Penmanship is bullshit.

Before I start, I know neither Ed Vanetten or Barefoot Danger (Dancer? Shit, we'll get to this in a bit.). I mean you no harm and hope you can settle this greater than/less than debate without the use of rusty butcher knives or tossing chili powder into each others eyes.

Business car trips usually spur interesting discussions.

I've discussed everything from dildos to taxes to gun laws to strip club buffets to the art of dinning and ditching from said strip club buffets to you name it.

Debates are also naturally going to happen when you put three or four people in a car who don't spend their days mucking out port-o-potties or stocking a bread aisle. (My apologies to the Wonder Bread folks, your knuckle dragging stockers are ironically not like your bread.)  Last week was no different. During a long car ride back from Atlanta, a debate raged on about how fuct, yes fuct, the American school system truly is today.

One of the most interesting areas that popped up in this debate centered around penmanship.

As a child, and still to this day, I have abysmal penmanship.

When I was in elementary school my teachers were constantly on me about the sloppiness of my writing. Notes were sent home, bottoms were spanked and every day after school while my friends would be play in their yards, I would be strapped to my desk or the kitchen table practicing penmanship.

Did five years of this make a difference to my handwriting? No.

Whether it was cursive or print, it never, ever, ever improved.

The only real thing that improved was my love of snacks and hatred for exercise—thanks Mom.

Anyway, while I would practice, my mother would sit over my shoulder. Every once in a while she would grab the pencil and my hand and try to "help" me form letters and words that didn't look like an abortion on my Big Chief Paper Tablet. Sure there would be a few words that would look okay—but more or less, everything I churned out was on the level of hoodrat graffiti.

It's not that I was a dumb kid or didn't get the basic shapes of letters and numbers, I just hated the idea of having to make every letter perfect.

This frustrated my mother to no end. She had no idea why she had been stricken with a script-sick dolt. She yelled, begged, pleaded with me and cried to the heaven's above, "Why dear Lord? Why have you cursed me with this child who as far as I can tell has the penmanship of a drunk bear? I'd rather have a morbidly obese child with a hair-lip and webbed feet than this sin to letters and words."

Then, my mother, a nurse, had the thought that enters all parent's minds when their child's handwriting is borderline special ed-equse. "He's going to be a doctor. Doctors have shitty handwriting, this is a sign! Sure he'll never be able to write a paragraph that is decipherable but he'll fix aortic valves, cure cancer and never have to put enemas up old women's cakeholes." 

My mother has spent decades describing to me the intimate details of having to fish fecal material out of old women's rectums. Maybe my handwriting was my family's escape from this level of near serfdom. 

Somehow my imperfect "q"s were going to elevate our family from the type of people who removed the final remains of last week's summer squash dinner out of Old Lady Henson, to the type of people who directed others to remove the final remains of last week's summer squash dinner out of Old Lady Henson.  

But this never happened.

My handwriting is still often described as "piss" by friends and family members.  My mother finally realized I was never going to be a doctor when I was around 14. One day my dad needed something from her while she was working in the emergency room in our county hospital. 

I walked into the hospital and I saw blood. I then proceeded to throw up. Which caused me to pass out in my own throw up. Unfortunately, my mom had to clean it up. 

Besides the sight of blood, touching anything described as "festering" really gives me and inward boner. Not cool. 

So I decided to go to journalism school. Now I am a Creative Director and despite my horrid penmanship, she thinks I turned out "okay". That said, penmanship is an outdated methodology and it's not sad for me to say texting, typing and emails have replaced it. 

Nothing requires you to use penmanship anymore:

• Nobody turns in a book report today that is handwritten.
• Nobody writes love notes—it's love texts, love emails or just flat out sexting.
• Nobody posts cursive proclamations to church doors anymore. 

Teaching penmanship in school is as useful as teaching kids how to run a loom, how to breed 

passenger pigeons or how to drive a steam powered thresher. 

