie by itself can be good, but if there’s a collection of downs syndrome patients on a field trip going DUUUUURGH! and clapping their hands at every explosion, well, now you have a comedy.

My very favorite are the ones with downs syndrome. It must be bliss to be so easy to please.  Also, I wish I had retard strength. I hear those fuckers don’t have to exercise a day in their life but damned near lift a car!  Also, I hear the guys have penis’s  that hang down to their knees. Sometimes missing a chromosome isn’t so bad.

What I’m really on about though, is the retarded in the workforce.  The province of Ontario has a program to subsidize employers who hire the (relatively) competent handicapped.  I believe they pay up to half the salary.  Which is absolutely fantastic.  I can’t speak for all, but I’ve seen many downs syndrome kids with menial jobs who think it’s the BEST thing in the world.  Compare that with “normal” kids who bitch and moan that their $28.00 per hour Toyota jobs sweeping the floor is just unfair. Really, who’s the ‘tard here?

I think it’s great that my tax dollars go to help people feel useful. There’s nothing better in life than feeling useful, even if feeling useful to some people is not pooping their pants for a four hour shift.  I’ve only ever had one problem with this: Some dipshit at Wendy’s put a girl with sever downs syndrome on the salad line.  My salad didn’t need any dressing due to the soaking of ‘tard drool.

Seriously, why would you put a person that has no concept of hygiene and no control of flowing bodily fluids on food production. That’s retarded in and of itself!

I am going somewhere with this.  You see, usually, they put people with special needs in very menial jobs because of their lack of mental prowess. Clearing off tables, taking out the garbage, sweeping the floor, anything you’d have a normally functioning teenager do. But I saw something this weekend, something that made me stop and re-evaluate this.

I saw a police car with the words on the side of it, SPECIAL CONSTABLE.

Oh… My…God. They’re allowing retards to do policing now?

So here’s what I want to know. Do these special constables actually have their own car or do the normal cops carry them in the back seats for special work, kind of like K-9 units?

Regardless, I feel safer on the streets knowing that our government is finally using the most powerful tool we have to combat crime.

Retard strength.

‘Nuff Said.

politically incorrect, talking out of my ass corky, downy's, retard strength, retarded, special people

Imagine. You’re in your twenties, fully engrossed in the beginnings of your career. You and your best girlfriends have finally saved enough money to take that trip to Florida you always wanted.  You have the time of your life, and you take picture after picture to document the occasion.

You download these pictures from your camera into your computer. You’re close to your family, and you want to show everyone what a good time you had.  Everyone is there. Your mom and dad, your priest uncle, your 98 year old great gramma, your 14 year old sister and your young nieces and nephews. You plug your laptop into the TV and start the slide show.

Everyone is loving the photos until this one shows up. Look closely. Can you spot the problem?

Nothing like an escaped mental patient diddling herself on a public beach to ruin a kodak moment.

NICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

social commentary diddling, gross chick, OMG WTF, ruin Kodak moment

*After ya’ll are done reading this, head on over to the Offended Blogger to check out my guest post!

Many, many years ago (about 14 to be exact), I was a young teenaged lad excited about a trip to Italy. By myself.

Ok, I was to be staying with family friends once I got there, but hey, knowing me I would have been shot by the mob within half an hour left to my own devices. Actually, I was almost shot by the airport security. See, there are a few things I didn’t know about the Italian airport security:

1. They carry automatic weapons
2. Unlike the Canadian airport security at the time, they aren’t wimps and:
3. They aren’t afraid to point their weapons at you as they are yelling at you.

Oh, did I mention I didn’t speak a word of Italian?

But I made it out alive. There were other mistakes of cultural ignorance I made, however. Like:

• Thinking the bidet in the washroom was actually a foot wash
• Not understanding that Italian doorbells look exactly like light switches (I swear I was looking for the damned thing for 15 minutes)
• Discovering that there is no legal age limit to consuming alcohol AND everybody wanting to feed you the damned stuff (that in and of itself is a story or ten).
• Being a hormone riddled teenager and not being told that ALL beaches in Italy are clothing optional (BOOOOIIINNNNGGG!)
• Shortly thereafter discovering that Italian women of a certain age (probably about 25 or so) no longer feel the need for a razor. (eewwwwwwwwww).
• Learning a new word in Italian without bothering to learn it’s meaning and repeating it to a woman (my cheek is STILL red).

Trust me folks, the above list is NOT exhaustive.

But all those are other stories for other days. Today, I’ll tell you the story of my first experience with a Turkish toilet.

As I was staying with an Italian family, I was cordially invited to many family and friend related functions. One of them was a wedding. Normally I don’t really care for the weddings themselves; my interests always lie in the reception. This was a bit different because it was a Johova’s Witness wedding (yes, they’ve made it to Italy those annoying door knockers that won’t go away) and I was rather interested to see how one of those went about. Of course, I had only been there for four days and I still didn’t speak a word of Italian. Except for “I want a beer please”. I learned that one right quick.

The reception was interesting. I was enjoying a malto grande beer and some deep fried whatsits when my buddy told me to slow down on the food. “Take it easy” he said “it’s a big dinner. Trust me.”

I wasn’t worried. See, at that time I had a Ferrari like metabolism, and I was 170 lbs of all muscle and very little fat (that ratio has changed a tad nowadays). I could eat like a horse and once even got kicked out of an all you can eat buffet. I felt confident I could take on ANY dinner without a problem at all.

