I didn’t just fall off the manure truck yesterday. When someone offers me chocolate-dipped poop cone I can usually tell within a few bites that the flavor profile is off. No shit! Someone notify Top Chef. I’m ready for the big time.
It’s almost like just speaking something doesn’t automatically make it true. Get the fuck out! The mere act of speaking bullshit isn’t like farting rainbows? Sure, some fantastical statements may work on the weak-minded but that doesn’t mean they are true. The people who fling poo know about this little principle and willingly choose it as a tactic. Bully.
What do you call a democratic process where the “facts” being argued and bandied about are the equivalent of a chocolate-dipped cone ‘o poo? Can it at least be a waffle cone of poo? Let’s be charitable and call it “pointless.” Or we take that first wee baby step of honesty and just call it “evil.”
How are outright lies, hyperbole, and flamboyant histrionics helpful to civilized discourse? I don’t know. You tell me.
Think back to how the “founding fathers” did it. “Benjamin Franklin, you girdled petticoated fool! You know damn well that if we enacted your proposal the Earth would crack in two, lava would boil out from the core, and we’d all be simultaneously melted as we drifted into space! Hot lava burn baby!”
Somehow I don’t think that’s how documents like the U.S. Constitution came about. But this is 2012. We’re more civilized than that. We’ve even got Old Spice underarm deodorant with that fantastical ride-a-horse-backwards fellow.
You might be asking what prompted this tirade? It’s just that I’m tired of hearing Obama’s mortal enemies referring to the U.S. debt as “Obama’s Debt.” I call bullshiats. It’s time for more maths and another pie chart. Gee, I hope this is one pie that isn’t made out of poo.
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My blog may be an expert authority on poop but I do try to keep it classy, ya know?
Blogger Tip: A forgotten point in yesterday’s post becomes the launch point for a new post today. FTW!
So yeah, yesterday I left out a key point that probably changed the flavor of the whole thing. Well, maybe not flavor, but you know what I mean. I’m going to literally pick things up right where we left off.
And that’s the point of today’s article. I’m going to take you on a firsthand tour of the complicated world of small office politics, protocols, mores, values and norms. Just think of me as your very own amateur poop sociologist.
As you might imagine, in a small office little grotesqueries can become big problems if left untreated. That’s why they need to go to the treatment plant. It’s natural for humans to come up with way to cope in the face of unimaginable horrors.
Most of us have the sense to know not to do certain things. We instinctively feel with our gut, much like Captain Kirk, when something is bad form. But then again, some of us don’t. This post is directed at them.
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I was flushed with excitement when I made the team. I almost flipped my lid. Not one to fly off the handle, I was resolute and went about the business of doing my job. This consisted mainly of navigating a dinghy about a very small body of water. I’d sing as I tackled the task. “I sail the ocean blue and my saucy shit’s a beauty. I’m a sober man and true, and attentive to my doody. Ahoy! Ahoy!”
For I had set my sights high. I was the man lucky enough to know his own destiny. One day, if I worked hard enough, my teammates and I, as members of the Pack Ten conference, would play in The Toilet Bowl. Perhaps not the bowl sponsored by Tostitos but at least the one that had Ex-Lax, Preparation H and Beano.
And we made it, too, quite literally by the seat of our pants.
[/end of dream sequence]
Blob “Constas” Pation here, and today we take a look at the storied career of Tom B. Taker, a man so dedicated to his
crap craft that he has worked the last 11 years within spitting distance of toilets. It’s a story ripped from the anals of history. We caught up with the man as he set out to maintain this blistering pace and go for the world record of twelve years in a row.
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