Welcome, Truthites!
For those who may have met me for the first time at the friday Summit of Truth, or those who I will meet Sunday at the schiznits at fritz’s, welcome! Rather than read through the whole dreck of this site, let me direct you to the good stuff: Why I don’t drink part one and two
Some Crapblogging. Careful, these are not pretty, as a general rule. Really.
Also remember, scatology need not involve poop.
Then there are the traffic rants. This is the most vitriol filled one. There are plenty more.
That’s a random sampling. If you like that read more. Still, those should be cause enough for a restraining order.
The grandiloquent symposium of truth was a resounding success, as usual. The elite Ambassadors of Truth were treated, in order of their arrival, to the SUV Limo of Truth ride from the Truthorosa International Airport, which included the Champaign fountain constantly flowing from a statue of one of the nubile 72 virgins commandeered from Osama bin Ladin. She was captured in Iraq by one of the guests of honor and truth, Sarge. Sarge had to hid the statue in a pair of moldy socks stashed under his underwear to make it through customs. (Why does our military have to go through customs?) After being lavished with exotic epicurean delights and the nectar of Bacchus, the attendees were taken to the banquet of truth to devour every sort of living thing Og could set in his sights. There was no Bar-b-qued tripe. Such was the festivities the the vomitorium of truth had a waiting line. Luckily, I had a bag with tissue paper in it.
The head of the security detail, Campaigner, was forced to call out the dogs to prevent certain, shall we say, undesirables, from scaling the gates of Fort Truth. Little did these miscreants realize the walking stick he sported was really a samurai sword. That is until they were missing several fingers and navels. Not to worry, Og bar-b-qued them.
The ever affable Biloxi regaled us with the wisdom and truth that he has found throughout the world. How does he find the time to do it all?
Macheteia’s roses were in full bloom when The Machetè of Truth, himself, ran the golf cart of truth through the garden. I’m glad I won’t be there when she gets home. Sources that wish to remain anonymous claim Campaigner was seen piloting the Yacht of Truth down the Cal-Sag.
The send off by Andy Williams singing Metallica songs was a nice touch.
That’s why I love you, man. You can tell a story.
Mr. Og,
I have spoken to the Machetè about my roses. He asserts they were not damaged by the tork of the golf cart, but rather the damage looks more like crop circles. Did you have a helicopter in the area on the night in question?
I have been genetically engineering these glorified weeds for years and if I find out it was your gas guzzling helicopter, I don’t care if it was a former Marine One, I’m gunna have the whole fleet grounded if I have to bring them down with birdshot. Do you understand me, Mister?
That was last year. I landed on Biloxi’s yacht. The stones were playing on the fantail, remember? He’s just trying to keep you from taking away his turbine powered golf cart toys.
And: Mr Og? That’s like waxing a turd. It’s Og.
Waxing poetic, Og?
Jeez Og, I almost died reading your “crapblogging” stories. Had to call the old woman up here 3 times to read them as well; she couldn’t figure out why I was laughing like an idiot on dope. (she thinks farts are funny too!)
In keeping with the theme:
I had an issue with not being able to, er, attend to nature’s expectations. It was suggested to me that prune juice is the way to go. Fair enough. Got me a 64 oz. bottle (the economical way to buy it), & drank 3/4 of it quickly in one sitting. Well, one sitting is the precise description. I thought I was damn near to crapping my brains out before it stopped. I was dehydrated & had “burning butthole”.
Come to find out 6 oz. is recommended.
NOW they tell me…