Good Touch. Bad Touch.

While I'm running low on images, I was shocked to see I hadn't posted this one yet.

This is one of my favorites.

And since I don't have too much time today to write a big long debate about, "Is there really such a thing as a bad touch?", I'll sum up my side of the argument with "NO, there's not."

Counterpoints?

Fried Bologna Sandwich Splatter.

Really? Really! This needed explaining? This warranted a sign? This actually fucking happened/happens?

Is there really some fucktard out there, driving around America taking paper towel dispensers apart in truck stops?

Are they stealing all the paper towels so they can take them home and use them to mop up all the fried bologna sandwich grease splatter? Because nothing, and I do mean nothing, sops up fried bologna grease like industrial paper towels.

Who does this? What is wrong with truck stops?

Sure you can buy trucker's speed, get a beeg from an "lady" named Hank and refill a 98 oz. thermos with Mountain Dew—but I remember when the truck stop paper towel dispenser was sacred. It was the bible of bibles. The king of the road's king of places to dry his hands.

Let's face it America. The more paper towel dispensers that get taken apart, the closer we are to being a society with those shitty hand dryers that just don't work. So, stop the apocalypse and "Do Not take Apart".

I'm running on empty.

"Why so many lies?"

No lies here, just the honest to gotdang truth!

As we get close to the end of the year, my Shit Talking reservoir of photos is running a bit low. I have enough to make it to the end of the year and I also have quite a good batch of reader submissions to run, but this is the 82nd Just Shit Talking post. That's a lot of bathroom graffiti photos.

But good news!

I will be off for two weeks, starting next week, and plan on hitting between 25 to 40 bars in Kentuckiana (or Indiucky depending on your preference). No, I will not be drinking at them all, maybe just one or two. I going to try to actually use a real camera to nab another year's worth of photos—OOHHHH WHO FEELS LIKE A BIG BOY!

I also am going to spend the time off upgrading this site some, right now it's pretty much shit. No real design here whatsoever. No real thought into this ugly bastard, just 'get the photo up and try to make fun of something/somebody'. That has to be fixed. I'm kind of ashamed of the little blasted thing really.

So, stop your lies. Santa (or Satan) is watching (again, depending on your preference).

Today, it's all about DICK!

Getting you assholes to read this site everyday is a chore.

Running a good blog is supposed to be about giving your reader good content so they keep coming back.

It's also about not calling your readers' assholes.

And hell, a good blog shouldn't have as much swearing as this one and probably shouldn't take so much joy in what is a really juvenile idea for a blog.

Well fuck that noise. Today, you get DICK.

That's right. COCKPENISBABYARMMUFFDIVERMAGICBABYMAKINGWANDGASHBASHER DICK.

So have a great day and enjoy the picture above of a/an:

• cock
• penis
• Johnson
• prick
• dinkus 
• baby-arm
• beaver basher
• baby-maker
• bell on a pole
• beef whistle
• boomstick
• burrito
• bishop
• bratwurst
• candle
• cranny axe
• cum gun
• custard launcher
• dagger
• deep-V diver
• ding dong mcdork
• disco stick
• dog head
• drum stick
• dong
• dork
• dude piston
• eggroll
• Easy Rider
• fang
• fearless, furless ferret
• flesh flute
• flesh tower
• fire hose
• fuck rod
• fudge sickle
• groin ferret
• heat-seeking moisture missile
• hose
• hog
• jackhammer
• Jimmy
• John
• joystick
• kickstand
• knob
• krull the warrior king
• lap rocket
• leaky hose
• little Bob
• little Elvis
• lizard (as in "drain the...")
• longfellow
• love muscle
• love rod
• love stick
• luigi
• manhood
• meat popsicle
• meat stick
• meat injection
• member
• meter long king kong dong
• microphone
• middle stump
• mushroom head
• mutton
• netherrod
• old boy
• old fellow
• old man
• one-eyed snake
• one-eyed trouser-snake (Australia, UK)
• one-eyed monster
• one-eyed wonder weasel
• one-eyed yogurt slinger
• pecker
• Pedro
• peepee (children's term)
• Percy
• peter
• Pied Piper
• pink oboe
• piss weasle
• piston
• plug
• poinswatter
• pork sword
• prick
• princess sophia
• private eye
• private part
• purple-helmeted warrior of love
• purple-headed yogurt flinger
• quiver bone
• rod
• rod of pleasure
• roundhead
• sausage
• schlong
• schmuck, shmuck (Yiddish)
• schnitzel
• schwanz
• schwarz
• shaft
• short arm
• single barrelled pump action bollock yoghurt shotgun
• skin flute
• soldier
• spawn hammer
• stick shift
• surfboard
• tassle
• third leg
• thumper
• thunderbird 3
• thundersword
• tinker
• todger (Australia, UK)
• tonk
• tool
• trouser snake
• tubesteak
• twig (& berries)
• twinkie
• vein
• wang
• wang doodle
• wanger
• whoopie stick
• wiener
• Wiener Schnitzel
• wick
• willy (children's term)
• wing dang doodle
• winkie (children's term)
• yingyang
• yogurt gun
• Moisture and heat seeking venomous throbbing python of love

Enjoy. Did I leave out any?

