I'm trusting my love life to gas station condom dispensers.

Today's photo comes from the Randy Travis of Creative Directors, Troy Burkhart. He snagged this gem on a recent trip through West Virginia.

West Virginia has taught me three valuable life lessons:

1. "Medford Drivers Suck Dick." This must be true because it was written on a condom dispenser in a men's bathroom—the official truth teller of the male world. Who needs Fox News? We have condom dispensers for our up to the minute, late-breaking, accurate news. If you can't trust the news you read on the same machine that will sell you a French Tickler what can you count on? 

Before I move on to my second valuable life lesson, I would like to take this opportunity to commend the drivers of Medford. Not only do you gobble pole like candy at a diabetic convention, you have made national news for your ability to do so. Congrats! Your crown is in the mail.

2. There is a chain of restaurants called Tudor's Biscuit World. More like biscuit heaven! Just go ahead and hook up the gravy I.V. (I chose gravy I.V. even though I don't like gravy. It just sounds better. I will mouw down on some biscuits—like Medford Drivers on a dick.) 

Sorry for the aside from the condom dispenser. Back to it.

3. For the rest of my natural born life, I'm only buying condoms from gas station condom dispensers. Why not? I'm 35 and I've lived a very strategic life of trying not to have children. Maybe it's time to get a little reckless? And what could be more reckless than strapping on a thin piece of rubber that's been sitting in a sweltering, piss-soaked bathroom for lawwwd knows how long?

I'm certain that these condoms are also of the highest quality and completely unlike the "irregular socks" left over at a sock factory. I have faith that whomever assembled these sheaths was trained way more than the dude at El Socko Gigante who just made a sock with two heels and no toe enclosure.

Also, who likes the idea of walking into a CVS or a Walgreen's and buying a box of condoms? It's always been a semi-embarassing act. Yes, it says, "Hey look at me, I'm going to take these home and use them on something I picked up at a Rafferty's." But usually the person behind the register is either your grandmother's twin or a 16 year old who can't control his laughing. 

Gas station condom dispensers are private and again an excellent source of news. So, ladies, be warned, I have a mind that is full of knowledge and current events, a handful of quarters and pocketful of French Ticklers. Otherwise, I guess we could just use an irregular sock.

Charles Brewkowski

Woof.

This weekend officially cemented one thing about my mind, my body and my life, "I am fucking old."

Having friends in from out of town is a good way to prove this to yourself. Go ahead try it.

It starts out all fun and easy with a few beers on a patio somewhere and the next thing you know your empty beer cans are duct taped together end to end and you're doing Karate Kid crane kicks.

I am with Charbles Brewkowski on this one, I drank all the beer and a bottle of Viskies (no clue) and it sucks.

Today, I am alive but I feel like I've taken ten years off my life, got dang crane kicks!

Virginia is a weird place.

My experience with the state of Virginia has been fairly limited to this point in my life.

There were a few horrid family vacations that ended at Virginia Beach. I think I might have even went there once on a marching band trip where I marched in a wool prison suit in 85 degree weather.

Long story short, I've never had a reason to go there for anything serious.

I've always thought of Virginia as Florida's less successful brother. The kind of brother that goes to a two year community college, flunks out, still somehow marries a beauty queen, has three kids that all end up with drug arrests and beat up old ladies for crack money.

My perceptions were not far off after this trip.

I think the whole experience can be surmised with what occurred at an Applebee's.

First, I know, Applebee's. Between Chicken Poppers, Fish Flingers and the Horse Meat Supreme Nachos—Applebee's sucks. It's a rancid chain usually frequented by people who tuck in polo shirts and have jobs that sound way more important than they are. But when you're in the land of Jerry Falwell's homosexual hating ghost, your options are limited.

So after pulling in and finding a bar stool, the adventure began. We were immediately greeted by Delta Burke's less poignant cousin, let's call her Kristy. (I use the "K" Kristy instead of "C" Christy to help paint the picture of what we were dealing with.) Right off the bat, we could all see through Kristy's shirt. Which prompted one member of our party to ask, "what's that?"

Kristy kindly said, "oh that's my tattoo." Then proceeded to pull her shirt down, pop out her boobs and show us her, "Got Milk?" tit tat. Not kidding.

As I could see the edge of a nipple skirting her bra and cresting on the row of pint glasses directly in front of her on the bar rail, she informed us, "I used to have Fs, then I lost weight but only in my boobs." From there she proceeded to tell us about how she used to have both of her nipples pierced but have to had the bars taken out after she got MRSA. This is a staff infection from dirty needles, usually. I have no idea if the dirty needles came from drug use or the piercing. I'm going with drug use.

As the Nine Pound Hammer song, "Rode Hard & Put Away Wet" danced through my head, we encountered a woman named "Sweet Tea'z". She informed us she is Lynchburg, Virginia's official queen of karaoke. While we had just missed her 3 hour performance at this particular Applebee's she invited us to visit her the next night at the Moose Lodge.

