Problem Solving Flowchart.

Found at Boing Boing

Tell Dave Anthony To Grow his Hate Back.

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Yes, That is Exactly What You Think It Is.

Yep, Necronomicox. Exactly what it looks like. Personally, I'm a fan of the Cthulucox. But solely for decorative purposes, of course. I do however want to meet the girl who owns a gangrenous Zombi-cock in her bedside drawer. I know you're out there, honey, call me.

Found at Warrenellis.com.

Hello, Potential Mate!

So I've decided to give the online dating thing a try again. I'm trying to write a decent "About Me" blurb for these social network sites, but I keep hitting a wall. I think the problem lies in my inherent inability to take anything seriously ever. So I going to post my three best personal ads here you guys can vote in the comment section which one you think will most likely attract the woman of my mostly silent bathroom time contemplations.

1. Hello, Potential Mate.

After my last girlfriend dumped me I was a tad bitter and on one occasion I announced that I would like to invent an explosive condom for suicide bombers. Unfortunately, I was at the airport when I made this comment. So, I've spent the last four years in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba trying to explain that I was just kidding. During that time I learned many fun and interesting things; airports habitually screen their employees for a sense of humor so as to avoid hiring any actual humans; that Obama guy was full of shit; and I learned that despite what I previously thought about myself, I am not a dog person. Now that I'm free I'm looking to move on with my life. My ideal woman must not be prone to sudden movements, must not own a dog, must promise not to ruin the ending of Lost for me.

2. Yo, Bitches,

My name is Icepick McGoldenPenis. I got that name because I give women orgasms so goddamn stupid good that they often lapse into vegetative states. Don't fuckin' ask me about the Terry Schivo case, yo, I don't know nothin' bout that shit. But, truth, straight up, between my great big dick and the fact that I make damn near a grand an hour doin' this blog bullshit means you wanna get with me and I get to treat you like somethin' I'm gonna wipe with cause that's just how it is when you're with some one as badass as me. And don't go kiddin' yo'selves, you bitches love a muthafucka that's gonna treat you like a chump beggin fo' change on the street. How else did Mel Gibson and Woody Allen and the entire goddamn rap community get so much tail? And don't even get me started on that stupid fucking "Seduction" wave community. Fuck those guys. "Hey, my name is Mystery. Doesn't that make you want to take your pants off?" Dude, fuck you and die. Your ability to put your penis inside the the mentally challenged is not something that makes you a hero in my eyes. So please do the world a favor and try fucking a blender set to frappe. But yeah, Ladies I'm a really nice guy. Please sleep with me. I'm so lonely.

3. Hello Pretty Lady,

My name is Dorian Dwarfchaser and I'm a tenth level elf mage on Guardians of the Sacred Muffin. Despite what my older brother, Icepick McGoldenPenis, says I really do like girls. A lot. I like girls so much that sometimes when I see one I make a ten point dream cache in my spiderman underpants. I really like girls. So, if you want to get with a guy who really likes girls hit me up. Please hit me up. I have full DVD collections of Star Wars, Star Trek, Stargate, Lord of the Rings and every copy of everything staring Ron Jeremy and Steven Seagal. If you do want to hit me up please understand that you must be a at least eighth level or higher on some kind of MMRPG or an OOCGISSTNOWECAE (Obviously Over Complicated Game Involving Stupid Shit That No One Will Ever Care About Ever).

On Danger

In my last post I referred to Daisy Danger's blog as porn. That was wrong. I often bang these posts out through a drunken haze and I actually kind of feel bad for that slip up.

She doesn't write porn. Sure, her writing will make you horny and if it doesn't you really need to have that thing looked at by a medical professional, but it's not porn. I don't think it even counts as erotica. Her writing is an elegant, bare bones snapshot of human experience lived by a woman who probably never learned how to flinch at anything.

I think I fall a little more in love with that girl with every post.

New Shit

New additions to the BRILIANCIES sidebar you should all be reading.

First off Daisy Danger. Yeah, it's porn. But who can't get enough porn. Especially when it's the expertly written true life sexual escapade of a girl I should have met in college and would still like to.

Next, The Rude Pundit, think of this guy as the Anti-Glenn Beck or Jon Stewart with a double barreled shotgun and a chainsaw for a hand. Hard-edged progressive writing that laughs at you and calls you a pussy for asking for a little lube with that massive cock of TRUTH!!!