Reader Submission Wednesday—Mike Jones

Props go out to the fantastic Mike Jones for this week's Reader Submission.

Mike Jones is not a fictitious person. In fact, during the late 90s he was actually better known as Battle Kat. (See below.)

During the early 2000s, his wrestling career took a nose dive. Left with billions from rolling around, sweating on men and brushing up against their sausages, Mike combined his love of sausage and graphic design to launch a series of failed magazines.

First was...

Second was...

This was launched during Mike's "Spider Lady" phase. (Nobody really knows what that was.)

Finally, living having blown almost all of his Battle Kat money, Mike launched his last failed magazine...

Aptly titled at the time; however, the poor, jet setting, S&M, lemur loving crowd was just too poor to buy this magazine.

Sad, sad, sad.

Now Mike Jones is an avid duck bill model, toast making enthusiast and art director for Finelight.

To Mike Jones, this week's Reader Submission Shit Talking Photo Blog Submitter & Submission Person of Interest.

Jesus's Savior

Forget what the good book taught you. Forget those Sunday school classes. Forget all the hell, fire and brimstone that's been spewed out of a half drunk baptist minister. Jesus may have parted the Red Sea, conquered Russia with just a cantaloupe and fought off the Nazi at Normandy—but dammit Karl Malone died for your sins!

His sweat, that poured like the Rivers of Jordan hath fed the meek.

His hook shot hath cured the poor.

His sweet, sweet dunking abilities hath healed the lepers.

His short shorts hath risen from the dead and laid a triple double right on Satan's bare buttocks.

Hell hath no fury like a woman? Nay!
Hell hath no fury like Karl Malone going after a loose ball or the last remaining McNugget.

With his trusty side kick John Stockton at his side, the kingdom of Short Shorts shall punch the devil in the nose and bring freedom back to all of Terabithia.

Let freedom ring. Let freedom ring.

This is what Monday feels like?

Ugg. It's not just a Monday. It's a Monday in December.

Snow is on the ground and in the air. And with two weeks of vacation just two weeks away, productivity is at a low and egg nog consumption is at a high.

Part of me wants to go lay under the Christmas tree with my morbidly obese cat.

Somebody go get me another glass of egg nog, I need a nap.

Lambeau Field gets shitty.

Welcome back to day three of Shit Talking's Even Shittier Photo Week.

"Sanitary Vent"

Today's even shittier shit talking photo comes from the frozen tundra of  Lambeau Field. Again, thanks to the AMAZING camera on my camera phone, which doesn't have a zoom feature, this is about as close as I could get to "Sanitary Vent". Also, notice a blurry finger in the foreground—expert photography, here, expert photography.

I did some light searching and can't come up with what a "Sanitary Vent" does, nor do I really want to know. Plus, I'm feeling really lazy today. Anyway, "Sanitary Vent" just sounds gross. Should we rename it "Shit Tube."

Regardless, being married to a Green Bay Packer fan has rubbed off on me. I admit it. Growing up in central Kentucky, there was no football to cheer for—UK sucked, the Bengals sucked and so did the Colts (besides the Colts were from Indiana).

Go Pack Go!

Go Shit Tube Go!

If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself? I know I would NOT.

The Even Shitter Shit Talking Photo Week continues.

Today, not only do I bring you a shitty photo from a bathroom stall, I also bring you a motto I've lived by for more than 15 years, "Hot Dogs Suck."

Hot Dogs are an abomination to meat, and I use the term "meat" as loose as the laws of what is allowed to be stuffed into these vile, spare parted, tubed casings.

I've never wanted to be an Oscar Mayer Wiener and here are two reasons why...

Picture it. High School. 1995. Bourbon County, Kentucky. Nirvana blaring from a radio station that would soon be turned into something known as Lite FM. Angst seeping through teens sweaty flannel shirts. And me on a marching band field holding a trombone. YES, I WAS THAT GUY.

As 75 of us shuffled around a football field preparing for a marching band competition on a late Friday night, YES I KNOW THIS IS THE LAMEST THING EVER, the band moms decided to serve us a health dinner of hot dogs, Fritos and Twinkies. I instead decided to skip this K-mart food court knock off and drove 5 people to a gas station for something more palatable.