Yes, this woman makes a living going from bar to bar to bar, signing karaoke. She doesn't really share the mic with anybody else as far as I can gather, she just sings renditions of songs she likes. I think she has a set—probably a little ABBA, a little Dolly and a little Tammy Wynette.

She gave me her business card and told me to call her the next time I was in town and she could arrange for a private karaoke session. To which I shuddered, shit myself and rolled around in the floor like a stuck wombat.

The whole evening ended with one of the members of our party screaming Cindy Lauper's, "Time After Time" at the top of his lungs. No there was not karaoke playing. It was not on the radio or TV. I have no idea why but he serenaded Kristy with his lovely, slurry version of this 80s pop classic. She in return made her tits clap as we walked out the door.

Thanks Virginia, I'll be back!

Ass Eating: The Competition

Today's photo is a reader submission from the Bearded Wizard of Funk—Keith Raines. Ladies watch your labias! This handsome chap shall be invading The Vile this weekend. Call now and schedule your appointment.

With the 4th of July passing and yet another contest of grown men & women deep throating hundreds of hot dogs—I want to start a movement.

First, I want to cancel the hot dog eating competition next year. Sorry Nathan's but we no longer care about your tubes of mismatched beef.

Second, I want to turn Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest into an ass eating competition.

Hot dogs no longer say enough or anything about America really. I know they are supposed to symbolize—well I don't know why this nation takes any pride in eating subpar food that really should be fed to hogs so we can make more subpar food.

How did the hot dog become a symbol of freedom and justice?

Freedom and justice is watching two chicks bang nine dudes while everybody is wearing chicken costumes and the remaining munchkins from the Wizard of Oz jerk off in a corner.

If you were to ask the random American pervert, which is most of the people reading this blog, what is more American today, porn or hot dogs? 20 out of my 23 readers would say porn.

Porn is everywhere these days. The internet, your nightstand, in that box your wife doesn't know about behind your ceramic life size Lionel Richie statue, etc., etc., etc.

So, I say we get the porn industry involved here. They can can provide tons of sponsorship opportunities and hell the asses that will be eaten. The rules will be simple, you have to clean as many assholes to a judges satisfaction in 15 minutes. You may choose a blindfold if you like but, your hands must be tied behind your back at all times. This means you can only use your face to dig in.

At this point, I know what you're thinking, "But those hot dog eaters depend on that competition for money and that's how they buy their children school clothes."

Well just to prove I'm not a heartless, those fine folks are all invited back. Sure. I don't want them to starve, I just want them to eat the assholes of disgusting, worn out, stretched out porn stars instead of eating the lips and assholes from hogs and cows.

Let's get carnivorous!

Safety Pins or I'm the Cleanest Motherfucker You Know

I am fairly anal retentive when it comes to keeping my house in order. 

This is odd to me for several reasons. 

If you look at the other parts of my life, they are anything but tidy.

My desk is littered right now with papers, projects, cords, empty water bottles, a real stuffed dog wearing a captain's hat that I bought at a thrift shop and a mysterious stain that I'm going to guess is from a Taco Punk taco. Hold please, let me check.

Yes, it's left over black bean drippings from last Thursday.

I also keep my car in a state of havoc. Mainly so anybody who would ever want to steal it, HA!, decides not to because it looks like a homeless man is living out of it. There are t-shirts, shoes, socks, a busted ass lawn chair and a funk that is a mix of gym fumes, gasoline and creeping death. I think I cooked a squirrel family last week inside the motor and didn't know it.

So with all the crap I have to deal with, I hate coming home to disorder, cat vomit on the floor and dishes piled up in the sink. 

While I can't stop my ancient, dementia-riddled cat from throwing up, I can stop the dishes in the sink from happening and try my hardest to never leave even a spoon in the sink.

So, while I was cleaning up the house after my divorce, I noticed a few odd things. Let me say this, I am not bashing anybody here, all I am saying is I have NO idea where/how/why what I'm about to write about happened.

After sweeping up several rooms of the house, I gathered these... 

Yes, this is a fuck ton of safety pins. There must have been 150. This is only about half of what I found and they were everywhere. I mean everywhere. Corners, shelves, drawers, floors, cabinets, stuck in the molding, I think I found one inside the bowl of my ceiling fan.

I have no idea how you accumulate this many safety pins and never notice it. It's as though I went to bed one night, there were two safety pins on the dresser and when I woke the two safety pins had just finished an epic evening of tantric sex. I am to only assume that these were the discharges from their marathon session of metal banging.

How the hell do you not notice this many safety pins?

Since then, I've instituted a house ban on paper clips, safety pins and clothes pins. I don't want to be ganged up on while I sleep and find myself punctured, pinched and organized.