RiotClitShave is probably the best photoblog I've encountered on the net to date.

And, of course, Kung Fu Monkey is screenwriting wisdom and brilliance from the man who brought you Leverage. And if you aren't watching Leverage, fuck you.

How could I forget? Weaponizer is a UK website devoted to science fiction prose, comics, art, music and general coolness. If you need a barometer of just how cool the nice folks at Weaponizer are so cool they actually published ME!

6 Ways to Make Your Server Put His Balls in Your Soup

Hi, I’m Dr. Louball and I’ll be your server this evening. Before we get started you should be aware of a few rules of restaurant etiquette that most casual diners are not aware of. These aren’t so much “rules” per se, but more like cause and effect situations you never noticed before.

1. If you complain that the soup is too cold, I’m going to take it back to the kitchen and dip my balls in it to see if that’s true. Most times it’s not, but we don’t serve the soup that hot to begin with, so the most I have to fear by doing this is toasty, warm balls, which feels kinda nice and I recommend you try it sometime. If you’re right and it is too cold I’ll give it thirty seconds in the microwave and bring it back to you. Don’t think you’re going to get off easy if you tell a female server that the soup is cold. Female servers are typically much more clever and vicious than their be-balled counterparts. They’ll work something out. The lesson; Just eat your fucking soup.
   
2. If you come to my restaurant when it’s crowded and you happen to be in my way and you happen to be standing less than a foot and half away and if I still have to say “excuse me” three or more times before your fat ass gets out of my way, please understand that you have fucked up in a way that you can’t fuck back down. In this instance The Ancient Law of the Restaurant states that when we next meet I get to throw a claw hammer at your genital region from fifteen paces. And I’ve been practicing with my claw hammer.
   
3. If you are with a large group or any group on a busy day and you ask for separate checks you have no soul. Split checks are the devil, just ask Bobby Boucher’s mom. They are the devil and people who ask for them are the devil’s earthbound subhuman whores doomed to wander the earth, constantly annoying real people with their blatant refusal to learn basic arithmetic.
   
4. If you complain that something is taking to long, even if it is taking to long, I get to fuck your mom in the mouth. If your mom’s dead, that only means you have to watch. Don’t ever think that your time is more valuable than my time, fucko. I’m working right now. You are sitting in a restaurant. If your time was so damn valuable, you’d have packed a lunch so you could work while you were eating. So quit your bitching, put your food in your face when I bring it to you and get the fuck out of my life happy in the knowledge that you got to spend one hour of your life not having to get out of chair to get things.
   
5. If you have any comment to make about me, my appearance or the way I do my job that is anything other than one hundred percent complimentary…well, best just to keep it to yourself. No. I won’t do anything to you for opening your gaping maw to whine about a subject so trivial as whether the server serves with his right or his left. That’s only because I won’t have to. If you’re one of those people, then your life is already more sad and empty then mine ever will be. And I’m a fucking server.
   
6. If you don’t tip or tip badly don’t come back. A lot of people feel that they are justified in leaving a shitty tip if the service they received was not up to their exacting expectations. This is not the case. A tip isn’t something you do to be polite and it’s not your personal license to judge me. It’s my pay for the work that I do. How would you feel if your boss came to you and said, “Well, Dave, I gotta say you were a little slow with those TPS reports this week so we’ll only be giving you half a paycheck…mmm-kay?” That’s right, you would spend a month trying to clean your boss’s hair and skin tissue out from under your fingernails. The mere fact that you as a customer are allowed to judge my worth, and therefore my pay and I don’t get to do the same to you when I’m buying a blowjob behind Seven-Eleven, is a sign that we live in a world so oblivious to the concept of fairness and logic it makes Ted Kaczynski look like Atticus Finch. Please remember, if you stiff a server on a tip and then return to that restaurant you will be remembered and you will be fucked with. Service industry folk hold grudges like the mafia and pursue vendetta with the sneaky sideways persistence of a dick punched T-1000. To illustrate the point a secret poll of service industry personnel revealed that, in 2009, the average habitual non-tipping customer unknowingly consumed at least a third of their body weight in fluids and substances so horrible that when the survey results were published Jeffery Dhamer shit his pants from the grave and gently wept until three prison inmates beat him back to death.

There. I hope that was helpful. This has been Dr. Louball saying, mind your fucking manners.

