dankpelt said what

Reading this means you're at least smart enough to go down to Kentucky, show them fire, and be their god.


The Lazarus of Lameness - OR - This Site Sucks

He's not laughing with you, gramps

So anyway, I figure I should say something here, as I've told some people I would be using this site again to publish my ruminations and whatnots, however temporarily, until I pay for a new domain name and get some hosting to make my real space in the intarnets again. And, as I look at this page, it really can't come soon enough - this shit looks terrible. So tacky and low-rent. Well, default templates on free blogging sites can tend to look like that. Totally a good motivator to do something about it. If you've never visited any of my bloggy blogs before, I apologize wholeheartedly for how this shit looks... my other one wasn't this lame, I swear. I mean, don't get me wrong - it was lame... but this? Wow. Ok, I'll get over it.

I just watched a trailer for a new Borat movie, and I have to say - suitably impressed. I laughed. I did not guffaw, though... let's not get crazy. Guffaws are special, and it's hard to bust one out for a movie preview. Maybe for someone falling in public that's carrying a bag of apples, or something that would similarly scatter upon impact. One of the rules of the road for laughing at someone falling in public? They can't be old or overweight. Hm, that was two rules. I suck at math, fuckin sue me. Anyway, fat people or old people falling in public is just plain awkward, and I know this to be true, as I've bore witness to the falling of folks representing both demographics. One time I saw a really morbidly obese woman take a corner too sharp in one of those Amigo electric cart things at my local Meijer... 2-liters of Faygo and 300+ pounds of embarrassed woman sent scattering everywhere. Fucking awkward. Like, more awkward than when you would call a girl back in the day, and talk to her mother for a solid 10 minutes, thinking you were actually speaking to her daughter. And yes, I've done that one too. As far as old people go, it's way beyond awkward. As comedian Greg Giraldo succinctly put it: "I slipped down some stairs in front of a bunch of people the other day, and they didn't even laugh. When you fall, and people's first reaction is concern? That's when you know you've turned a corner in life."

I'm going to be 30 in 21 days. Please laugh at me, should you ever see me fall down in public.


A Departure - OR - This One's Kinda Depressing

Well, it's been way too long, and I'm out of practice. That statement is fun in the sense that it could likely apply to no less than two billion different things about me and my life - but it's mostly about writing. It's a little after 8am on a Sunday, and I have no idea why in the fuck I'm awake. I went out to Lansing's very own Sammy's Lounge last night for some drinks with friends... the cause for the drinkin' was the illustrious Grandpa Owen finally quitting his jobby job at teh Core, and to that I say "good show." Teh Core's about as cool as colon polyps, without the fun mascot.

Sammy's is always an interesting place for me to visit, likely because I can't help myself but think about Heather every time I go there. Looking around at the dumpy, sad patrons really brings back some memories for me. Makes it seem like yesterday I was waiting for Heather's shift to be over, nursing a gin and tonic and listening to a certified spinster-for-life hack her way through a Backstreet Boys tune on the Karaoke. At that time, Sammy's had THREE karaoke nights per week. Sadistic fucks. I would sit there and take in the show that was unwinding all around me as Heather went about her duties. Her job was mostly to get ogled by dudes who would be in trouble with their wives if they could hear the shitty, tired jokes their husbands were making about the waitstaff's t-shirts (emblazoned with the logo DO IT OUTDOORS! on the back, in honor of the spacious patio area Sammy's boasts, I think you can imagine where an unhappily married drunk shitbird would take that one), while serving them more pitchers of shitty pisswater beer that only made the comments, whistles, and propositions more audacious and insane. A vicious circle. Over here, a man sleeping on the bar. Over there, a couple arguing about who-cares-what. To your left you'll see the old guy who smells faintly of pee, he's lasciviously staring at anything with tits and a heartbeat, his yellowed teeth slightly exposed in what may be either a smile or a grimace. To your right, the Lansing Police officer looking for someone, probably on a domestic violence rap. It was a circus that I got to observe every night, waiting to walk her to my car and drive her home, away from that place; its stink of alcohol-fueled desparation and stale cigarette smoke dissipating out my car windows into the gentle summer night's air.

I still miss her sometimes, and it bothers me.


Yes, the rumors are true - I have indeed acquired a small bottle of Delicious Syrup, aka Mucilage. (Thank you Danielle!) I will absolutely be drinking this mucilage for the benefit of science and mankind as a whole… but not yet. Not quite yet. Isn’t everything better if you wait?

That was rhetorical. Everything is better if you wait. Well, except for disposing of the hobo you savagely murdered last night - that shit starts to stink fairly quick… and to be honest, the neighbors are starting to talk. Be sure to run bleach through your pipes after you clean up. What all this means is I’ll be drinking the delicious syrup in due time, worry ye not. In the meantime, I’m slightly bored at work.

Upon expressing my boredom, someone said, “Hey! If you’re bored, why not write some Haikus?”

I promptly replied, “Because I have no theme! I wouldn’t know where to begin!”

They said, “Well, how about some nice Haikus about love? It’s a universal subject, and the Haiku’s natural beautiful structure always brings out the best in words.”

I was all like, “Are you talking to the right person? I don’t even know what the fuck a Haiku is, roflcopters.”

