Good Touch. Bad Touch.

While I'm running low on images, I was shocked to see I hadn't posted this one yet.

This is one of my favorites.

And since I don't have too much time today to write a big long debate about, "Is there really such a thing as a bad touch?", I'll sum up my side of the argument with "NO, there's not."

Counterpoints?

Fried Bologna Sandwich Splatter.

Really? Really! This needed explaining? This warranted a sign? This actually fucking happened/happens?

Is there really some fucktard out there, driving around America taking paper towel dispensers apart in truck stops?

Are they stealing all the paper towels so they can take them home and use them to mop up all the fried bologna sandwich grease splatter? Because nothing, and I do mean nothing, sops up fried bologna grease like industrial paper towels.

Who does this? What is wrong with truck stops?

Sure you can buy trucker's speed, get a beeg from an "lady" named Hank and refill a 98 oz. thermos with Mountain Dew—but I remember when the truck stop paper towel dispenser was sacred. It was the bible of bibles. The king of the road's king of places to dry his hands.

Let's face it America. The more paper towel dispensers that get taken apart, the closer we are to being a society with those shitty hand dryers that just don't work. So, stop the apocalypse and "Do Not take Apart".

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).

Today, it's all about DICK!

Getting you assholes to read this site everyday is a chore.

Running a good blog is supposed to be about giving your reader good content so they keep coming back.

It's also about not calling your readers' assholes.

And hell, a good blog shouldn't have as much swearing as this one and probably shouldn't take so much joy in what is a really juvenile idea for a blog.

Well fuck that noise. Today, you get DICK.

That's right. COCKPENISBABYARMMUFFDIVERMAGICBABYMAKINGWANDGASHBASHER DICK.

So have a great day and enjoy the picture above of a/an:

• cock
• penis
• Johnson
• prick
• dinkus 
• baby-arm
• beaver basher
• baby-maker
• bell on a pole
• beef whistle
• boomstick
• burrito
• bishop
• bratwurst
• candle
• cranny axe
• cum gun
• custard launcher
• dagger
• deep-V diver
• ding dong mcdork
• disco stick
• dog head
• drum stick
• dong
• dork
• dude piston
• eggroll
• Easy Rider
• fang
• fearless, furless ferret
• flesh flute
• flesh tower
• fire hose
• fuck rod
• fudge sickle
• groin ferret
• heat-seeking moisture missile
• hose
• hog
• jackhammer
• Jimmy
• John
• joystick
• kickstand
• knob
• krull the warrior king
• lap rocket
• leaky hose
• little Bob
• little Elvis
• lizard (as in "drain the...")
• longfellow
• love muscle
• love rod
• love stick
• luigi
• manhood
• meat popsicle
• meat stick
• meat injection
• member
• meter long king kong dong
• microphone
• middle stump
• mushroom head
• mutton
• netherrod
• old boy
• old fellow
• old man
• one-eyed snake
• one-eyed trouser-snake (Australia, UK)
• one-eyed monster
• one-eyed wonder weasel
• one-eyed yogurt slinger
• pecker
• Pedro
• peepee (children's term)
• Percy
• peter
• Pied Piper
• pink oboe
• piss weasle
• piston
• plug
• poinswatter
• pork sword
• prick
• princess sophia
• private eye
• private part
• purple-helmeted warrior of love
• purple-headed yogurt flinger
• quiver bone
• rod
• rod of pleasure
• roundhead
• sausage
• schlong
• schmuck, shmuck (Yiddish)
• schnitzel
• schwanz
• schwarz
• shaft
• short arm
• single barrelled pump action bollock yoghurt shotgun
• skin flute
• soldier
• spawn hammer
• stick shift
• surfboard
• tassle
• third leg
• thumper
• thunderbird 3
• thundersword
• tinker
• todger (Australia, UK)
• tonk
• tool
• trouser snake
• tubesteak
• twig (& berries)
• twinkie
• vein
• wang
• wang doodle
• wanger
• whoopie stick
• wiener
• Wiener Schnitzel
• wick
• willy (children's term)
• wing dang doodle
• winkie (children's term)
• yingyang
• yogurt gun
• Moisture and heat seeking venomous throbbing python of love

Enjoy. Did I leave out any?

Reader Submission Wednesday—Mike Jones

Props go out to the fantastic Mike Jones for this week's Reader Submission.

Mike Jones is not a fictitious person. In fact, during the late 90s he was actually better known as Battle Kat. (See below.)

During the early 2000s, his wrestling career took a nose dive. Left with billions from rolling around, sweating on men and brushing up against their sausages, Mike combined his love of sausage and graphic design to launch a series of failed magazines.

First was...

Second was...

This was launched during Mike's "Spider Lady" phase. (Nobody really knows what that was.)

Finally, living having blown almost all of his Battle Kat money, Mike launched his last failed magazine...

Aptly titled at the time; however, the poor, jet setting, S&M, lemur loving crowd was just too poor to buy this magazine.

Sad, sad, sad.

Now Mike Jones is an avid duck bill model, toast making enthusiast and art director for Finelight.

To Mike Jones, this week's Reader Submission Shit Talking Photo Blog Submitter & Submission Person of Interest.

Jesus's Savior

Forget what the good book taught you. Forget those Sunday school classes. Forget all the hell, fire and brimstone that's been spewed out of a half drunk baptist minister. Jesus may have parted the Red Sea, conquered Russia with just a cantaloupe and fought off the Nazi at Normandy—but dammit Karl Malone died for your sins!

His sweat, that poured like the Rivers of Jordan hath fed the meek.

His hook shot hath cured the poor.

His sweet, sweet dunking abilities hath healed the lepers.

His short shorts hath risen from the dead and laid a triple double right on Satan's bare buttocks.

Hell hath no fury like a woman? Nay!
Hell hath no fury like Karl Malone going after a loose ball or the last remaining McNugget.

With his trusty side kick John Stockton at his side, the kingdom of Short Shorts shall punch the devil in the nose and bring freedom back to all of Terabithia.

Let freedom ring. Let freedom ring.

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!

If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself? I know I would NOT.

The Even Shitter Shit Talking Photo Week continues.

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."

The Even Shittier Shit Talking Photo Week.

Today's entry: "My guitar wants to kill your momma."

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JXCht5H9oU&feature=related