I would rather the time American schools spend on penmanship be used, well, for ANY fucking thing that makes our kids slightly smarter! Shit, spend penmanship time on math. We could fucking use a generation that understands math. Because my generation is horrible at math, all of us—but fucking shit do our printed "G"s look amazing. 

Isn't that right Barefoot Danger? Dancer? Shit! I can't tell. 

Wednesday Reader Submission Day: I Fucked Yer Mom

Today's reader submission comes from the Grand Wizard, Keith Raines. Keith has been sending me good shit for months on end. Which makes me question how much time he's really hanging out in bar and truckstop bathrooms.

Today's post is going to be a little low on humor/excitement. Sorry. But it promises to be a bit enlightening, maybe.

I've posted this type of post before, but it's always interesting to me to see how people come across this blog. I don't publicize it too much. I toss a link up via Twitter usually twice a day whenever I post. I have a few friends I email it to occasionally. And every once in a while, people forward it on to their friends.

I'm not doing this to make money. More or less, it's to keep me writing something other than the usual drivel I turn out. At some point, I might like to actually grab all these photos, re-color correct them, redo a bit of the copy and have a coffee table book made—but that's a ways away.

Anyway, from time to time, I look at the back end of the blog to see how people are getting here via web search.

Take a look at Saturday's traffic...

9 of the 10 ways people got here is via a swear word. 

This makes me laugh. It also makes me happy—as I swear a lot. 

I love that "bear tits" got two different people here and "tits trucker" got one person here.

I am not sure I have ever used the phrase "tits trucker" before. Maybe I need to put this on a hat?

Anyway, here's to hoping, "I Fucked Yer Mom", gets me some traffic.

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?

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.

At least they're honest.

It's no secret—I LOVE a good beer.

But aside from pouring myself a 24 oz. Rolling Rock Tallboy at home—I know, I know it's not a "good" beer—sometimes you have to mix it up and head out for a beer in a different location, for a much more inflated price. 

In my neighborhood, there's a cool little bar called Zazoo's (The Paul Kerseys just blasted this place to smithereens a few weeks ago). The bar is a random hodgepodge, but overall it's laid back and I enjoy this aspect of it. 

Most of all, I appreciate their honestly. For example, the warning sign on their hand dryer. This hand dryer has been broken for at least 4 months. Which is common in bars. Shit breaks in bars usually by fratboy dickwads or slurring whores. Either way, it's refreshing when you come across something this honest, even if it means slightly moist pant legs.

Taste's Like Gold!

I love Chicago!

This was taken last February after copious amounts of Maker's Mark.

And until last week I had forgotten it was on my digital camera.

Which now, the statement of Taste's Like Gold, definitely applies to the Maker's I was drinking.

Huzzah for Maker's Mark!

Who needs an excuse to blaze one?

Well, the work load is finally catching up to me today. So, there will be no rants about Katherine Heigl, companies I can't stand or how I really don't care for fried pickles.

Instead, I leave you with this simple question.

What happens when you cross Vaginas and Jawas?

If you've seen Star Wars you know a...
Jawa (n.) Typically short rodent-like natives of Tatooine. They were passionate scavengers, seeking out technology for sale or trade in the deep deserts in their huge sandcrawler transports. A band of Jawas was responsible for locating C-3PO and R2-D2 and selling them to Luke Skywalker's uncle Owen Lars.


And if you're a human, we know a...
Vagina (n.) Well, I think we all know what this is.


As to Vagwas, I assume it's a Jawa's Vagina. 


Any other guesses?

This Just In!

I'm back! Yes, I know I've said these words before, but this time I really, really mean it. I've got a stockpile of great shots and finally the time to do this right. So call a buddy and tell them to move their internet browsing ass over to Just Shit Talking. We're back on track, but still way off course.

So what's happened since I last posted? Let's run down the list.
– I may or may not have been picked up by three African American prostitutes on the streets of Chicago. They may have also been undercover cops, I'm still not sure. It was weird. I bought them Red Bull.
– I broke a laptop.
– I broke a terrabyte hard drive.
– I broke an iPod.
– I broke out two teeth.
– I broke my thumb.