Then they were all, “You fucking liar, you know what a Haiku is. Write some of them or else you get the hose.”

As I rubbed the lotion on my skin, shivering and weeping, I mulled over the subject: love. It truly IS universal and beautiful. And something I know so much about. Without further adieu, I present you with… my timeless 5/7/5-structured lines about… love. Enjoy!

They say she’s too young
I say damn it all - there’s grass
on the field - play ball!

I once loved you so
Now, alas - you blew my friend Joe
Give back my shit, ho

Undying love blooms
Like my pustulating sores
Genitals on fire

Looking in from here
Does she know I’m there? Damn! Yes.
Restraining order

Those were the days, lady
your lips touched like butterflies
I’ll get a towel

Eagerly we go
Third time? fourth? I’m lost in love
Air in there - poot poot

Delicate touches
you wake, he flees quietly
smelling his finger


Drinking Deep From The Leg Of Life -OR- Polynesians Taste Like Shit

Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

Fucking cockmasters, I've been uninspired lately. Not necessarily uninspired, I suppose... more like distracted. Summer in Michigan has been in full swing, and all the hot, humid, and holy-shit-I-drank-too-much-last-night days have come with it. I have ideas kicking around in my head, but sitting very still and sweating while I listen to the swelling of the cicada's perpetual summer song always seems preferable to trying to type something that means anything. Went to Mac's Bar last night and saw some... interesting... bands. The openers were a band known as The Cartridge Family. They were probably one of the worst bands I've ever had the pleasure of seeing live - and somehow that made me like them. It's hard to explain. There were no less than 11 people on the "stage," which had actually been extended about 5 or 6 feet to allow room for all the chaos provided by the band members whose sole purpose seemed to be ripping their shirts off, getting oiled up, and jumping through mildly frightened audience members on weird trampoline/shoe hybrid footwear. I have no idea what the fuck they were singing about (and I do use the word singing in the loosest sense), but I noticed that part of their performance seemed to involve smashing tortilla chips on the floor and squirting each other with something that smelled vaguely of gasoline. I can honestly say that they're the only band I've ever seen that has had to clean up after their set. And I mean clean - they were fucking mopping and vacuuming that shithole tinderbox of a bar afterwards. Still shirtless and oily. For reals. Speaking of Mac's Bar, let me take a moment to talk to the guys with the "hip" chunky plastic-framed glasses - all fucking 40 of you. You're not special, you're not more artsy than anyone, your sideburns don't help you look more scene, I hate your buttons, and those vintage t-shirts you probably bought for 50 fucking dollars aren't helping either. So, you know - fuck you all. Fuck you all in your unspecial cookie-cutter asses. Ahem. I'm getting slightly off-track here... but I guess that's the Way of the Dank Fist - scattered at best, something I don't want my mom to read at worst. Hi, mom! Overall, it was a good night, The Shrew got what I hypothesized to be a stranger's pube in her contact lens, and PBR and High Life 10 ounce drafts were a modest 0.75 cents apiece. What all this means is I drank too much without realizing it until it was too late, and I think saying that The Shrew had a pube in her eye is pretty funny. Doubly so when I'm full of High Life. As I write this, I'm safely tucked away in my cubicle, mild headache ringing in my temples, with a belly full of strange meats. Why meats? Well, the office complex I work in had their annual "customer appreciation" luncheon today. This consists of throwing up a huge tent in the parking lot and warming some exotic meats in tinfoil tubs over cans of sterno. This year, it was actually catered by local food joints, one of which was some Hawaiian barbeque place. Judging from the gaminess of whatever flash-fried and breaded shit I ate, they're actually serving Hawaiians. How silly of me to assume that the food would be simply cooked in some Hawaiianese style. For the official record, Polynesians taste like shit. As I stood in the (of course!) too-long line to get some tepid meat, I had a chance to observe some of the other corporate fucks we share the building with. The ladies and men alike with their too-dark tans, the ladies with their Gucci, Fendi, and Prada bags proudly on display, the whisperings of "I got this from J. Crew," and the hollow, forced laughter at ridiculously feeble jokes about the odds of someone being able to cut in line as they walked by a coworker that was ahead of them... vapid comments about the weather, and HOW ABOUT that local sports team? Sometimes the plasticity of it all overwhelms me. Moreso when I drank enough beer to fill a hollowed-out human leg the night before. To paint a picture with a moderately obscure reference (that I will love you for getting), if I had had the sunglasses Rowdy Roddy Piper had given me on, I would have expected no less than 99% of the people standing with me in line to look like this:


That's all I have for now. Stay tuned - maybe I'll update again in October or some shit. Maybe I'll even sound less jaded!


Well, This Is a Post. Kind Of. -OR- I'll Take a Mouth AND a Non-Descript In "Wonder Wave," Please!

I get a lot of spam. Like, a LOT. It usually makes me laugh a little, but this one is in a class all its own. Observe:


Allow me to present the latest discover
in pleasure devices for men's!!