The next morning, as we loaded our band instruments and prepared to leave for what would be a waste of a perfectly good Saturday, 18 kids failed to show up. By noon, another 23 kids were throwing up or demanding clean linen undergarments. By the time we went on the field only 43 of the 75 people in the band marched. The experience was as close to 'Nam as I'll ever get. People were passing out, sweating profusely and throwing up on the field. Not sure if you've ever seen anybody throw up in a tuba, but I have—through the mouthpiece.

We can't blame the Twinkies or the Fritos for this, for this, for this HOT DOG FEVER. Nay! We all know, Twinkies and Fritos are atomic bomb and rapture proof! Satan and his army will be dining on corn chips long after the mortals are burned alive or hung up by their toenails from the nearest Wal-Mart.

For this horrid outbreak, I blame HOT DOG FEVER!

My second reason for getting "Hot Dogs Suck" tattooed between my shoulder blades comes from an old college friend, we'll call him Steve. One summer, Steve's uncle got him a job at meat facility. Not a slaughter house or a packing plant but a meat facility. According to Steve, there were differences, significant differences between the three.

On Steve's first day, his manger handed him a long dowel rod and told him he'd be "manning the trough". Steve of course had no clue what this meant. As he reached his post, he slowly realized his $10.50 per hour responsibility.

Steve was to use his dowel rod to flick bones out of what he described as, "a gutter of raw meat sewage." As the testicles, eyeballs and leftover portions of animals slid by, Steve would kick bones out before they got to a rotating circular saw blade in the trough. Miss a bone and the river of meat would back up and the saw would stop spinning.

At first, he thought all this random meat just had to be chopped up before the meat facility dumped it into a landfill or ground it into chum for animal consumption. Wrong. Steve later learned this was the "hot dog trough."

So for 15 years, I haven't touched a hot dog. Can't come near them without getting queasy. Brats, are barely passable. Lil Smokies and I don't see eye-to-eye either. I know there are hot dogs out there today that aren't made of salvage yard animal parts, but I can't bring myself to get near them. Maybe when I slip into dementia and the nurse is grounding them up for me, I'll make piece with wieners, but until then,   "Hot Dogs Suck."

The Even Shittier Shit Talking Photo Week.

Today's entry: "My guitar wants to kill your momma."

Most of the photos I take are with an LG Vue camera phone. Sometimes I'll have my Cannon with me but most of the time, I don't want to look like a total skeez bag walking around a public restroom with a camera. At least with a camera phone, if I get caught, I can pull the "oh I just got a text" face or the "dammit, I can't get coverage in here" face.

Thanks to Photoshop, I can correct most photos so they are somewhat eye pleasing and fit within the context of this blog. However, there are times when no matter what I do, the photos look like shit, hence this week. These things happen with a $79 camera phone and the amateur photo skills I possess. So this week, we're going to see what can be done with really shitty shots to make them look some what arty or at least grainy, that seems to work.

Back to today's entry.

I love this photo, or at least the sentiment of it. Anytime you can work a Zappa reference into a night of binge drinking then you sir have obtained the right to punch the nearest bouncer.

Frank Zappa is one of those artist that's an acquired taste, like Neil Young, David Bowie (and not just Ziggy Stardust) and hell Townes Van Zandt. In fact, because he could be so scatter-shot, he might be tougher. It takes some time to get into what the man was doing, but once you get his schtick, you realize there's some damn fine music going on.

Nobody today really compares to Frank Zappa, the closest thing you might be able to compare Jack White. But Jack White has confined himself in a blues rock/hard rock/guitar rock corner. Zappa was all over the board—jazz, rock, orchestral arrangements. You name it, the man probably has an album behind it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JXCht5H9oU&feature=related

Dex Owns!

Dex Owns!
Dex Owns what?

I love it when personal jokes, nonsense makes it on to walls.

Not sure what this means.

Taking a break over the holidays. Will probably be back up and running this thing on Monday.

Have a good Thanksgiving.

(sorry for lamin' out today, I need a nap, too much food)

Spud

It's Monday, time for the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Or time for giving yourself an awesome nickname.

I can only hope this was somebody's nickname and they decided to scrawl it on a wall; because this is one badass nickname.

You don't win a dunking competition without a nickname like this.

Suck my ass Dominique.

My paddle connects me to the universe

After two days of long posts, today is going to be a short one.

This is one of the stupidest shots I've grabbed so far. No less from the legendary Southgate House.

I don't know what it means, nor do I care.

For all I know it could be a message from an evangelical canoe enthusiast.

Paddle on up to heaven asshole.

Reader Submission Wednesday

Thanks to John Jacobsen for this fine, fine submission.

John is a Brand Creative Director at Finelight and Captain of the International Federation of Captain Hats.

