Pantyhose Rock.

Sometimes you have to do something that doesn't make a lot of sense.

Like getting involved in a eBay bidding war and then realizing, "Oh fuck, I have to drive 9 hours to pick up this 400 pound fucking thing."

This is what how one ends up in a trailer park in the middle of nofuckingwhere North Carolina on a random Saturday in April.

This is also how Just Shit Talking on Blogger is ending.

It's time to enroll Just Shit Talking, in the witness protection plan and move it to Boise, or in this case tumblr—which is the Boise of the internet world.

Here's why...
– I miss posting stuff a lot of the time because Blogger is such a pain in the ass on an iPhone. This means I take shit loads of photos that sit in my phone and I forget about them.

– tumblr will make it easier to post photos. This will probably result in more photos and slightly less rambling. SLIGHTLY less.

– I don't feel like doing a Blogger redesign. Sorry. Not lazy. Just lazy.

– I need a change. I feel like I've become a little stagnant.

Here's what else...
– Name change. Hey. I love Just Shit Talking but I think it has run its course.

– Just Shit Talking the book. I'm currently looking into how to make this happen. Not sure it will be a this year thing, but I'm going to try to make it happen. I want to go back through all the glut of images and copy that I have and see if I can't make something cohesive. Or if not cohesive, something at least random enough that white folks will want to put it on their coffee table and dust around it.

For right now, here's the new home of the former Just Shit Talking.

There's nothing there right not except for a test page and photo but gimme a few days and I'll launch this pig in proper fashion.

Turn Me On.

Spring has sprung, which means it's time for hard-ons and twitching laibas.

Love is in the air. So is pollen. So is the overwhelming smell all of the dog shit I've left in my neighbors yards all the winter.

While I love spring, the biggest drawback is now having to pick up my Cojack's shit. My philosophy in the winter is this—it's winter, nobody goes into their front yard. Who's going to notice an 22 pound dog's shit?

Am I bad neighbor? I say no.

Do I make meth in my basement? No.
Do I rent out my extra bedroom to a pedophile? No.
Do I walk around in my front yard and wave my wiener at traffic? Only on Tuesdays.

I'm a pretty good neighbor. Come on, I let the neighborhood kids smoke pot behind my neighbor's garage. I only pee in my yard when it's realllllly dark. And I occasionally, just occasionally, judge people based on their recycling—I'm looking at you Mr. Natural Light and Organic Milk, come on man balance the quality of your liquids out.

So a little dog shit that will pollute the ground water and cause a few blades of grass to grow with  super eco-strungth really isn't that bad of a thing.

I'm really more of a got-dang greenthumb. You're welcome neighbors. Now get back to your spring-fuck-flings.

I got fucked like a whore in this bathroom.

Oy Vey!

It's been a month. A long, long. long month.

Last week I traveled over 3,000 miles—and a good part of that was by car.

But with travel comes weirdness, adventures and more Shit Talking Photos.

So part of my trip included four days in the Upper Northwest. Or as I like to call it, The Sad States, because of the rain and dust bowl like conditions that would make John Steinbeck slit his wrists with orange crate shrapnel.

So to chase the blues away, I ended up visiting the EMP museum, four microbreweries, a couple of record shops and took in a Phoenix concert. (I also ended the night in a carnival themed pinball bar, but that's another story.)

At my third microbrewery,  I picked up a drifter. We bonded over some high gravity IPAs and our hatred for the University of Louisville. He was 25 and a engineering grad student at UCLA. I gave him a ride to the fourth microbrewery on my list and doled out advice like an old man.

Weird times.

I'm quite glad he decided to fuck me like a whore in a bathroom. This is probably every straight man's biggest fear.