Yup, fall so far has been a regular unicorn rainbow farting contest.

Oddly enough, only the last two items on that list are related. A horrendous bike wreck left me with a face that looked like that kid from Mask and a lisp that made me sound like Cindy Brady on human growth hormones. While the teeth have been replaced, the thumb still sits in cast. Typing is hard and if I ever find the guy who almost ran me off the road, I'm going to smack him with this cast, break out his front two teeth and make him pay my medical bills. Watch out fucko in the red Chevy Cobalt.

Enough about me, let's talk about Hondo—he wants to pee in your butt.

Apparently, he isn't the only one. According to the always politically correct Urban Dictionary, so does G-Money. And up until the beginning of this posting, I never knew "LMPIYB" stood for "Let Me Pee In Your Butt".


Must we abbreviate everything—ASAP, EOD, LOL? What happened to the days when you could simply just ask your partner, "Hey, can I pee in your butt?". There's nothing sexy about saying, "Hey, baby, LMPIYB." 


Abbreviations are killing how we communicate. The more we create, the closer we are to devolving into grunting like cavemen, pigs and Jagermeister sauced up teenagers. Conversations in the business world are littered with way too many of these epileptic sounding sound bytes. And anymore, there are multiple meanings for each thing we abbreviate. 


For example, yesterday, I had to write something for work. Somebody handed me an abbreviation I wasn't familiar with (p.s. my job requires I know between 25 and 3000 abbreviations for medical terms, government agencies and bizarre-ass things that should never be abbreviated in the first place). So I googled the abbreviation. Low and behold the abbreviation has 19 different meanings. 19! 


So with that, I've reached my limit with abbreviations. I'm done. In fact, the next time I get into a conversation that goes something like this, "Well the ROI on this POD project are just to much to put against the FYB." My response is going to be, "Yeah, you're right, the LMPIYB numbers are really down."

This is now what you get for using abbreviations around me, especially one that has 19 meanings. LMPIYB!

Eats Shit!

Who eats shit?

I eat shit.

Sorry for shutting this thing down for almost a month again. At this point, I'm becoming more sporadic than conversations with a dementia riddled grandparent.

Sorry, I'll try to do better.

Anyway, the chains are off. And it looks like semi-normal posting will resume.

Thinking there might actually be two posts today.

Here's to Crocs and Condoms

Usually, I go on and on with long-winded copy about whatever I post.

Today however, the picture says it all... "Here's to Crocks and Condoms, 2 Things I'll Never Wear."

Just perfect. Enjoy your summer day of shoeless banging.

Even though "Crocks" is misspelled.

It's 4/20.

What's up stoners?

I hope you're happy. Your pot smoking has caused a national underground holiday. A monumental shutdown that has placed this country in the throws of uncertainty and disrepair.

Lazy, lay about, no good, drug-dealing sons of bitches. You're the reason Al-Qaeda is winning.

I blame you for the $14.3 billion deficit and medical conditions like aspergers. You're also the reason my lettuce won't stay fresh even though the expiration date is three days from now. It should be fresh. But nay, it has the rot.

Thanks a lot. You people make me want to throw myself under a fast moving, southbound train.

And that whole state of California, with their lose morals and medicinal marijuana. Whole ding, dang state is going to sink into Satan's Ocean. What are the doctors and dispensaries thinking? Do they realize they are creating a pandemic of mellowness and drifters? Unemployable deadbeats and the next generation of land pirates.

Because of their irresponsible "chill out" attitudes they've endangered generations of children against the hoards. THE HOARDS I TELL YOU!

This is a battle. Our national supply of Twix and Doritos are at stake. Wake up! Do you want some foreign marauders invading our pearlesque supermarkets and raping our bag boys? Taco Bell's will surely be next to fall. They'll suffer a wrath unseen since the devil's army tap danced on Jesus's grave.