Let's break today's Shit Talking image down:

1. WTF? This is just way too random to appear in a restroom. This should be framed.

2. Is Hercules dead lifting the front end of a 82 Datsun 720 King Cab pick up truck?

3. Comic Dick. Fantastic. I applaud the comic dick whenever I see it. Right up there with cartoon boobs the size of Tahiti.

4. Leotard. Why are Americans not wearing more leotards? As global warming cooks us slower than a rotisserie chicken we're gonna need less clothes. Leotards are the perfect way to go. They cover your junk while you get to totally blast your nips.

Ladies, you can even feel all Jane Fonda nostalgic in one.

5. "I love nipples."Take a closer look. I think there's only one nip here. I can't seem to find a second. Go ahead, click on the image.

6. "Growing up can be hard." So hard that you have to mix steroids with your oatmeal and take up power lifting? So hard that somebody cuts off one of your nips with a spork in some kind of teenage lunchroom brawl? So hard that your arm pits look like they've got an entire can of white rain dumped in them?

Thanks John, you bring us the best one nipped, power lifting, bathroom shots. Were you hanging out in a Gold's Gym?

Things that should be banned: The Men's Room Trough.

I hate the men's room trough. It's one of the worst things on the planet. To me, it's right up there with feline leukemia, terrorists and sandwiches without cheese.

Let's go down a list of 10 reasons why these things should be set on fire. Oh wait, we can't set them on fire. That's right, because they're full of piss.

1. What are you looking at?  

First and obviously, WHERE ARE WE SUPPOSED TO LOOK? This isn't like having your own urinal where you can drop a glance down whenever you need to/want to and then look around almost anyplace else in the restroom for the next minute to minute and a half. Not with a trough, it's straight ahead and no place else after you line everything up. But, pause to long while you're looking down and your next door neighbor is either your newest best friend or your newest worst enemy. It's an odd game to play.

2. Splash back mountain.

Guys, we've all been there; waited too long between pit stops or had one too many beers and one too many songs at a concert. So we rush to the restroom, with a stream of justice that could make a fire hydrant look like a 70 year old man on Flomax, and BLAMO! Splash back!

Now, it's either on the back of your hand, sprinkled on your shoes or flip flops or worse, it has created that, "I'll just claim the damn sink turned on too quick and that's why my jeans are damp," spot on your pants.

3. That guy.

Yeah, you know who you are. Three of us are already almost shoulder to shoulder and you decide you're going to cram in. Which causes...

4. The shift.

It's tough enough getting comfortable at the trough, then "that guy" squeezes in and you have to sidestep while you're mid-piss. Really guy!?! Really!?!?

Now, you've got three guys looking down, while trying not to look at each other, crab-walking, getting everything re-adjusted and trying to prevent splash back on themselves and the guy they're suddenly 16 inches closer to. All because some asshat couldn't wait another 24 seconds for one of us to finish up.

5. San-a-flush!

Yeah, these things never flush. Some water might dribble out every once in a while but that's just another target to avoid or again...splash back. And sure there's a drain but it isn't getting the smell out of the air. If you've ever been to the Wrigley Field men's room on a hot summer day, the smell is enough to make you want to choke a hooker.

6. It's a bathtub on the wall.

The guy who invented the bathtub should sue the guy who invented the trough.

If taking one object that was attached to the ground at one point and attaching it to a wall is considered a new invention, then let me just get my basketball hoop off the pole in my front yard and mount it to the house. Waa laa, stacks of cash. Patent. It worked for Peter VanTrough. (See also the coat racks, ceiling fans and flat screen TVs.)

7. Metal.
Sometimes, these things are metal. Why?

Ever peed on anything metal before? Ever been around metal when it's getting rained on? It's like lighting a string of firecrackers inside a bag of sugar. IT GOES EVERYWHERE.

I avoid metal troughs at all costs. I will wait 20 minutes for a stall just so I don't have to wash my jacket, shoes, hands, pants and soul.

8. Trough talk.

Some people, mostly drunk people, think it's okay to have a conversation with you while you're at the trough. No.

A conversation at a urinal is borderline acceptable. Maybe it's the formica divider that makes it okay? Trough talk is not okay. It's creepy and should be banned like phones in movie theaters. Nuns should roam men's rooms and rap guys right on the moose knuckles for talking while at a trough.

9. Height.

I'm 6'2 and these things are never at the right height for PARENTS WHO BRING THEIR CHILDREN TO THE RESTROOM! If we as adults have to pee in an adult trough, then there should be a kid trough. Why? Because Dad ultimately lifts up little junior so he can pee in the adult trough. Which 9 out of 10 times leads to the following phrases you never want to hear, anywhere, ever, ever, ever: "Look at all the wieners daddy.", "Daddy, why is his wiener all furry?" and "Daddy your pee-pee is weird."