“OK” he said, “but I want to see you eat ALL of it.”

“And some of yours too,” I replied smugly.

As it turns out the three and a half foot tall midget sitting beside me finished my dinner and some of his too. Where he put it, I don’t know, but I’m thinking inside that huge bulbous head of his.

You see, the dinner was twenty-three courses long and took six hours to complete. I know have only respect and awe for Italian cooking skills and those who can keep up. Utter respect.

There was an intermission at course twelve. A FRICKING intermission in a MEAL. They served some sort of ice drink (with copious amounts of rum) that was supposed to “cleanse the pallet”. If by cleansing the pallet they meant “make you need to poo”, then yes, it did its job quite well.

That’s when I ran into the Turkish toilet. I quickly found the washroom and flung open the door to stall #1. There was nothing but a porcelain hole in the ground. Huh. Stall #2 and #3 were the same. I was utterly confused, but I noticed the toilet paper roll (hung 6” from the floor), so I guess that’s where you go poo.

I entered the stall, pulled down my pants and undies, and attempted to squat over the hole. I fell. I tried it again. I fell again. And a third time with the same results.

I then decided I was going to hold it, because after all, falling into poo will make you stink (so I’m told). The stain would also be especially noticeable on the white pants I was wearing.

So, three hours later the meal was done, and I was looking forward to going home to a real toilet (and a foot wash). Except my friends had other plans. One A.M. Italian time is PARTY TIME! My ass didn’t get to a toilet till five am, when I experienced my first ever bout of bum pow.

But that, my friends, is another story for another time.

dumb things I do to myself eating too damned much, Italy, poo, turkish toilet

Not too long ago, I was talking to my mechanic as he worked on my truck. The topic of boobs naturally came up, as is want when two humans with penis’s are encouraged by the close proximity of power tools.

We discovered that we had different tastes in titties. He like big fat sloppy boobs. It didn’t matter if they were shapely or perky or hanging where they should be, as long as he could stick his face in there and motorboat to his hearts delight. Even if he was motorboating at knee level, as I so pointed out.

Personally, there’s nothing wrong with big boobs but I like nice, perky titties. The kind that defy gravity. If I could have the perfect boob, it would be a boob that was so perky that wearing a bra was only a formality.

Now, it occurs to me that women would have two issues with their boobs.

1. As we have become a society of slutty skanks, women change partners more often than they change their tampons
2. Boobs become deflated and pancake like as they age

Both situation do not bode well on making a good boob impression. After all, you may be hooking up with a man who likes big sloppy boobs followed by a man who has good taste in titties (like me) and back to another man who likes motorboating chest manatee’s.  And of course, floppy choppy pancakes as you get older.

So what is a girl to do?

I’ll tell you what a girl is to do! She’s to order my revolutionary product called the Titflator(TM)!

The product is very simple.  Empty sacs are inserted into the boob.  Tubes from those sacks go down to a reservoir in her belly.  Attached to the reservoir is a pump activated by her kegel muscles.  In her belly button is a discrete three way valve for fill, drain and off.

When the young (or old) lady wants to pump up her boobs, she simply has to turn the belly button valve to fill, drink some water, and then activate her kegel muscles in her very favorite way.  To deflate, simply turn the belly button valve to drain.  Simple, precise and immediate bigger or smaller boobs, right before your eyes!  See this simple diagram of how the product works:

But don’t just take my word for it.  Just see what these satisfied customers have to say!

Before I got titflator(TM) I was so embarrassed by my pancake boobies.  Now, I can inflate them to any perky size I want!  All I have to do is turn my belly button valve to fill, drink a certain amount of water, and go for a bike ride on a cobble stone road! Nothing could be easier and more pleasurable! Thanks Titflator(TM)!

-Molly S.

My boyfriend would never pay attention to my little mosquito bite titties.  So one day I had Titflator(TM) installed. I drank some water, and turned the valve to fill before we had sex.  My boobs got bigger with every thrust!  Now he brags to his buddies that he’s so good in bed he made my boobs grow!  Well at least one of those is true.  Thanks Titflator(TM), you’re the greatest!

-Cheryl W.

I loved your product. Until the valve got stuck that is.  What the heck!  I’ve got penis flying at me from every direction and I don’t think my boobs can get any bigger!  I’m afraid they’re going to burst – for the love of god, how do you unstick the valve?  I can’t see my feet anymore!  Please, send out a technician or something….

-Pamela A.

So what are you ladies waiting for!  Order the Titflator(TM) today and you won’t regret it!

politically incorrect, talking out of my ass boobs, breasts, inflation devices, sweet sweet woman chest, titties

I just found out that there are something called sins. Apparently some old dood in Italy that likes to wear silly hats keeps telling us that out of all the bad things we do, seven of those are the worst.

Then he mumbled something about needing his diaper changed.

All these new fangled cults are weird.

So apparently if you dabble in lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, or pride, you’re going to some place warm.

I agree. That describes every Americans vacation to Mexico.

But I digress.

With the help of the cool people at Big Huge Labs, I’ve attempted to explain these seven deadly sins in the best way I can.

With motivational posters. Enjoy.

politically incorrect, talking out of my ass big huge labs, motivational posters, seven deadly sins, silly religions