The sex toy is a portable, concealable,
sturdy MALE masturbation device that our customers describe as
"Awesome", "Amazing", and "Ingenious".
Cleverly disguised as an ordinary flashlight,
it's easy to store and transport without drawing attention.
Available in a variety of styles –
Mouth, Anus, Vagina and Non-Descript –
and offering a variety of special sensations –
Original, Super Tight, Super Ribbed, and Wonder Wave–
presents our clients with a multitude of erotic experiences,
fantasies and sensations to elevate orgasms
to a new peak of intense sexual pleasure.
Confidentiality assured!
This is a one time offer. NO other emails you'll receive from us!
chive class diluent brute ottoman tart jab bijective fodder division

My friends had a couple observations:

Wezzul (3:29:20 PM): the fleshlight

Wezzul (3:29:21 PM): lol

CrookedSound (3:29:55 PM): So, no one will think you are doing anything weird with your flashlight at your desk. Great idea.

I guess I just adore the broken English. This message could probably be submitted to http://engrish.com (yeah, check that out, too!)

There's something odd about the fruit at this place





Where In the World is DankPelt -OR- I Wasn't Shaving Regularly At All

Modernized Norman Rockwell. This IS America.

I'm still unsure if it's just that I'm lazy, or if there's some deeper psychology at work here. At any rate, literally tens of people have noticed my (apparently?) conspicuous absence of late, and have either commented on the page, threatened me bodily harm, or reminded me of the one crazy hot girl that thinks I'm "really funny" because of this blog. So here I am. Again on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. I guess the best place to start is with the simple answer to the age-old question of "What the fuck?" Where have I been all month? Well, it's a funny story, really... ok, maybe it's not funny so much as it is "mediocre," but whatever. Here goes: I lost my job. I found out it was happening a couple weeks prior to my last day, so I knew it was coming... and I guess that's a plus? I dunno. At any rate, my position was eliminated and I was laid off. After 3 years at the job, my final day in my quaint little cubicle was March 11th, 2005. My employer had worked out a fairly favorable severance agreement with me, and I felt like everything was gonna be ok. This was my attitude when I first heard about the impending layoff, mind you. As the days crept by and my last day of work got closer and closer, a bit of malaise set in. On my last day, I packed up my humble possessions and cubicle decorations into a cardboard box and left the office at the end of my shift with little fanfare. I recall glancing over to the small box on my passenger seat while driving home and thinking how funny it was that three years of my life at a job could be so neatly packed up into such a small box. After that was over, what did I do? Well, I have to admit... I did nothing. Nothing at all. Much like the hero of Office Space, Peter's fantasy of what he would do with a million dollars. Nada. My severance agreement allowed me to continue to get paid my regular wage over the course of the next month, and I was wholly eligible for unemployment after that ran out... soooooo... I did what I haven't done since I was 16 and started this vicious cycle of "working for a living" with a lame-ass job bagging groceries. Nothing. I did nothing, I had no job, I looked for no job, I didn't think about a job unless I was making my famous "man, I am gonna be tired at work tomorrow" joke to myself at 5 in the morning. For the record, I do laugh at my own jokes. You probably already knew that; I hope it doesn't mean I'm a jackass. Anyway - other than not working and still getting paid for it, I made a point of it to do things my freedom from the Dolly Parton-esque 9-5 work schedule would now allow me to do - namely staying up as late as I wanted, sleeping in as late as I wanted, drinking during the middle of the day, having coffee every morning (or afternoon, depending on whether or not you too consider it "morning" when you first wake up, regardless of the fact that the mail may have already been delivered) where was I? Oh, having coffee every morning while checking email that didn't crush my will to live while in my boxers was nice. A quick note about the coffee at the job I had just lost - it kinda tasted like dishwater. You know, ever drop a knife or something in a sink full of dishes, and have that one little splash of water somehow get in your mouth? Or on your lips? Or have you ever drank a glass of water that was wrung from a hobo's mismatched socks after he clumsily stepped into a dirty child's wading pool that had been made hot from the sun and maybe had like a dead June bug in it or something and like right as his drunk feet hit that warm water, he peed a little, and that mingled with the dirty buggy kid-water that's now making a sick descent down your tightening throat as the captor presses his gun a bit harder on your temple? God, who hasn't, right? Right. That's what it tasted like, it was horrendous. But free. I think it was made by a company named York. If you ever see York coffee anywhere, do your best to avoid it. It's a mug full of heartbreak and disappointment, trust me. I drank fine-ass fresh-ground Jamaican Blue Mountain bean coffee (thanks mom!) every day, and I relished every sip. I often wished I knew how to play a few mellow bars on an acoustic guitar while I placidly talked about the mountain-grown richness of my wonderful, wonderful coffee. But I didn't - I mostly just sat there in my underwear drinking it and looking for news articles about accidentally photographing dead people or pieces of fingers in Wendy's chili. As the layoff began, I was like a kid that just got out on summer vacation, thrilled at the prospect of not having to go to bed at any certain time. My schedule metamorphosed with such amazing speed, I barely even noticed the change until it was too late. Gone were the nights of laying restless in bed, glaring at the alarm clock and doing the age-old "Ok, if I fall asleep RIGHT NOW, I can get... 4 fucking hours of sleep? Fuck!" math problem in my head. Here were the days of not giving a shit, having fun until I was tired, and falling into a pleasant and deep sleep without setting an alarm. I made a point of it to look at my alarm clock some mornings when I was going to bed and smugly say to the clock "I don't have to set youuuuuuu" (yeah, I talked to my clock. Make a note of that.) before I rolled over and fell asleep with a contented smile. It was like a little slice of heaven. The days flew by, and I started to feel some discomfort settling in as I began to realize that the full-pay days off were going to quickly come to a close and I would have to go through the hassle of filing for unemployment and calling MARVIN on a weekly basis to get my check from the state. This thought kinda started to fill me with dread, and feelings of responsibility began to rear their ugly head once again. It was on a morning when these feelings were particularly strong that the next leg of the "I got laid off from my job" story-in-my-life, post-for-my-blog thing happened. It was a typical unemployed morning morning for me: boxers, reading, Jamaican Blue Mountain, new feelings of worsening dread, just the usual, right? Then, the wheels lurched into motion. The harbinger was the ringing of my telephone. This phone call brings us to the present. All the text preceding this call is a rough summary of where I've been since I fell off the face of the internet... I wish it were more interesting, but it was nothing if not relaxing, therapeutic, and most of all - needed.

