The Mind of Spaz

I don’t know what’s going on. I have a major case of subject block. My brain has been dryer than Ellen Dengeneris’s vagina at a fireman auction.

So I’m just going to write any and all things that come from my head, first time, no planning, no editing.  Not even for spelling.

Not that I edit for speeling anyways.

Moving on.

Fucking hippies. I hate them.  Yea, that’s right. I hate hippies.  They need to shower. Women hippies need to shave their legs and their vaginas. My god, can you imagine an unwashed hippie vagina?  I mean, when you let after sex juice combinations stew just for a few hours it smells like hell. Can you imagine unwashed free sex afro like hippie vagina?  I bet she can open her foul legs and drop a fly at fifty paces.

I mean, the hippies general bad hygiene isn’t the only reason I hate them. It’s also along the lines of demonstrating for things they don’t understand and are too dumb to look at the big picture.  But hey, that’s what free society is all about, right?

I thought I hated children. But I really just hate what they have become due to helicopter parents.  Hey parents! Stop hovering and maybe your children will grow up to be adults!  Then again, if you’re not an adult how will they ever be?

Man, I’m such a bitter bastard. Lets’ liven this shit up, shall we?

Why exactly do people have so much problems shitting?  Seriously. Every time I’m in the drug store buying bandages, rubbing alcohol and do it yourself burn kits, I see people buying stomach remedies off the shelves.

It’s either stuff to stop the shits or stuff to make the shits.

I eat food, I turn it to poo, I pass it through my ass. At least once a day, usually twice. It rarely comes out runny, but it ALWAYS comes out.

So what we need to do is selective breeding.  I mean, I could jerk off into every single sperm jar on the planet, but then we’d all be TOO perfect.  And if we were all too perfect, much of my blog fodder (when I’m not subject blocked) would disappear.

No, what we need to do is turn the drug store into a giant dating service.

We’ll force those who have to buy runny shit medication to mate with those who buy can’t shit medication, and the resulting children will be people who shit normally, like me.

Ok, I’m done.
Later everybody.

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It’s happened to everybody at least once. You know, you’re in a public place, say a mall or a school or taco bell, and it hits you.

The butter chicken you had for lunch. The keg of beer you had for dinner. The ex lax you mistook for valentines day chocolates.

You have to go, and you go to the nearest bathroom you can find. You’re in such a panic, you don’t even check for pee puddles or little curly pubes before planting your ass down on the seat. You let go, and it comes out like an nuclear explosion. You are relieved beyond relief.

Then, you look over to the toilet paper dispensor and realize with utter horror that something is completely wrong.

That’s right. Your bum is an absolute sticky mess and there’s but one square of TP left.  You can’t even do the pants around your ankels shuffel to the cabinet for another roll, because you’re in a public stall!

Not to fear, because I have the solution. First, you fold that one square in half and fold it again, such as so:

Then, where the folded edges meet, you tear off a small piece like this:

Before going on to the next step, save that little piece! It’s very VERY important.  The next thing you want to do is unfold the piece of toilet paper such as so:

You see now that there is a hole in the middle. Perfect. Take that piece of TP and insert your finger through the hole. It’s best to use the index finger of your wiping hand, such as so:

Now, your finger ABOVE the toilet paper is what you use to clean your bum with. It’s important that you use that portion of the finger only because the next step is folding the edges of the toilet paper up and using it to wipe the poo from your finger, as demonstrated in the next photo:

Remember that little piece that I told you to keep? Can anyone guess what it is used for?

That’s right! You use it to clean the poo from under your finger nail.

Next time you experience an exlposive ass rocket and have only one square, remember this technique. It could save your hygene.

Special thanks goes out to father spaz.  He taught me this life saving gem, and most of the other necessities of life.

Like high speed nose picking.

But that’s another tip for another day.

Good luck!

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A certain somebody left this rather surprising comment on my blog the other day:

On another note, damn do you talk about shitting a lot.

Well yea. Poo is funny. Bodily functions in general is funny.  Anybody who is cool understands that.

You also understand that if you’re a mommy blogger.  We all know how much mommy bloggers suck, because it’s only funny if it’s coming out of their little ugly babies orifices.