Now that we all feel like pederasts or have the image of a penis in our heads, let's move on to number 10.

10. Foam party! Hey Yah!

Without fail, there's always one guy who looks like he's been drinking a bottle of Palmolive peeing in one of these things. What is that about? Wait, why did I look down and notice that? Oh great, now I've made a new friend. Wait. Oh dammit, that's not a friendly glare.

Keep your eye on the prize.

Your mom is so stupid, she invented a silent car alarm.

Alright, it's time to talk about "your mom".

Hit the comment button and tell me your best/favorite "your mom" is so stupid/fat/ugly jokes.

Prizes for the winner?

Lomo Friday!

Why not give Friday a theme? And while we're at it, let's learn a little something today—Welcome to Lomo Friday. (Yes, that sentence has a horrible structure and some incorrect capitalization, eh!)

So what's Lomo or Lomography?

Essentially, it's a byproduct of really shittily made Russian cameras and film—nobody can convince me otherwise. While the Russians were still being commies, dropping $200 for a pair of American Levi's and running low on toilet paper, a company called LOMO PLC created a really crapfest of a camera, the LOMO LC-A Compact Automat. WOW! Real original Russia. I guess communism stripped you of the ability to come up with an original name too. Nothing says photo fun like "Compact Automat".

Anyway, the LOMO LC-A took shitty pictures. Colors were jacked up and over saturated. The images were blurry, off-kilter and looked like they'd been taken by some vodka swilling Ruskie simpleton. Mother Russia now claims the photos were supposed to capture a real snapshot feel. Really?!? I'd believe that train of logic if they'd said, (insert cliché Russian voice here), "we wanted every photo to capture the feeling of being drunk and riding 'round inside a clothes dryer for half hour, then when Ivan opens tiny door, boom, you take photo."

There's no way this was meant to be an intentional style of photography. 

Today's photo, which was oddly enough taken in Cincinnati, not Texas, is a recreation of a Lomo photo. Notice the darkness, the grain, the grit and the colors that aren't quite right by today's over corrected standards. That's Lomo.

Lomo has been popular for the last couple of years, and it almost emits a hipster-esque vibe with it, but it is a very interesting photo style and one, I have to admit, I'm kind of hooked on.

The whole ethos behind Lomography's "don't think, just shoot" I dig. It allows you to capture a dirtier, grimier version of what's really going on. It also fits well with Just Shit Talking, because let's face it, this site is never going to take a photo that will win any awards. My subject matter is gross, generally  offensive and 9 out of 10 the photos on this site are taken with cellphones.

If you want to make your own Lomo-like photos, it's pretty easy. Check this linky dink.

Also, hop over to Lomography.com for better examples and all the gear you need to get started taking actual Lomography.

Okay, my fingers are tired and I have real things to do. Keep it awesome.

What?

A Bitch He Is!

Toy Solider with no arms?

Okay, I've got little to nothing for this post. I'm interested as to why somebody only cleaned up "bitch" and "he" on the back of this door.

That's it. I'm low on gas today, sorry kids.

Tomorrow. Epic post coming. Or at least better than this one. A shoe to the head would be better than today's post.

Keep it awesome.

Reader Submission Wednesday

Welcome back the return of Reader Submission Wednesday.

John Jacobsen, Official Gorton's Fisherman Fish Pickler and Gender Neutral Enthusiast, grabbed this image from lord knows where. And instead tossing me a few comments, tidbits or notes about this one, I'm forced to make something up.

So here we go.

Tits.

That's all I've got.

Tits.

Goooooooo Tits!

Zoos. Fun times or no fun times?

I hate zoos.
Hate them.

And I'm not the type of person who says, "Oh, those poor animals, they're living in captivity."

My theory is, if you're dumb enough to be caught by men with 1930s mustaches wearing pith helmets, khaki, monocles and cravats—then you're dumb enough to belong in a zoo. At the same time, you're also smart enough to hang out in a rent free apartment with 3 meals square all for just letting weridos look at you and toss you peanuts every once in a while.

Hell, if somebody wanted to trap me in a Texas Roadhouse, which let's face it is essentially the human equivalent of a zoo, I'd be game. Peanuts on the floor, shrieking children, endless meat, and you never know when a bloated and hammer-fisted construction worker at the bar is going to go on a rampage—it's the same!

So, if "it smells like a goddamn zoo in here", I hope it smells like steak and baked potato.

I know a girl her name is Sally, we'll all take her out back and (blank) her in the (blank).

I have to apologize.

Work overload has given me a medical condition known only as "The Shithouse Blues".

Damn. I've missed the last 2 out of 4 posts. Inexcusable.