Oh, whoa is America.

Thanks potheads.

Oops!

Got dang!

Running a blog, even one that doesn't get that much traffic can be a weird, weird experience.

Besides CWWI–Cyber World War I–with the Italians, there are a bunch of kooks and chuckleheads that end up coming to this site. Many come straight from Twitter which is my main feeder of people. But others, according to the analytics, get here some odd ways.

I know this might sound techie and geekie but hear me out, this stuff if pretty funny.

Here are just a few of the odd ways people are finding me on the interwebs.

One person searched google and came to this blog after they typed in "just take a load off shit". I'm not sure if somebody was looking for advice on how to take a shit after they got off from work or if they were looking to for lyrics to "The Weight" by The Band—"Take a load off Annie, take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, And (and) (and) you can put the load right on me."

Which now, if you apply my first reasoning for why people got here searching "just take a load off shit" sounds reallllllllyyyyyy gross. Cleveland Steamer Ahoy!

Another person came here after searching for "stacy & bryan". I've never mentioned either name on this blog. Much less do I know a couple named "stacy & bryan". Both are retarded ways to spell your name. Get with it Stacey & Brian.

Two. Two people ended up here from howtoattractwomentips.net. Really? What the hell? How? What kind of mouth-breathing, spineless, sweaty, pasty basement dwellers are coming here? Are fucking 12 year olds reading this site? If so, then I probably shouldn't have said "fucking 12 year olds" a sentence back. And now that I've said "fucking 12 year olds", I'm sure this site is going to blow up with pederast traffic. Great. Thanks howtoattractwomentips.net you're responsible for covering my next set of court costs.

Every month. EVERY month at least two people search for Andre LaDuke. Andre, please tell your mom where you've relocated to.

Here's one more odd thing about my site, which I have to figure out how to fix. This is what you get if you search for my blog through Google. I rank fairly well, but read the description "hello, I've been alone with you inside my mind. And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times, just shit talking."

I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN THAT SENTENCE. And if I did, I'd be really embarrassed. I need to work on my meta description so people again don't think I'm "fucking 12 year olds" with shit like this.

Dammit.

Okay pederasts, have fun with this site let me know when you're done.

Get It On, It's Valentine's Day!

I want to dedicate today's post to Lionel Richie—King of the Creepy Bang Jam?

Tell me "Hello" didn't help sell a million single roses and cause the birth of a tens of thousands of kids back in the 80s.

For those not familiar with "Hello", shame on you. Head over to iTunes, download 10 copies and send them to people you love/want to really creep out.

Okay, let's break this bad ass jam DOWN!

"I've been alone with you inside my mind
And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times
I sometimes see you pass outside my door
Hello, is it me you're looking for?"


Damn. Lionel was obsessed with this chick in the hide in your bushes, steal your underwear out of the dryer, sniff your hair on the bus kind of way. We learn a couple of things about his lusting. First, he had some serious wet dreams about this chick. Really, a "thousand times"? He must have gone through more sheets than the Vegas Hilton during a porn convention. Second, Lionel Richie has X-Ray vision. He can see her "pass outside my door". I wonder if he also has heat vision? Either way, Lionel is creepy and can see through doors and I'm assuming skirts. Call me Lionel.
"I can see it in your eyes
I can see it in your smile
You're all I've ever wanted, (and) my arms are open wide
'Cause you know just what to say
And you know just what to do
And I want to tell you so much, I love you ..."


Alright so he's apparently gotten into a stare down with this chick or he has a good view from behind a ficus. If he doesn't know her, then how does he know she's all he ever wanted? What if she has a laugh like a horse? What if she has a wooden leg? What if she pops her zits and eats the pus off crackers? Lionel, as long as you're creeping around, do a background check on this chick, she could be really mental.