ALL bodily functions are funny.

So to commemorate poo, and to commemorate my poo commentor, I give you some poo de motivational posters.

Enjoy.

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Why do I eat Indian food?  I’m a white guy, with a white guy digestive system.  I know that. Yet I eat it anyways. It’s just so good! It smells good, it tastes good, it’s so spicy and exotic.  But it’s just so powerful to my whitey gut.

The minute the stuff gets past my stomach and into my intestine, it turns into a large angry boxer, doing fisticuffs with my bowels.

The Butter Chicken fisticuffs has some interesting side effects.  Yea, it tries to explosively crawl out my ass, but that’s not for at least five or six hours after I eat it.  In the meantime, it produces gas babies.

Horrible, foul smelling gas babies. LOTS of gas babies.

I know what happens when I eat Indian food, and I eat it anyways. And then do you know what I do?

I go to the gym.

Did you know that running puts something like seven times your body weight of stress each time your foot hits the ground? That’s a lot of pounding around when you’ve got thousands of little fart babies trying their best to escape and the only thing holding them back is your clenched sphincter.

So, I make the worst decision I could make. I go for a run on the treadmill.

I decide to get a good sweat on.  Two miles an hour. Three, four, then five.  My intestine was shaking around like a fat guy at an anorexic dance.  Finally, at five and a half miles an hour, my shutter could not longer hold back the butter chicken gas babies. With each step a butter chicken fart baby escaped my cheeks. Keep in mind that I’m running at five and a half miles an hour, so the farts came out my bottom at machine gun velocity.

And the farts hit the guy on the treadmill behind me like a Browning .30 Cal on full auto.  It had the same effect too. He collapsed immediately.

You see, the guy behind me was some sort of pro athlete or something. He must have been.  Because my five and a half miles an hour was a snail compared to whatever he had the thing set to.  I think he set it to maximum. Anyways, my fragrant ass gun made him drop onto the moving conveyor, which shot him into the back wall.

He crashed through the wall.  This might not have been too much of a problem, except behind that wall was the woman’s shower room.

I have never seen so much wet glistening titty and soggy beaver running around in my entire life! Those first few minutes were absolutely great!

The restraining order won’t let me come within one mile of that gym.

Oh well.  Now if you will all excuse me, I need to get some butter chicken. I’m hungry and could use a good cleaning out.

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Before we begin with today’s nonsense, I’d like to thank my buddy John from the Authoring Auctioneer.  He did an AWESOME AWESOME interview with me.  That guy should be on CNN or some shit.  Click HERE to read it, guaranteed not to disappoint.

Building a stripper pole in my parents bathroom wasn’t the only time I dropped a load in a museum.  I did so the other day at another museum with disastrous results.

Part of my job is to take care of my County’s numerous small water systems. Places like Community Centers, Arena’s and the like. Once such place is a small museum displaying items from our pioneer days.

The curators of said museum are display items in their own right, being as old or older than some of the display items themselves.

Fascinating.

I’m there the other day working on the treatment system.  The old guy was no where to be seen and I was glad because frankly, I wasn’t in the mood that day to inhale the aroma of old pee and regret.

It was then that lunch decided to come crawling out of my ass.  It almost seemed as if the chicken re-assembled itself in my colon and decided to come out and take a look around.

So, I ran to the antiquated shitter and dropped the Cosby kids off at the pool.

There was a problem.  It seemed that while the chicken wanted to check out the septic system, the rice and salad assumed a density of less than 1.  It also seemed that the chicken was just a tad too fat to fit down the hole.

These were the disastrous results.

Water came pouring up out of the toilet, taking the now brown and smelly rice and salad for a white water rafting adventure out the door and down the hallway toward the display of old farm bricks.  The poo wedged itself between the 150 year old trowel and the ancient wood mixing bucket.

Now I had a problem. I didn’t want to touch my poo but I couldn’t just leave it there.

Or could I?

After much thought, I drew up a sign that said “recreation of old time brick mortar.  Feel free to handle!” and stuck it in my fluffy ass child.

As I left the building, I couldn’t help but laugh as the local grade three class piled in for the tour.

Suckers.

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