Reader Submission Wednesday—Fecal Scrawl Y'all

Well it's Wednesday and since I've been too lazy to write anything on my own this week, I'm depending on my readers again for a launching point.

This week's submission comes from Susan Arterburn (aka Afterburn). 

Here's what she's got to say about her photo, "I'm not sure if this is a warning of the end of the earth or if this bathroom in the middle of Alabama is actually a time machine but I'm pretty sure we haven't experienced 12-27-12." 

Either side of the coin is scary for me to think about. 

If Alabamians have a time machine I'm pissed. But it's Alabama, so the chances of this happening are about as plausible as Orville Redenbacher's corpse popping out of the grave, popping over to my house and popping me a fresh stove top batch of popcorn.

If it is a warning about the end of the earth, well then the Mayans have some competition. 

The Mayans only created language, art, modern farming, architecture and mathematical and astronomic systems.

Alabama has given us, toothlessness, joblessness, the National Museum of the Bucktoothed, inbred children whose mouths are where their noses should be and their noses where their mouths should be, obesity, poverty, trailer parks, sweltering heat, racism and the nympho I dated when I was 16. (I had no idea what to do with her and after freaking out from being handcuffed to a bed when her parents weren't home one day, I ended that. Dumb at the time but probably for the best. Otherwise, I'd have a 19 year old today, less teeth and would be constantly screaming, "shut the got dang trailer door Alicia Daigle".)

So. Do we believe this toilet stall is a time machine? Or do we believe this is the date for the end of the world as surmised by some backwoods Nostradamus?

Reader Submission Wednesday—Structured Education is for Slackers Who Don't Have Library Cards

Today's submission comes from Teresa Lasky via Kristen Poncek.

I'm excited. As this is the first reader submission Wednesday in a while. Anyway, here's the scoop on the photos and Teresea.

Pictures taken at:

Reggies Rock Club 

Chicago, IL 

reggieslive.com

Pictures taken by:

Teresa Lasky (my random college roommate, turned best friend)

A few fun facts about Teresa:

- likes to eat Kit Kats in a corn on the cob style fashion

- once stole wishes from a fountain to use for laundry money

- had a family pet for a few months, a raccoon named Paco, that Teresa despised. She let it escape and it died in her sister's car engine later that morning. Her family never forgave her. They now have a shrine to Paco in their bathroom (picture attached).

I could't make this shit up if I tried.

KP

Here's the shrine to Paco:

Detox the Ghetto

Well this is the last thing that the ghetto needs, right?

Just legalize crack already.

Get Help!

Whenever I take these photos I have no idea what I'm going to ultimately write about them. Sometimes I sit down and plan these posts out. But more often than not, I just fucking wing these things with random thoughts. The idea of me wanting to fuck me is just about as random of a thought as I can think of.

So let's get to it.

If you could fuck yourself would you?

As a heterosexual male, this is a weird question to me.

First, if I did decide to fuck myself, does this suddenly mean I'm no long a heterosexual? Or am I fucking myself because I'm on my own "switch list"? Or is this an exception?

If you're really narcissistic, you could be really into yourself. Maybe you come home one day and there's this other you in your house. He's made you a brick oven pizza, poured you a La Fin Du Monde, has Sportscenter on in the background and the Beastie Boys blaring. He sits you down. Tells you how nice your calves look in running shorts. Says, "Wow, you look really tired from mowing the lawn. Maybe you should just go lie down."

Next thing you know, there's chaffing, askew sheets and the sounds of a Cubs bottom of the 9th, 2 out, homerun being called by Harry Carey buzzing in the air.

If you're self-loathing, you fucking you is probably the worst idea. You come home, there's another you in your house. He's made you brussel sprouts, poured you a Corona, has "Say Yes to the Dress" on blaring loudly overtop of Fiona Apple's devil-monkey screeching. He sits you down, says you're a failure and need to lose weight. Says your car is a piece of shit and punches you right in the dick.

Next thing you know, there's chaffing, bleeding, a ball gag and a Sam Kinison machine gun fire of  insults being flung at you.

Other things factor into this equation.

Is this a one night stand? Do you have to rollover and look at yourself in the eye the next morning? If there's a walk of shame where does the other "you" walk to?

Do you want a long term relationship with "you"? I mean sure you get to share your closet. You'll save money on buying music from Amazon. But everyday, you have to come home to yourself.

Is this what having a twin is like?

Mexi-stache Friday

It's Friday and if I make it through this day without a shotgun and a full gunny sack—it will be a major achievement.

Anywooooo, enough about me.

Going to try to start posting a few more "Art" pieces on Fridays. Here's the first, (and knowing my posting record, the last.)

Doesn't do much for me. But I love the Mexi-stache he's sporting.

Speaking of Mexi-staches, why the hell can't "Mexicans" shave these? They are fucking gross. Are these the mullets of hispanic culture. I guess when they're eating pink tacos behind the dumpster at K-Mart, all the textures tend to blend together? Oh, did I mention it's racist Friday?

Enjoy your weekend.

Bags of Shit

The most impressive thing to me about this photo is the literal bag of shit with stink lines coming off it.

Nice.

Also Keith Raines, it looks like your brother has piss poor taste in the things he puts his dick in or dick bone, per the drawing.