The Weekly Awesome

Found at the very awesome photoblog Riotclitshave

Midgets Lead by Dwarves

Neat little letter by Iggy Pop to a journalist at Plazm magazine in 1995. I liked the line about how "America is a nation of midgets lead by dwarves."

I found this at Letters of Note which covers obscure correspondence by people who were anything but.

Example; a letter to a fan and aspiring scribe by Kurt Vonnegut that almost made me a little misty eyed, and a letter by James Dean to his girl back home right before he died.

If They Did Porn

If Myley Cyrus did a porno it would be titled "There Will Be Blood."

If Bill O'Riely did a porno it would be titled "Doin' It Live."

If Glenn Beck did a porno...hmm, no wait, they did that one. "Two girls, one cup."

Here's to What's-Her-Name.

I haven't actually completed my first novel yet, but I did write the acknowledge page. Have a gander.

********

Normally, when an author publishes a groundbreaking piece of work for which he was paid an obscene amount of money he says thank you to all the people who helped him make it happen. If I were anything resembling a decent human being I would do that now.

If I had any kind of moral compass I would dedicate this book to Mom and Dad and thank them for not noticing the hole in the condom and for changing their minds at the last minute and pulling me out of the dumpster after prom let out.


I would thank the writers group members who edited my work and hardly ever complained about the improvised spelling techniques I pioneered or the fact that many of my chapters were hand written in crayon and submitted on the flesh of non-tipping customers who disappeared from my restaurant.


I would thank the staff at the pub where I wrote my novel. These people where troopers who supplied me with endless coffee refills, wrapped me in blankets when they found me crying in a corner, offered first aid and defibrilation when applicable and who were very consistent about telling nosy customers to ignore the screaming from the back room.


I would thank the staff of the publishing house for reading my book and then rescinding their threat to notify the Department of Homeland Security after the incident known as the "Suicide Thong Debacle." What a misunderstanding that was.


But I'm a small and petty man. So I won't be dedicating this book to any of those people.


I'm going to dedicate this book to Julie Ann Hoffman. Ahhh, Julie. Julie, Julie, Julie.

She was a hell of a girl. Smart, beautiful, funny. She could pound whisky with the strength of ten men and held a champion title in seven Bum Fight videos. I once told her I loved her over a Tupperware dish of homemade prison hooch we'd made in her bathtub. She responded by peeing on herself, vomiting in my shoes and stealing three of my CDs before driving off to have a threesome with my best friend and a highway patrolman. Then she broke up with me.

Last I heard anything about Julie she was waiting tables so she could save up to by a new prosthetic leg after she lost the old one when the guy she left me for hit her with his car when she questioned him about some suspicious looking hoo-ha sores.

If you're reading this, Julie, I just want you to know that I'll be thinking of you every time I count all the fat little zeros that come after the fat little number on my royalty check.

What are you doing these days, baby? Still dating the line cooks at Deny's?

Heh, heh, heh...

Dr. LouBall Speaks!

Every once in awhile one of my friends forgets how horrifically bad at dating I am and asks me for advice.

Silly bastards. I really am that bad. Months go by, a thin coating of dust begins to form on my towering, painful erection that has maintained itself well past the four hour mark.

"Where's the rifle? Where's the tower? Where's the rifle? Where's the tower?" I repeat over and over like a Buddhist chant.

Then this drops into my email.

(Names have been changed to protect the "innocent." And I only added those quotation marks around the word "innocent" because I can't figure out how to capitalize quotation marks. Bold type is me, the rest is all Slutty.)

Dear Dr. LouBall

My name is Slutty McHornyAsFuck. I was recently seeing a man I affectionately refered to as Metal Dick Nixon because of the sixteen gauge Prince's Wand he wore in his penis (Here's what one of those looks like if you're curious.) This was an impressive piercing on an otherwise unnotable member. I'm talking small, small on a Saturday Night Live level of comedic hilariousness. But for some reason that big steel beam crammed down his pee hole was a massive turn on.

In addition to the wand he also had a scrotum three times the normal size. This was due to a hernia he suffered fifteen years ago and never bothered to have corrected. The hernia caused his large intestines to sag down into his sack making it bulge abnormally. Yes, before you ask, his balls were full of shit.

