Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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."
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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)
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
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.)
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.
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hit the comment button and tell me your best/favorite "your mom" is so stupid/fat/ugly jokes.
Prizes for the winner?
Friday, November 12, 2010
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.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
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.
That's all I've got.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
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.