Obligatory, I feel

The person on the other end of the line when I answered the call in question was a manager from my previous place of employment. In the course of the call, I was offered a job back in the land of cubicles. A different, more interesting, potentially more mentally redeeming job than what I had before. The next day, I called back to let him know that I would gladly accept the position. The day after that, the early morning air in my bedroom was pierced with the wailing of my triumphant alarm clock, and I made my way to my new job at the same place today's story began. It was really quite humorous the first few days, seeing people that clearly knew I had been laid off, but were not hip to the fact that I had been rehired. I so badly wanted to do the old "reaching for my pistol in the shoulder holster under my jacket" joke, but thought better of it. Once I explained to people that I was actually back to work there, the news traveled handily enough so people knew before they saw me for the first time that day, and that kinda took some of the fun out of it. I enjoyed getting those alarmed/befuddled looks for a minute. Everybody seemed genuinely happy to see me back, and forgive me for sounding corny or whatever... but damn, that kinda made me feel good. One thing I feel I should point out is that if I had my druthers, I would have walked into the office my first day back, the rabble of a busy office halting immediately - preferably punctuated with that scratching record sound from movie previews when someone says something "wacky" or "funny" - people would have stopped dead in their tracks and just stared at me, mouths agape. Then, after a few awkward moments, that one guy would have started the slow clap. This would of course spread as people realized that everything was gonna be ok, and they started clapping too. Then I'd pick up my special lady in my arms and walk out of the factory amidst the cheers of all the onlookers. Anyway, you take what you can get. I got a warm reception, and that's enough to make me happy. Just keep the slow clap to fast clap thing in mind in case I ever leave and come back again, k? I'm happy to report that I love what I do at my job now - it primarily involves written correspondence with my company's customers, and I, uh, like writing. I like the people I get to work with Monday through Friday once again. I also kinda like having a job. It really looks like everything just completely worked out in my favor in this little chapter of my life - I could get used to this shit. Thus concludes my story, that's where I've been the last month... and where I am now. By the way - I drank York coffee today. It still sucks complete sweaty ass, but in an oddly comforting way.


Precursor To The Soft-Shoe, Vol. II -OR- Booing Another Guy In The Putt

Demonstrating what can be done with a ferret and a tube of ChapStick®

In a very blah mood tonight, the author has wisely decided to postpone the act of posting anything with any meaningful content, and will instead throw some (more) fluff content at you. He does assure you, however, that he does have a couple of things on the burner. As a show of good faith, he has provided us with some rudimentary proof that he is rewriting dialogue for one (or more?) of the shittiest newspaper comic strips ever; hopefully to some degree of comedic effect. As always, comments appreciated.

Lastly, let's not fool ourselves about this one:

Demonstrating what can be done with a pair of scissors and a tube of ChapStick®

The photographer knew what the fuck he was doing when he took this picture from this particular angle. And the author salutes him. He also salutes Phil Mickelson for having the foresight to gently clasp his genitals and really sell this shot.

Proving once again that talking about yourself in the third person ain't just for douchebags at the bar anymore...



Precursor To The Soft-Shoe

I'm bored. Post something new.
- Posted by I cAn rEaD to scattered pieces at 3/5/2005 12:33:05 PM

This much motherfucking cool in one spot could make a star collapse



eiboh9 (4:53:26 PM)
: I sent you a funny picture of some monkeys ot your work email

Exhibit M



Happy Belated Northern Hemisphere Hoodie Hoo Day -OR- Why Do I Always Have Two Damned Titles Lately?

eiboh9 (9:17:34 AM): Did you get that story I sent you??
eiboh9 (9:17:36 AM): About the severed penis?
DankPelt (9:17:42 AM): ...

