Fun with Dick

It's Friday! Time for some dick! What, wait, what?

When I saw this sign originally I thought it was odd. Why does this sign exist? Does the restaurant this was in have a problem with people spraying their ceiling tiles with golden frothy urine? Or do they want us to piss in the floor?

Either way, this sign alone didn't qualify for Shit Talking until somebody added the dick and spikey ball hair.

Happy Friday. Enjoy the dick.

Who's More Upset About The Smashing Pumpkins Reunion, You or Dogs?

Did the author intend for this comment to be directed at Billy Corgan Smashing Pumpkins Smasher instead of Billy Corrigan the Wino and Bestiality Master? Or are they the same?

Either way you spell it, Billy sucks dick. One does it through shitty music and the other blows canines. I have a feeling the one who does dogs will end up being much more successful and probably a lot more fun at parties.

Ass The Other...

You would expect whoever wrote this to parody the saying correctly. But as it appears, somebody thought, "Ass the other RIGHT Meat" was more accurate. It also looks like "Ass the other FIGHT Meat" might also be a good guess. Lord knows how many fights have been over "ass".

You'd also expect me to have a steadier hand when taking these photos. Well this time I didn't—thanks Rolling Rock.

Canada's Ugly Brother

Is it worth saving? Or is this a situation where we just hit the nuke button and file some insurance paperwork?

Buy American everybody, other wise Canada wins!

Damn Skippy!

You can see a lot of weirdness at Churchill Downs. A lot of depraved, warped people. Drunkards, con men, shell games, port-o-pot gauntlets (youtube it) and everything you need to create a hundred mind blowing moments.

Yesterday was one of those days.

Hullabalou was Louisville's attempt to throw a big ticket music festival. (Yes, Forecastle is awesome and been around for several years.)

Getting in was an absolute clusterfuck. After being put in the wrong line 3 times, a ticket taker ripping off my ticket stub before she should have, 20 minutes of standing in 95 degree heat and security being called because of my final frustrational swearing fit, we were in.

The only the other thing done wrong were some of the people. While wrong, it made for amazing people watching. I do have to say, if your weight is nearing that of a used Hyundai, maybe a bikini isn't the right move.

The set up was great. The music was great—Loretta Lynn, Dwight Yokam, The Avett Brothers and The Black Crowes all within 4 hours.

Left before Dave Matthews band because let's face it, nobody needs to see that.

So would I go again, Damn Skippy!

I give you the Andre LaDuke

For almost 10 years I lived in Chicago. I met a lot of great people. I met a lot of assholes, A LOT.

Andre was the former.

If you knew Andre then or know him now, you know this is one of his catchphrases. It's right up there with Andre walking past a conference room, then re-walking past that conference room two minutes later and falling down with his pants around his ankles. It's also right up there with his famous "hey can you come and look at this?" yell over a cubicle wall. And then when you get around the corner of his cubicle, he'd be bent over with his twig and berries stuffed between his legs.

He called it a "fruit basket". I called it eye rape. Looked more like a shredded sausage and some pickled eggs.

Even though he didn't write this, I'm sure he'll endorse it.

Who Rocks?

You'd guess this would be pointing to specific people or to band names. Nope. Neither. It was merely scribbly gobbledegook.

So I say, if you're feeling down, not having a good day or just want people to know you're officially a bad ass you can do the following:

Step 1: Print this image.
Step 2: Hang over desk, from rearview mirror or above your service register.
Step 3: Taunt people to test you and your rockness.

Tubs of Lard

Today's lovely Shit Talking poem comes from Mr. Davis.

To paraphrase the story, Mr. Davis and the company he works for are moving into an old building on main street in Louisville. On the first floor was a business that after 135 years finally closed its doors. The top floors had been abandoned for years.

The owners of the old business, Paul and John, who were apparently gassy and rotund, fired a couple of employees. However, Paul and John told the employees they could continue to work until the end of the week. The employees, fans of Slayer and poetry, proceeded to trash the abandoned top floors.

The name of the business has been omitted. But you can probably figure out which one it is with some googlin'.

Keep the submissions coming!

Something for the ladies. Or is it the men?

First reader submission! First reader submission!

Thanks to Kristin Poncek for today's entry. It comes from a bar in Bloomington.

I'm not sure if this is ala carte or a menu item.

(Also noticed "Team Christmas Rocks" in the corner. I don't want a "team" to make Christmas rock, I'll leave that up to Jesus & The Rabble Rousers—appearing this December 25th at Binny's Booze & Schmooze.)

That's why Campbell's Soup is Mmmm! Mmmmm! Good!

First I have to say I feel bad for whomever has smelled/tasted:
1. Shark Fin soup
2. Robby's (last name protected) balls

According to Wikipedia. Shark fin soup may cause sterility. Which, if Robby has been eating Shark Fin soup and his balls do indeed smell like it, (by the way that smell would be mercury), there won't be any little Robby's likely running around.

Again, this was written on a men's room wall, so chances are Robby is probably already fine with the idea of not procreating, at least without the help of some science and a donor.

Finally, and this brings me back to point number two, the celebratory "Yay!" is a bit disturbing. Having cracked open a thermostat or two in my life, the smell of mercury is like sniffing an old aluminum can full of old piss. (yes, that sentence did require two uses of the word "old")

This smell is nothing to celebrate.

Good luck to you Robby and your aluminum monsters.

"Oh, that's a pretty poo-poo!"

Just dropping off the kids.

Puddin' pops ain't got nothing on the Cosby kids. Fuckshitdamn, let's shit talk sometime Bill.

"That's right, you want to make the poo-poo, you poo-poo when you want to poo-poo."

"And my wife and I were so happy, we showed it to each other."

"Did you see the poo-poo? Oh, that's a pretty poo-poo!"

Times is Tough

Ass, gas or bureaucrats – apparently nobody rides for free. Poor Eliot Spitzer, two and a half years later, people still pay tribute to him in port-o-lets

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