I've taken so many of these damn photos, I have no idea whatsoever where I took this one. I want to say it was a port-o-potty however with pink walls, I was either really wasted and stumbled into a woman's only at a Lilith Fair or I was really wasted and stumbled into a woman's only at a Save the Ta-Ta's Demolition Bus Derby.

If you have the Shithouse Blues, here's something to help you shake'm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZKb_-MwM0w&feature=player_embedded#!

Guest Shit Talker, Sarah Lipps—Day #3

Well this was going to get posted Friday but I decided spending three and a half hours at the eye doctor sounded way better. Thanks eye insurance and your limited local acceptance! At least this time nobody shit themselves while I was at the eye doctor, however my doctor's name was Dr. Schat. BOTH ARE TRUE STORIES!

Anyway, Sarah was kind enough to snap one final photo from The Bishop.

The thing about this shit talking photo and Sarah acknowledges this, the owners of The Bishop decided to write this one on the wall.

Why? I'm not sure.

Is liquor enough to really unhinge the levels of economic success and failure of people in this country? Didn't we try this with prohibition only to see it fail? And drinking more is only going to create more Billy Martins, Charlie Sheens (sans coke, because coke can do no wrong), and Lindsay Lohans.

And if I own a bar, I've gotta say, I'm going to do much better than this weak, ambling message. Hell, my bathrooms would feature Sharpies tethered to the walls and signs encouraging people to void out this kind of dreck.

Thanks Sarah for the photos. If anybody else out there would like to take a week or a couple of days Guest Shit Talking, shoot me your photos and words.

Day #2—Sarah Lipps, Guest Shit Talker

Welcome to Day #2 of Sarah Lipps Guest Shit Talker. Again let me introduce Sarah.

Not only is she a fine and amicable word rearranger for Finelight. She also holds the record for screaming, "Racist Ham Eater" at a gaggle of pigs. True story. Just ask her.

Today brings us, "Please Love to Party?!" again snapped from The Bishop.

Sarah believes there is a story behind this Shit Talking photo...


"Desperately wanting to fit in, Valya uncapped her sharpie and scribbled on the wall the only English sentence she knew. It was the phrase she had carried with her while hiding under a carpet remnant in the bed of a pickup truck traveling across the Ukrainian border. The one she gave to the stewardess on the flight to London. And the one she whispered into her new American husband's ear when he greeted her at her gate at the Indianapolis airport. Please love to party?!"


Would anybody out there please love to party?!? Please comment your love below.

3 Day of Guest Shit Talker, Sarah Lipps

Welcome guest Shit Talker, Sarah Lipps for the next three days.

Not only is she a wordsmithy for Finelight, she also holds the record for most consecutive number of rides on Kennywood's (not to be confused with Dollywood) Log Jammer.

She's snapped three great shots from The Bishop lady's lavatories in Bloomington, Indiana.

First up, "Brandon loves boys gay friends...".

So is Brandon gay or does he just like to hangout with boys who have lots of lesbian friends?

Sarah says, "'Brandon' did not meet expectations for hipster graffiti."

His friends also did not meet his expectations for whom to hook him up with.

Poor Brandon.

What?

What?

Sometimes Shit Talking makes no sense except to the Shit Talker who wrote it.

I either see Pussy Pawn Max or Push Paul Wax or ;adiapojdf Paws Max.

What's your guess?

Run Fat Boy Run. Run Fat Boy Ruuuunnn!

Ham?

A dinner?

A Mad Max reference?

Fuckshitdamn!

Taken from the legendary Gold Star Bar in Chicago, this is one of my favorite dive bars of all time. It's just down the street from a place commonly referred to as "Cut Throat Liquors" because a man literally had his throat cut and bled to death in front of it. So it goes.

Anyway, back to the Midget and the Mongoloid. I've been drunk but never so drunk decided to publicly form opinions about Mad Max in a response to a lovely ham dinner invitation.

Keep it awesome Chicago.

?

I am? Or am I?

So, thus concludes my tribute to The Mag Bar Bathrooms.

This one actually came out of the Port-o-lets behind The Mag Bar during St. James Art Festival. So technically, this part of the labyrinth of the Mag Bar.

Thanks to Schwegman and Meg for some of the photos from this week.

And please, visit The Mag Bar when you can and tell them Shit Talking sent you. Actually, if you tell them that, then maybe a few more people would read this fecal obsessed dirge.

Out.

The Mag Bar Day #5

DOUBLE POST! DOUBLE MAG BAR POST!

"You are beautiful. (Only if your hair is)."

And my favorite, submitted by Schwegman, Shit Talking photo of the week... will be up shortly.

The Mag Bar Day #4

Welcome to Day #4 of the Mag Bar's Bathroom tribute.

Today, it's time to talk about positivity—"You are Beautiful, even if the male gaze denies you that".