Hail Satin!

I will never worship Satin!

I will also never worship anything that even comes close to the texture of it. I have one main reason and here it is.

Getting divorced changes a lot of shit.

One of the biggest adjustments has been finding a place to sleep, especially while battling (again sorry for this topic two days in a row, you're tired of it and so am I, literally) insomnia. Couches, spare bedrooms, friends houses in other towns, the gutter, the men's restroom in your local park, etc., etc., etc. Nothing has seemed right.

So in an attempt to actually get some sleep, I recently purchased a new bed and actually started sleeping in my own bedroom again—(insert infantile voice here)—like a big boy!


For a dude, I like to think I have above average aesthetics. So after repainting my bedroom, hanging new drapes and getting the bed, I picked out one of the crap shoot bed-in-a-bags. Yes, I should have done the whole duvet thing and will, but for right now this is what I have to work with. Sorry people! Sorry!


After one of my friends saw my first attempt at bedding, she shamed me into returning it. Fair enough. Her argument was every single dude had this bedding. Not being one for grand strokes of mainstreamity (I'm just making up words to cover up the fact that I bought shitty bedding), I returned it and exchanged it for something else that was far superior.


On the packaging for the new bedding it said it included, "micro-fiber sheets". Interesting. I thought I was getting some kind of space-age polymer that would alter my life and cause me to become bed ridden on purpose. Thoughts of hiring Mexican servants to bring me Chinese food in bed for the rest of my life were circling my head. I shall set the world record for staying in bed the longest. I will never leave my house and have to deal with traffic. Squirrels will tap dance on my windowsill. Birds will regale me with stories of the time they were eating each other out in public...

Sorry got off topic.

After opening the bag, the space-age polymer I was hoping for felt like cheap satin. Which satin feels like cheap silk. And silk is just fucking offensive, especially in sheet form. So this is the inbred son of an inbred father of an inbred grandfather. Yeah, this shit sucks. Majorly sucks.

But without raiding the sheets off the other beds in the house, which I had just washed and remade, I had no other choice than to try out these buck-toothed, slow-witted, cross-eyed, overhaul wearing, foot for a hand version of sheets. The results?

Fucking misery.

The first night while I was sleeping, I some how cut myself on them. Not kidding. There's a blood stain. Seriously. It's as though these damn things gathered together their micro fibers, formed themselves into a knife and took a gash out of my arm.

The second night, they decided to heat up to volcanic temperatures. Sleeping in a trash bag on the sun would have been more comfortable. My dog started barking at them in the middle of the night. I think because they had once again formed a knife and were headed for my skull. (Thanks Lou!)

The third night, I honestly think I was raped. I mean prison raped. Not the kind of semi-gentle back alley, "Eh, I don't really like this but it's a Tuesday and I have nothing else going on, wait let me fight just a little, okay, he's a big dude, it's okay." rape. I mean, "Owwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" rape. I hurt in places I'd never hurt before.

The fourth night resulted in some calm and peace. I think they were tuckered out from raping me.

Last night was the worst, so far. Rejuvenated and running on a diet of trucker crank, Kool-Aid packets and bull testosterone injections the micro fibers got together and formulated a plan of torture that would have rival the Marquis de Sade.

It started with volcanic heat, then cooled to polar bear level chill. This made me think that at some point they had started bloodletting me. So I got another blanket. Came back to the bedroom and the dog was digging at them like there was a chipmunk burrowing in my mattress.

After getting the dog calmed down from a foaming lather and the blanket on the bed, not 10 minutes into a deep sleep and we're back to volcanic levels of heat. Then, this is where things get dicey. The micro fibers unleashed a smell of plastic on fire. Not melting, but on fire. Which got into my nostrils. Which I then think altered my dreams for the rest of the night.

My dreams became violent, most of them focused on me getting the shit kicked out of me. One was me being trampled by horses. Another featured me in a void with a watermelon who only spoke Portuguese.

I awoke this morning with the undersheet wrapped around my fist and a pillow on my ass. The dog had also gotten up and was sleeping on her bench in the living room, which never happens.

I don't know what this all means but come payday, I'm tossing these fuckers in the river with a bag of cement and buying some 800-thread count cotton sheets.

Never buy micro fiber sheets. Never worship Satin.

Smoke Beer, Drink Pot, Fart A Lot!

It's Wednesday and I'm exhausted.


I come from a long line of non-sleepers. My great grandmother would stay up and listen to the radio almost all night. My grandmother used to be a CPA, which means from January 1st to April 15th, she rarely slept. We're talking at the most 2 hours a night. She still goes to bed at 2 and is up by 6 or 7.

I too have inherited this disease/affliction/condition/lifestyle.

As long as I can remember, the sleeping fairy has always dodged me. She just goes right past my window and on to my fat schlub of a neighbor.