Triple Entendre

Yikes. What a line of conversation to be having at 9:17am. Truth be told, I did get the article, and loved it. Well, as much as you can love a news report about a guy getting his cock sliced off and flushed down a toilet. With today apparently being Spay Day USA, the subject matter seems somewhat topical and relevant, with the minor difference being we're talking about the wang and not (I'm so tempted to say "the Chung" here, but realize it makes no sense) the ovaries. Close enough. View the article HERE, and ask yourself this: what are the chances for a guy whose severed penis has been retrieved from sewage and later reattached... to get a blowjob without paying? I'm willing to guess it's gonna be a cardboard box fitted with a warmed-up slab of raw liver for this guy for a while. I don't know what that means. If there's one thing I do know, it's that letting your girlfriend/wife/boss' daughter tie you up for some sexin' after a big argument is a shitty idea. Here's a small excerpt of the article for those of you that have already started to leave the computer to investigate that shiny thing you can see across the room:


The events unfolded about midnight on Saturday, after
the pair had been arguing over an impending breakup
, an Anchorage Police Department statement said. At some point, the two decided to have sex and the man agreed to let the woman tie his arms to a windowsill.

Now, a couple other random links that tickled my fancy in some way this week:

Someone has a lot of time on their hands!

Yeah, that's Florida for you.

Cyclops: not just for mythology anymore.

Spay Day USA was yesterday.


Is That a Cake? -OR- Strictly For the Ladies

Mysteries of the Deep

I don't get what it is. I work in a multi-level building that is primarily occupied by business professionals. What is it that's so hard about flushing the toilet after you take a shit? I don't think it's any harder than, say, tying your shoes, or sneezing... but that doesn't change the fact that nobody on my floor of the building I work in does it. I go in there today - don't worry, I had to do a number one, not a number two - and someone just ahead of me takes the preferred urinal by the wall. In the men's room on my floor, there are three urinals in a neat line on the wall - two next to each other that are both the same, normal human penis height, then one on the end that's either for children, handicapped people, or people with cocks the size of my thigh. It's real low on the wall, in other words. I detest this urinal with every ounce of my being... on the rare occasions that I have attempted to use these lower units (this is a widespread men's room phenomenon not limited to my office building), the laws of physics and bad luck have determined that the greater distance my pee travels before it hits porcelain, the more splashback is bound to end up on my pants. Bad news. Anyway, my point here is that I never use the small pisser on the end. Though I do giggle internally when I see the short guys on the floor specifically choose that one when all three are open. You know who you all are. Urinal etiquette dictates that it is inappropriate to take the urinal immediately next to another gent in the restroom, and since there's only 3 total in there, this usually means that the tiny one is the available one, hence causing me to use a stall to do the deed with relative peace and harmony in the restroom. Taking care to avoid the dried boogers on the stall door, I throw it open... only to reveal a horrid scene that could best be described as looking like someone had plunked a 3-tier chocolate birthday cake in the water, and placed just enough toilet paper on the top to mask it, but just little enough so that the large brown mass was quite clearly visible. In addition to taking a dry-docked shit and using enough toilet paper to clog a sewer grate, the person to last use the stall had also thought it a good idea to piss all over the toilet seat, as evidenced by the yellowish-brownish dried crust on three quarters of its U-shaped surface. I think I may have seen goat blood on the floor as well, but I can't be too sure. The gag reflex and subsequent blurting of the words "fuck me," coupled with quickly moving to the next stall in line made the gruesome images all but a blur in my mind's eye. Luckily, the next stall was "clean." By "clean," I just mean that the water had nothing in it that looked like a discarded pan of brownies. So far, so good, right? Wrong. Turns out that I had taken the stall right next to another guy that did not understand yet another public restroom shitting protocol... the cardinal rule is... wait until the intruders leave before you drop ass. This guy didn't subscribe to this policy, and an awful grunt punctuated by what sounded like wet cottage cheese being poured into the bowl next to me sharply interrupted my sigh of relief. Good fucking god, I swear I can't win. I think I need to make a Restroom Rules Handbook®, and distribute it freely. Perhaps I could wear a white shirt, a tie, and a name badge proudly identifying me as Elder Dank. I'd ride a bicycle, and people would hate me. In other words, like a Mormon, except instead of hawking a crazy sequel to the bible, I'd be spreading the good word of restroom no-nos across the land. Perhaps we can ponder such things at a greater length later - I have to go for now, I think I'm going to wash my hands. Again.


It's All About teh teh teh teh teh -OR- God, I Suck At Writing When I'm Drunk

Hello again, audience of seven. I am here to report that I have finished off a bar night, and am therefore under the evil, dirty influence of the unholy spirit. I'm talking about the booze. The beer. The Killian's on draft. The stuff that's guaranteed to make me not like being awake and perhaps have oddly- colored bowel movements tomorrow. Yeah, that's certainly a first for me here, I think... I just broke the "candid beer effect barrier with your friend beer shits talk barrier" with you all. Barrier. I apologize if this post is at all disjointed. More than usual. I don't poop.

Also guaranteed to make you say "Call me" more than a few times


The Decision Has Been Made -OR- omfg u suk ballsz!!!1 loxlz1

After enormous public outcry (one person demanded), I have flipped the Allow Anonymous Commenting Button™ from off to on. So, you know... you're welcome. ­

Insert heroin joke here

We now present the previous sentences in a dialect that is more palatable to the anonymous commenter:

aft3r enormous public outcry (ona person damanded) i haev flip3d teh alow anonymous comentng buton™ from of 2 on!1111!1! lol so u know.1!!!!!1!!1!11 wtf lol ur welcome1!1!!! wtf lol ­

Later, he screeched across the room and latched onto Jack's neck.


nowaystupid.com -OR- Happy V.D.