Ladies, I know sometimes you think, you're not attractive. Start feeling low. No good. Like that candy bar wrapper you can't get off your high heel, and then two block later when you think you've gotten it off, you realize, "fuck, it's been there for the last two blocks and I walked past that guy who I thought at the time was checking me and my new shoes out but now I realize, he was just wondering what kind of trash whore walks around with 2/3rds of Snickers wrapper on her foot".

Ladies this message is for you.

Even though the fellas ain't looking at you in your beat up sweat pants and salsa stained, 2001 Sr. Frog's Spring Break T-shirt, members of the same sex, still think you be looking fine. Fine.

So chin up.

Mag Bar Day #3

Day #3 of Shit Talking's week tribute to Louisville's Magnolia Bar bathroom, aka The Mag Bar.

How do I even get close to describing today's Shit Talking photo? I really don't think I can but I'll give it a try.

1. "Danny is awesome as Pie." Danny, I don't know you sir, but that fact that you have been compared to one of the things that makes this country great just elevated your status in my book. You have a long way to go before you reach, "Danny is as fucking great as cake" but you're on your way.

2. "Change the world—eat a fart." I'm gonna pass. I fear the taste and also some type of "pink throat" illness which I'm gonna guess could be really itchy like pink eye.

I'm not sure how this would change the world either, since millions of people are already doing this on public transportation as we speak.

3. "Barack 'Barry' Obama". Well I now have a new way to address the president. Fucking Barry. Barry is awesome. Way better than Barack. I dare you tell me one Barry you know who isn't the coolest guy in the room.

Alright, keep it black America and don't go back.

Mag Bar Day #2

Day #2 of Shit Talking's tribute to The Mag Bar bathroom.

"If you clip your wings, expect saggy balls."

Is it a metaphor for marriage? Is it a message of independence vs. falling victim to the "machine"? Is it a avian grooming tip?

Either way, it works for all three.

Keep your wings away from industrial shredding devices, hedge trimers and office scissors.

Thanks go to Meg Tedder for this submission.

A Tribute to the Mag Bar Bathrooms

Welcome to a week long tribute to one of Louisville's true dive bars, The Magnolia Bar (or Mag Bar).

If you've never been and live within 100 miles of this place, shame on you. This is what all bars should be judged by—killer jukebox, stiff drinks, and enough freaks to stare at drunk and sober. You never know if you're going to hangout with emo kids drinking High Life or large men in overalls enjoying whiskey with no ice, reading print outs from the Revolution.

One googling of this bar and you should know right away this is your kind of place or not. "I didn't need that last bourbon and soda, but not getting really drunk at my old neighborhood bar on a brief trip to Lou seemed out of the question. "

The bathrooms are true murals for Shit Talking. Tons of graffiti kid graffiti. A few "fuck you"s. And hundreds of random, bizarre messages. I could devote an entire month to the Mag Bar's bathrooms. Beautiful.

Keep tuning in this week and take some Mag Bar advice and "get your shit right".

-XoXo

Zomething Different

I took this in West Virginia. In May. The last Zima rolled off the assembly line the previous January. Can't believe this moonshine-like malt beverage couldn't even sell in West Virginia... FOR 75¢?!?!?!

Nothing like drinking clearance beer in a bar.

And how did Jimmy Buffett ape Corona? Better question why?

P.S. The entire state of West Virginia is out of chips. Don't even ask. THEY'RE OUT!

Slowly walking down the hall. Faster than a cannonball. Where were you while we were getting high?

"In a pisstake supernova, a pisstake suprenova in the skkkyyyyyy."

Who the hell didn't/doesn't hate Oasis?

I remember back in '96 them being heralded as "the next Beatles". (I hate the Beatles, but that's another rant.) Well, unfortunately they didn't become the Beatles—and by that I mean nobody's been shot and not one of them has died from cancer yet.

Come on people! Can't we get some lunatic to break into one of their houses and stab them in the chest?

Really?

Can't somebody shoot one of the Gallaghers? Pick one, I don't care which.

Why won't some female Yoko Ono this band? I know they're broken up which is a great thing but in the next 2 years, mark my words, one of them is going to have a shitty solo record. And when they do, there's going to be a press love affair and a push to reunite Oasis. Not fair.

How many millions a year do we spend to stop cancer? Isn't it worth $50,000 a year to figure out a way to keep Oasis apart? Can't somebody inject one of them with an African tick venom?

If anybody has any ideas on this, please share. I'm open to some jail time if it means the world's a safer place.

Whaaaayt! Whaaayt!

In honor of the looming holiday and the fact that Pac-Man beats Halo 26000003, I toss you, my followers some dead ghosts or ghosts who will be dead for 15 seconds only to be rejuvenated by the appearance of new flashing cherry or banana.