Keeping up with work in college was easy because I never slept. Multiple weeks I would sleep 8 hours during a 5 day span. Early on in Chicago, it was easy to out write people or out work them because I would just keep going and going and going and this was with two jobs.

In the past few years, I still have the drive and the ability to stay up as long as possible. Getting up has gotten a little rougher but once my feet are on the floor I'm good.

If I get 6 hours of sleep a night, I'm awesome. But lately, it's not sleeplessness, it's full blown insomnia. Even weirder, it's been popping up for no apparent reason. No more stress in my life now than there ever has been. (Actually there is less.) No weird sleep patterns like sleeping 24 hours on Sunday. No changes in diet. Even my dog sleeps more than I do at night.

So maybe I will try the smoke beer, drink pot and fart a lot method to end my exhaustion.

Who knows.

-A

Jethro Tull Tuesday

Sometimes you get really drunk at a bar and decide to hit on members of the opposite sex who are way out of your league.

Sometimes you get really, really drunk at a bar and decide to do cocaine off a toilet seat.

Sometimes you get really, really, really drunk at a bar and decide to have a six person sex party and huff a bunch of rags soaked in gasoline while calling your mom on the phone.

Sometimes you get really, really, really, really drunk at a bar and decide to murder the bartender, eat his intestines and proclaim yourself the Prince of Mars.

Sometimes you get really, really, really, really, really drunk at a bar and decide to try the fish sandwich.

Then sometimes you get really, really, really, really, really, really drunk at a bar and decide to write "Jethro Tull" on the wall.


Shame on you people.

It's Monday and My Pederast Mustache is Coming in Nicely

Every once in a while amongst the gibberish and scrawl I come across an interesting drawing. I like this one because not only did it take the artist a bit to draw, he (it was in a men's room) took time to actually doodle in the Pederast/Mexi-stache.

Well done sir.

Growing up I went to school with a kid that had this kind of weird, wispy mustache. I think he got it around 10. Not kidding. This kid was already creepy without it. He didn't need anything else to vault him into the category of potential future pedophile, but sure as shit his velveteen lip buddy took him there. When I graduated and he got held back a year, his 'stache looked the same as it had when we were 10.

I'm pretty sure he now hangs out around playgrounds, cotton candy machines and free pony rides. It's weird to think about having gone to school with a sex offender. Could I have stopped him? What if I did slam his dick in his desk? If I wasn't such and asshole and always making fun of his mustache, would he have turned out to be a normal person instead of somebody's creepy Uncle that you're not allowed to hang out with alone?

Eh. So it goes.

A Good Ole Fashioned Friday Tit Ramble

The second weekend of the week is upon us. Can't remember the last time a holiday fell in the middle of the week, had the day off and then had to come back to work for two days. Odd.

Okay, I love a good tit. I don't know if there are many people out there who can't appreciate one or two. Gay, straight, from Zimbabwe, I don't know anybody who doesn't either love tits or can't at least say, "well those are nice," "oh look, those are perky" or "i wish mine looked like that."

Unlike the male undercarriage, tits and the female body are more widely perceived as objects of beauty. Male bodies are generally hairy, disgusting piles of weirdness with objects that look like they were taped on by a drunk 3 year old with some crazy glue and a pair of scissors.

I think God spent millions of years crafting woman in his mind and when it came around to creating man, he just kinda handed this assignment off to his mentally challenged brother Gary. I don't know if I buy this whole rib from a man thing. I think God's trying to cover up Gary's failed attempt at creating a life form. This is also why Gary now works in the aquarium section at a Wal-Mart in El Paso.

This all said, breast feeding in public just creeps me out. Two weeks ago, I had to get some papers notarized. I went to my local UPS store, did the deed and walked out. When I did, I walked right into full bore tit action.

Don't believe me. Take a look below.

(Yes, I'm the creepy guy taking picture of the ladies of Louisville breastfeeding in public from a vehicle that looks like it just fell out of a rape cave.)

Now image seeing this from about 2 feet away.

Freaked my shit out.

Do you look? Do you ignore it? Do you ask for the leftovers? What is the right thing to do in this situation? 


This happened to me once before at a party. Hanging out in a friend's backyard, a guest I didn't know, just took a titty out. I mean just wham, bam, OUT! Then she proceeded to cover it up 15 to 20 seconds later with a Hooter Hider. Well, what's the fucking point? We've all seen your milk engorged boob now?


My real question is, who does this? Who just pops a titty out in public to feed a child? If you didn't have a child, you'd never just whip out a tit unless Girls Gone Wild or beads are involved. What makes breast feeding in public, while not covering up, okay?

Anybody?

Total Piss Recon

I have no idea what the hell this is about.

Is there somebody out there scooping urine out of unflushed toilets and selling it on the black market?

How are they getting it out of bars?

Was this a drug fueled mission?

Please somebody help me make sense of this.