Ahhh, is there anything quite like Valentine's Day to remind a person of just how single they really are? I think not. Well, weddings come close - particularly if it's a sibling that's getting married. Fortunately, my brother-in-law bought the cow back in 1996-ish, when I was more concerned about how I was going to get drunk at the reception than how many people asked me when I was gonna get married. FYI - tuxedos make you look like James Bond, and bartenders at weddings don't give a shit who they serve to. Moreso if that person wantin' the hooch looks like James Bond. Additionally, relatives that don't know you all that well shy away from asking when you're going to take the marital plunge if you look like an inebriated and forlorn James Bond. Having your balls hanging out of your zipper is also a plus. Forlorn. I like that word. Moving on...

Being single really isn't that bad. I enjoy the freedom, not sure how willing I'd be to give it up. The freedom, not the booty. Haha, little single person joke there. In all honesty though - it's not that kind of freedom I'm talking about. It's all the other stuff you don't have to worry about when you're single - you know, like that whole other person that you feel is your duty to protect and serve, rain sleet or snow... you know. All that stuff. It gets complicated to love someone, to look out for them, to be there for them... it's quite an investment. Think about it - a whole other person. Crazy. Especially if that whole other person smells like the bus station and writes the word "leave" over and over on your walls using a mixture of cat food and mustard. It is Valentine's Day though, and some form of acknowledgment was in order. Or so I thought. So there it was. I'm single! Take a number, ladies. Maybe I'll build you a cake or something.

Put that Carmex away - under closer scrutiny, the upper heart actually says "Hot Lips," not "Rot Lips."

In somewhat related news, my friend Dizzo (Don if you're nasty) needled me into joining one of those free singles/dating/matchmaking services on the web. I was hesitant at first, but after I checked it out, I will say that I was impressed at how accurately it could measure my personality based on the questions and shit I answered. So that was how I justified it to myself - the personality testing, and the comparison to other males and females in my age group. Good, wholesome fun, right? For the official record... compared to other males my age, I'm more literary and less selfish. Could be worse, I guess. So, joining this was never about "hooking up," as it were... I have a firm belief that "hooking up" on the internet is both "creepy" and "weird." So there I am the other day, cruising through the site, answering questions and such to kill some time. Lo and behold, a window pops up letting me know that SOMEbody has sent me an instant message via the IM thing they have built into the website. I hesitantly click on it - it's a stranger. A strange girl, no less! As I'm sure the natural reaction would be for anybody in my shoes, I check out her profile on the site. To paraphrase in a relevant and funny-to-me way, Jesus Christ. I freaked out and decided to turn to Dizzo for advice. Here is what transpired:

DankPelt (11:27:07 AM): Uh-oh, got some stranger IMing me on the 'cupid
DankPelt (11:27:47 AM): Fuck
DankPelt (11:27:52 AM): I'm not responding.
DankPelt (11:27:59 AM): I just looked at her profile...
DankPelt (11:28:04 AM): Check this sample:
DankPelt (11:28:06 AM): My favorite books, movies, music, and foods are:

A)Bible B)Sound Of Music C)Contemporary Chirstian D)Pasta

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yes, she did spell "Christian" wrong. Fer Shizzle.)

DankPelt (11:28:22 AM): The SIX things I could never do without:

My friends/family, Bible, Church, my Salvation, food and water.

It was at this point that a dim light flickered in my head - I have this Christian girl inexplicably attempting to communicate with me. What would Jesus do? Probably not fuck with her... but that's what DankPelt would do. And he did.

FerShizzle_3: hi, how are you?

DankPelt: I am fairly tired and bored. You?

FerShizzle_3: im great

DankPelt: That's devilishly good. Keep me posted!

FerShizzle_3: alright

It seemed like my fun was dead in the water. The conversation was over, right? Wrong. It's only over to a heathen. The oddness continued:

FerShizzle_3: so what do you like to do for fun?

DankPelt: Whatever comes up... sometimes Greed, sometimes Envy, sometimes Gluttony... you know, whatever the crowd is doing!

FerShizzle_3: yeah, i dont like to follow the crowed, i like to be differant

FerShizzle_3: differant in a good way that is

FerShizzle_3: so what do you do for a living?

DankPelt: One of my friends got Crowed one time... it was crazy. Beaks and feathers EVERYwhere!

FerShizzle_3: i bet that was funnt

FerShizzle_3: some times i dont take the time to correct my spelling

FerShizzle_3: as you can plainly see

DankPelt: A lot of people from the internet age don't, sadly.

DankPelt: Someone once told me that bad spelling and grammar makes baby Jesus cry. I don't know where they were going with that.

FerShizzle_3: yeah i have no clue

FerShizzle_3: so what kind of music do you like?

DankPelt: Eh, have you looked at my profile?

FerShizzle_3: no, i tried, the computeris being dumb and wont let me

FerShizzle_3: well the internet is, it keeps saying that the page cannot be displayed

DankPelt: In addition to being laden with profanity and general evil-ness, I have some of the music I like listed in there. It should also say something about how we're like as compatible as oil and water - something like "Match: 33% Friend: 27%." I'm just saying this because I'm curious what made you want to talk to me, based on how horrible that must look to you.