"I long to see the sunlight in your hair
And tell you time and time again how much I care
Sometimes I feel my heart will overflow
Hello, I've just got to let you know" 


By never being able to see the sunlight in her hair we have to assume he's lurking after her post sundown? And is his heart overflowing or is it a heart attack? You don't see a lot of  peeping Toms eating salads while they're on the hunt, they usually have to rely on Fritos, Cherry Coke and Little Debbies. Get your heart checked Lionel to make sure your angina isn't flaring up.


'Cause I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely, or is someone loving you?
Tell me how to win your heart
For I haven't got a clue
But let me start by saying, I love you ...


Okay, this verse makes it seem like he's lost track of her for a couple of days. This is what happens when you take your surveillance photos to a Walgreen's that's not one hour.


Hello, is it me you're looking for?
'Cause I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely or is someone loving you?
Tell me how to win your heart
For I haven't got a clue
But let me start by saying ... I love you 


Sad. This ends so sad. Unrequited love. Lionel never got a chance to do whatever vile, downtown, dirty ass fantasy he had developed in his head. I bet it involved nipple clamps and a car battery.


So with that, back to work. Here's to Lovers!

Dude Eggs

Okay, okay, okay, sorry about the time between posts.

I promise I am working on upgrading this horrid little site.

Until then, here's today's post—I have no idea where I grabbed it from though. All I know is it has a slang in it for testicle's I've never heard before—"Dude eggs".

Matt Fisher, I have no idea who you are but your friends are genius. They've developed a new term for nuts, nard, the boys, sack, nuggets, bollocks, coconuts, huevos, baby makers, etc. Way to go and way to use it to embarrass your friend on a bathroom wall and now the internet.

What's your favorite term for balls? 


Drop it in the comment box. 

Winner will receive a week of posts dedicated to you or a Corvette. I haven't decided which yet.

I'm running on empty.

"Why so many lies?"

No lies here, just the honest to gotdang truth!

As we get close to the end of the year, my Shit Talking reservoir of photos is running a bit low. I have enough to make it to the end of the year and I also have quite a good batch of reader submissions to run, but this is the 82nd Just Shit Talking post. That's a lot of bathroom graffiti photos.

But good news!

I will be off for two weeks, starting next week, and plan on hitting between 25 to 40 bars in Kentuckiana (or Indiucky depending on your preference). No, I will not be drinking at them all, maybe just one or two. I going to try to actually use a real camera to nab another year's worth of photos—OOHHHH WHO FEELS LIKE A BIG BOY!

I also am going to spend the time off upgrading this site some, right now it's pretty much shit. No real design here whatsoever. No real thought into this ugly bastard, just 'get the photo up and try to make fun of something/somebody'. That has to be fixed. I'm kind of ashamed of the little blasted thing really.

So, stop your lies. Santa (or Satan) is watching (again, depending on your preference).

This is what Monday feels like?

Ugg. It's not just a Monday. It's a Monday in December.

Snow is on the ground and in the air. And with two weeks of vacation just two weeks away, productivity is at a low and egg nog consumption is at a high.

Part of me wants to go lay under the Christmas tree with my morbidly obese cat.

Somebody go get me another glass of egg nog, I need a nap.

Lambeau Field gets shitty.

Welcome back to day three of Shit Talking's Even Shittier Photo Week.

"Sanitary Vent"

Today's even shittier shit talking photo comes from the frozen tundra of  Lambeau Field. Again, thanks to the AMAZING camera on my camera phone, which doesn't have a zoom feature, this is about as close as I could get to "Sanitary Vent". Also, notice a blurry finger in the foreground—expert photography, here, expert photography.

I did some light searching and can't come up with what a "Sanitary Vent" does, nor do I really want to know. Plus, I'm feeling really lazy today. Anyway, "Sanitary Vent" just sounds gross. Should we rename it "Shit Tube."

Regardless, being married to a Green Bay Packer fan has rubbed off on me. I admit it. Growing up in central Kentucky, there was no football to cheer for—UK sucked, the Bengals sucked and so did the Colts (besides the Colts were from Indiana).

Go Pack Go!

Go Shit Tube Go!