In other news, check out this human Pac-man

Racist Friday...in 3-D!

How do you follow up Homophobic Thursday?

With Racist Friday. And oh yeah and it's in 3 fucking D.

Today's Shit Talking comes from one of my favorite bars in Chicago. This bar repainted their bathroom once a month because of the level of Shit Talking on the walls.

The 3-D portion of this comes naturally from having one too many Point's—I slipped on something as I was taking the shot. Which leads me to believe how James Cameron created Avatar.

Enjoy the weekend. Snap some Shit Talking photos.

Are you gay?

Congrats!

or

Surprise!

Either way, you win!

(this has been a post, in lieu of Shit Talking's Homophobic Wednesday)

A game that's fun for all ages!

Hello everybody, everybody hello.

It's been a week without Shit Talking? Really? Sorry, somethings got in the way of other things and those other things ended up rolling downhill into the parked 1983 Chevette that is my life.

Anyway, back on the horse.

Who doesn't like a good tickle? Kids, moms, teens, the old guy at the Schlotzsky's Deli drive-thru who serves you a sandwich right at close who, coincidentally isn't wearing pants underneath his sandwich apron—true story.

Alright. Enough rambling. Get back to your work week and don't forget to reach out, reach out and tickle someone.

Welcome to Homophobic Wednesday

This is the last reader submission I have. (Thank you John Jacobsen.) So until somebody sends me more. Reader Submission Wednesday is going to become "Homophobic Wednesday"—lawd knows I've got more than enough of this crap from men's room walls.

Today's entry is actually kind of interesting. Somebody took "I eat gay cock 4 lunch yum" and tried to unhomophobic it. Now if somebody could do the same for Mel Gibson we might have something going here. (Look at me mom, I'm on Leno!)

Only problem, and I realize the unhomophober only had the clever "I eat gay cock 4 lunch yum" phrase to work with, this new phrase makes no sense. "I eat stray cook 4 lunch yum". Come on, if you're gonna Shit Talk the homophobia out of something, don't correct it, just scrawl something else on the wall that makes fun of this stupidity.

If anybody wants to end Homophobia Wednesday, send me your Shit Talking photos.

Some 2007 Humor.

Ahh, Larry Craig. Where have you gone? Truck stops?

Having conquered the airport bathroom, dear Larry is going up and down the line of bathrooms he can hit for his patented foot tap—K-marts, Greyhound bus stations, chicken refineries.

Two claps for one of the biggest career nose dives ever. Can he even get a job at a car wash?

Poof! Cornbread!

Today's Shit Talking photo is brought to you by the letter "T" and the letter "DAH".

I would have also excepted, "Woot", "Word Up" or "Hell'z'yeah" but alas, this is all the bathrooms at the Frankfort Avenue Depot would yield.

T'DAH!

Ready for a LARGE weekend

Sup Shit Talkers,

Friday is here. Who's ready for some fun? More than you can fit in bags?

Read an interesting article yesterday that talked about how all women's organization logos a designed the same. Showed 50 or so women's organizations that all have the same logo essentially—line figure of a woman, wispy arms and legs, dot for a head. By now you probably have that exact image pictured in your head. If not click above, it's really ridiculous.

It's equally ridiculous to think anybody, other than the First Church of Pamela Anderson & Watermelon Alliance, would use the above image as a corporate logo. How about we ditch the damn lunacy of both and come up with something original.

"I'm a crack addict, I'm addicted to crackin skulls when punks start static"

Unofficial Reader Submission Week continues. (Basically, I keep forgetting to upload photos at night so I can post them during the day.)

Enjoy today's by John Jacobsen.

Enjoy the crack.

Yeah!

It's Racist Reader Submission Wednesday!

This week's reader submission comes from John Jacobsen and man, is it racist.

Just like everybody else, other than the Ku Klux Klan or Rush Limbaugh, I express all my racist comments in the men's room. Why do it in public? It just causes too much of a stir and tends to bring dinners and meetings to a halt.

Also, I didn't know that gay men tend to have small penises? Wow, what a good joke. I'll have to remember that for the next men's room I'm in.

Thanks racist.

Cat...The Other, Other White Meat

Insanity meet Shit Talking. Holy hell!

This is a little hard to read but according to Tuesday's submitter, Jenny Wingo a lot of the cats have obituaries beside them and notes about "living forever" scribbled.

It's from a bar in Austin, TX called the Mean Eyed Cat. Which Jenny says has the world's largest collection of Johnny Cash memorabilia. Sign me up.

This is really the weirdest thing I've posted on Shit Talking.

Keep the weird stuff coming. Email me at justshittalking@gmail.com.

Long live Mr. Turley.