FerShizzle_3: k

At this point, I thought it was over. I gave a hint as subtle as a cinder block to the side of the head about how we may have slightly different interests/beliefs/concepts of the importance of spelling/whatever. Nothing happened for about 10 minutes. Phew. Then, this grand finale popped up on the screen:

FerShizzle_3: well i have to go for now, hope to talk to you again soon

DankPelt: Fer shizzle

DankPelt: My Chrizzle

Mind you, I wasn't out to make this person feel bad or anything, I just wanted to see where the conversation would go if I did a little bit of strategic jabbing. Oddly, FerShizzle_3 was not deterred in the least. Hm. I think Dizzo summed it up best when I pasted the results to him over the AIM...

dizzoknows (12:07:07 PM): Wow.
dizzoknows (12:10:30 PM): I expected her to flee sooner.
dizzoknows (12:10:32 PM): Right off the bat, in fact.
DankPelt (12:11:15 PM): And the weirdest part is she "hopes to talk again soon."
dizzoknows (12:12:31 PM): Exactly.
dizzoknows (12:12:38 PM): Though, that could be some "Be nice to everyone and God will like you" shit.
DankPelt (12:13:36 PM): Yeah, or she's got a head full of rocks.
DankPelt (12:13:40 PM): Or both.
DankPelt (12:15:36 PM): Either way, it's creepy.
dizzoknows (12:21:25 PM): "You've been belittling me for that last ten minutes. I hope to talk with you again!"

She has since then attempted to talk to me a total of 4 times, via the website's email feature. I have decided to let sleeping dogs lie and just kinda not respond. May God have mercy on my soul. And my balls. Happy Valentine's Day!


Alive In 2005 -OR- Yeah, I'm Still Here. Are You?

So, it's a new year. I have a couple apologies to get out of the way before we can start having fun again, so here goes...

When last we spoke, (or when last you read what I wrote, whatever) I left you all with a promise - a promise that I would post more the following weekend. That was in December. Of last year. Heh, sorry about that. Here's a quotable quote from our friend Jack Handey that may help put things into perspective for you:

Broken promises don't upset me. I just think, why did they believe me?

So, long story short, I'm a bastard. One thing that you should know about this blog by now is that its updates are much like a penis, in that they both come in spurts. Now that THAT's out of the way, moving onward...

I think sometime in between Friday and Sunday the monkey from Outbreak bit me. I've been so goddamned sick that I thought I saw Jesus on Monday night - turns out it was just my weird hippie neighbor, who's apartment I had deliriously stumbled into instead of my own. He's all tolerant and shit, and agreed not to press charges if I made a Wendy's run for him, which I grudgingly did. Against all odds... I went to work today. I stumbled about the office, feverish and sweating, where I came into contact with literally hundreds of host bodies - I give approximately 36 days before the sickness that has wracked my body has infected the globe, sending waves of people dying in achy, sneezy masses. So, you know, sorry bout that too. And hey - as long as we're being open? That scratch on your car door? Not sorry about that. Next time leave me a fucking can opener so I can get my car out, you line-ignoring prick! I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's the SuperFlu talking. Are we cool, baby? Cool. We're gonna be dead in 36 days, I'd hate to be fighting until then. On a more serious note, recently we have seen what? A plague of locusts, hurricanes, a giant fucking tsunami, rampant mudslides, unseasonably warm/cold weather across the globe, and now... a massive pileup on the interstate near my hometown that my father had the misfortune to find himself in the middle of on the way home from work today. A note to my Mom, if she's reading this: first, Mom, sorry for talking about how a penis comes in spurts. Secondly, if Dad should ever have the misfortune to find himself in the middle of a massive pileup on the interstate near my hometown on the way home from work... for the love of all that is holy... PREFACE THIS INFORMATION WITH "Dan, your Dad is ok but..." when you call me at work to tell me this through frantic sobbing. Seriously, you almost gave me a fuckin heart attack. So, that's my day. Or my year, as it were. Gotta go, there's people in hazmat suits outside my door - have to dress E.T. up like a girl and make a break for it. More updates to come. I promise.


Christmas Really Is Right Around The Corner!

Just a quick statement to you 7 (my numbers are growing!) semi-faithful readers out there - I'm still alive. And yeah, there's gonna be a real post coming this weekend, but I like anticipation, sooooo... yeah.

To be continued.


The Post-Bar Post, Conclusion - Ask The Experts!

Another thing that I came across while on the Great Tussin Hunt was a nice website developed by the Planned Parenthood® Federation of America called teenwire.com. I promptly wiped it off and realized that there was something here for me to do - finally! As I pulled the curtains back to deeper layers of the website, I found the little man in the canoe - a section dubbed, rather appropriately, Ask The Experts. Ask The Experts allows teens to write in with questions that plague and perplex their teen brains, all of which relate to the sweaty horizontal hop and its many twisted, deviant offshoots. I decided that it might be fun to try something new, so I now present a sampling of questions posed to the Experts from Ask the Experts by actual teens... answered by me. Instead of the Experts. Here we go...


Dear Experts,

How come when I start kissing my boyfrind, I notice that his penis starts to get very pointy? Is this normal? My nipples also start to get pointy while sex play, is that normal?