Me and Metal Dick dated for about a month before he started acting like a standard issue douche bag. He starts standing me up, never calls, he's always drunk. Long story short, I dumped his ass. I don't regret dumping him, but for some reason I can't stop seeing that fucked up package when I close my eyes. I think the problem lies in the fact that while I was seeing him we only ever fooled around. The fooling around was nice and freaky. He liked to have his ass beat bloody with a Silver Surfer riding crop while I screamed, "Tell me you'd suck Jack Kirby's cock, bitch! You know you would!"

All that was fun, but he and I never did get around to any actual intercourse. Now I can't stop thinking about the little freak. What should I do? Tell me, Doctor, should I track him down and bang him just to get him out of my system? Also, when are you going to give me my passport back?

Yours truly,
Slutty McHornyAsFuck

First of all, Slutty, I'd just like to say something to your boy Metal Dick. Dude, you are the Iron-Pee-Holed savior of the underendowed male everywhere. The lesson little men can learn from you is "Got a little dick? No worries. Upgrades available."

As for you, Slutty, all I can say is REALLY??? This is the guy you wish you'd boned. That's kinda sad really. I mean, the simple fact that he didn't fuck you when he had the chance implies to me that we're not really talking about a straight male human being but rather some government experiment that has escaped into the wild, Wolverine style, with an adamantium, if albeit, small cock.

But if you're really that hung up on the idea of polishing that knob I can go ahead and you're bent out of shape that it's not happening I'll go ahead and fill you in on how it would have gone down if you had fucked him.

You two would have fucked. You’d have been too drunk to use a condom and he would have been on top. Since you’re both freaks, he would have been hitting it way too hard. His intestine-filled balls would have been slapping against your upturned ass with such ferocity that at some point his hernia would rupture without him (or you) knowing it.

So when he eventually came he would just be spewing ounce after ounce of feces soaked semen into your womb as he slowly and painfully died of sepsis, which you would naturally mistake for a very intense orgasm until his cold, dead corpse sprawled across you in your ankles-to-earlobes position. Then you spend hours trying to get out from under him so you can call the cops.

Then nine months later, after your vaginal canal has rotted to the point where it’s not so much a hole as a spot in a bowl of warm tomato soup that some one is blowing in, his child crawls out on it’s six tentacles and slithers off to start its own show on Fox News which will look something like this. So, that said, Slutty, are you still sorry you didn’t get a chance to fuck that dude?

I thought not.

Glad I could help.

Sincerley,

Doctor Fuckin' LouBall

As if I wasn't in love with Eva Mendez enough.

So, lately the internet has been all abuzz with rumors of an Eva Mendez sex tape.

Then, this pops up.

I love that girl.

It `tis a silly place.

Some famous New Yorker once said of his city, "Anyone who lives anywhere else has got to be kidding."

Well, I've lived in St. Louis, Missouri for almost three years now and I've got something to say about that, Mr. New Yorker.

You're absolutely fuckin' RIGHT! I've never been to New York so I can't comment on that city's awesomness or lack thereof, but as far as St. Louis goes the above quote hits the nail on the dick.
Check out this nifty little graph from River Front Times. Pay special attention to the bits that list, Angriest, Craziest, Dangerous and most Gonorrhea having-est. You'll see where I'm going here.

This place sucks! What am doing here? I've been out of my apartment for since 10:30 this morning and so far today four people have asked me for change and cigarettes, two others asked if I had me some JEEE-sus in my life, one pulled up in a black windowless van and offered me candy that looked suspiciously like prescription pharmaceuticals and then a woman named Charanda tried to stab me in the face with a broken crack pipe while screaming "Fuck you, Carl!"
And Charanda was a cop.

What's really bass-ackwardly fucked is that none of the random street shitheads I encountered tried to sell me drugs. If anyone of them had, I would be feeling so much better about my day. I mean, whatever happened to crack? They still have crack, right?

If some one had offered me some crack today then by the time Charanda rolled up on me I would have been all, "Yeah, baby, fuck Carl. That guys a douche."

(I still don't know who Carl is, but he probably is a douche. "Carl" is essentially a douchy name. Carl. Hi, I'm CARL. Fuck your mom, Carl.)

Right, so, anyway. Welcome to my new blog, WHISKEY DOME. Shiny, n'est-ce pas? This is where I will be dropping my insane rantings, unintelligible gibberish, philosophical musings, reviews on whatever cultural flotsam wanders into my gun sights and a bunch of other crap I made up.

AND there shall be Whiskey!

Buckle up, bitches!