Dear Blurgrl2,

This is exactly the sort of thing you want to avoid. Pointy penii can put eyes out, hurt household pets, and make baby Jesus cry. The best course of action if this should occur again would be to grab that pointed freakstick firmly and twist hard, like you are opening a jar of pickles. Your boyfriend may object, but it's for his own good. Now, as far as the pointy nipples go while... sex play? Is that an R Kelly song? Also, is everything "pointy" to you? Seriously, grow up and learn a semi-literate word like "erect." You know what? Fuck this shit, I'm gonna go hang out with Blurgrl1. My middle finger is getting very pointy at you.


Dear Experts,

when my boyfriend and i are having sex i like to moan and i like to hear him moan a little to but he barely ever does. How can i get him to and why doesnt he?


Dear ToriKCP,

This is not good at all - normal men always yowl like stabbed cats while having sex that doesn't crush their will to live. One thing to consider is stopping with the questions already, and sticking your thumb in his ass.


Dear Experts,

is it harmful (permanent and/or temporary) if a guy accidentally inserts the penis into the urethra instead of the vagina? Is it even possible?


Dear justme111,

Maybe for you, mouse-wang. Or do you know a girl with a really freakishly big pee hole? Either way, one of you has a potential future career on the internet.


Dear Experts,

When i wake up in the morning i always have an erection... how come?? i dont dream about women or anything...


Dear bobthebldr,

Well, what DO you dream about? Killing people? Haha, little Ask The Experts joke there. To be honest, this is one of nature's cruel jokes - making men the horniest they may be all day when most women are at their least. Welcome to the rest of your life, bobthebldr! Better take a cold shower today!


Dear Experts,

Ok, weird problem. When I have a wet dream, I wake up and the cum is thick, even a little chunky. Why is this?


Dear llp05,

Jesus, get to a clinic. Now.


Dear Experts,

i want to know which do you put the tampon in, the urethra or the vigina????


Dear liljos_bff,

Ah, you're justme111's girlfriend, I take it. It's called a vagina. And you have a flappy pee hole!!!!


Dear Experts,

What's the difference in a girl's body when they have a sexual relationship and when they don't have a sexual relationship?


Dear bootchie,

The major thing most girls will find is different about their body while in a sexual relationship is the "penis" that is sometimes "inside them." This is normal. Be warned though, bootchie - if a girl makes a baby get in her stomach, it will eat her Jesus heart right out.

For now, I must stop - but fear not! More questions will be answered soon, I can feel it!


The Post-Bar Post, Installment I

Well, well... after a fairly fine evening with friends at the bar, I have a couple things to report. Firstly, I'm not entirely sure if firstly is a real word. Secondly, I had about half a page written which I thought looked like a hackery at best... so I erased it, only to begin here. Which, as I'm sure you're starting to realize, is a hackery at best... but this is all I can give you. Deal with it. As I backspaced over the first abomination I was about to post, I had a fleeting moment where I thought to myself "I feel like Doogie Howser, " and then I did this weird snort-laugh. The cat, my only companion as of then, took this as his cue to leap off the chair and retreat to the roommate's bedroom, where he most likely waits - claws unsheathed - for me to even try to do that shit again. There's a pattern developing here, people. Think outside the hole. I know I've been trying to... this was originally set to be a post somehow both mentioning Tussin and being funny, to pay homage to the one who was having a bad day at work due to illness and the (for whatever reason to me) hilarious fact that they had imbibed Tussin prior to coming in. "I took Tussin," this anonymous Tussin-taker offered, a gravely serious look on their face, terrible tension totally taking its toll on tuba-tooting tarantulas. Terrifying. Tater tots take time to taste terrific.

Ok, sorry about that. It's all about the T's. That was what struck me as funny - the damn T's. Took Tussin. Additionally, I think the word Tussin is just plain funny-sounding. So, before I went batshit for a second there, I was saying that I wanted a humorous Tussin post. Guess what? No matter how hard you think about it, it's pretty fuckin difficult to come up with a "Tussin comedy gold mine." What I did find while looking for inspiration was THIS website, which chronicles time spent by people involved in the youth counterculture scene that sprang up in the early-to-mid nineties. It contains essays by some people that spent time at a particular "party house" in rural Virginia that was dubbed "Big Fun" by its varied occupants. It turned out to be fairly compelling reading, and not really of the funny sort. A couple pages of entries deal specifically with Tussin, and the hallucinogenic effects that it can have if consumed in large quantities. Who knew? I didn't - that's why I just said that. Before I start beating alliteration again with a garden rake for lack of anything else to say, I'll say this: check out the site. Very interesting reading from a psychological and sociological standpoint.

(More text forthcoming - placeholder image)

(I have more written, I was just too damned tired to finish it, I'll complete it tonight. Maybe.)


For The Times They Are A-Changin'

In addition trying to add some different graphics around the site, I am pleased to announce the grand opening of my sister site, danklink. It has... um... links to other websites, and (as I'm sure you know) is also a work in progress. If there are any links you feel I need to include, please email me, AIM me, or simply leave a comment on the links page under the appropriate category. For now though, I'm really damn tired of working on this... so enjoy, there'll be some real writing from me tomorrow, I promise. Click the banner below to check out what's there thus far: