Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Number One with a Tiny, Urine-Soaked Bullet!

Time and again I've expressed my disdain for using public urinals. I'll go to the bathroom with four walls around me, but urinals are things that only rapists would use if rapists ever went to the bathroom and not inside the hollowed-out skull of a recently-murdered hooker. I've tried to explain my hatred of them to people over the cacophonous echo produced by the pounding of the scientifically-improbable forked stream of inside juice on the water in the bowl in front of me, but people don't get it.

Now, however, I've brought visual evidence as to why I refuse using these terrible devices. I won't say exactly where this is, but I'll just say I have to use it a lot. Like about 8 hours a day. Not consecutively. I'd be emptying out the juice in my eyeballs after about 20 minutes.You see what we have here? Setups like this are why my penis cries itself to sleep at night (salty, bloody tears).

First, you'll notice the divider between the two. That's not a divider. All that is is a headrest for the dude peeing next to you to rest his chin on while he stares longingly into your eyes whlie you're going to the bathroom. Not cool.

Second, you'll notice the striking height difference between the two. Again, without giving too much away, I'll let you know that this particular urinal is in a place where children would not normally be. Now, that leaves two options for the circumstances surrounding somebody walking up and using that one while I'm using the one on the left. The first option is that somebody comes up with a mighty, Birmingham firehose stream of waste that will, undoubtedly, provide ample splashback and, thus, I now have some guy's piss all over my shoes. If I want somebody's urine on my legs, I'll go hang out in the kiddie pool. Fuck the restraining order.

The other circumstance is even worse than this. I'm standing there and a midget comes up next to me. Look, I don't mind midgets at all, but it's when he asks me for a boost that I lose it. How's a guy supposed to shit with a midget on his lap? Have you ever tried to take a dump with an erection?

See what I did there? There's like four twists in that last paragraph. Look out, M. Night Shyamalan. There's a new Hitchcockian sheriff in town and he's got his thesaurus open to the word shit.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Lady Laser and Her Magestic Baby Seal!

This post has nothing to do with the title, I just started typing and that happened.

On with the terribly disturbing show.

I'm not a boob guy. I realize that this sounds like a contradiction to most people since, if you're a straight guy, you are, by default, a boob guy. But that's just not me. I'm turned on by other things in a woman. Show me a girl with a nice, thick cock, and I'll be happy.

Is that gay?

I like it when a girl has a gigantic dick. I'm talking like one where I can't even wrap my fingers around it and have them touch. And I have long fingers. And I also have an insatiable hetero-thirst for a sexy-ass chick with a fierce dong.

I love it when she's wearing a thong and her balls dangle out both sides of the thin bottom, her hairy beanbag dissected by a thin strand of cotton. Maybe some dudes won't agree with me, but, trust me, it's way hot.

Plus, what good are boobs on a girl if she can't, without the use of outside devices, just piss all over them? I mean, sure, if we're at home, she can always use the goblet-shaped trophy I won in GATE for solving the stumper, but what if we're camping? I rarely bring that trophy camping. How is she going to turn me on by urinating all over her own titties if she isn't properly, naturally equipped.

By now, some of you are saying to yourselves, "What is this dude? A homo?" Calm down. I still let her know who wears the pants in the relationship. I won't ever go down on her after she fucks me in the ass. Only before.

And, finally, she better be sporting a half-closed, hermaphrodite vaginal slit starting at the base of her balls or that's just fucking gay.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Squeezing Blood from the Electric Stone!

The Internet, in its very existence, is meant to make people money. And when I say people, I'm talking about me. Now, while some may refer to me as a "monster" because of my penchant for clubbing baby seals with the skulls of third-term aborted fetuses filled with lead, I still technically classify on the scientific tree as a Homo Sapien. My Kingdoms and Phylums are the same as heroes of this world like Martin Luther King, Jr., Einstein, and George W. Bush.

Since the Internet is a place where people pass around money to one another like hugs at the Special Olympics, I've found that the best way to do this is become popular and sell stuff (I've outlined this easy-to-learn money-making process in my new, zero page book entitled, "Become Popular and Then Sell Stuff: A Winner's Guide to Money!"). But, everybody who makes money on the Internet has a hook. eBay has that whole thing where they pretend like they sell stuff to people. Amazon works in a similar way except they also sell circus animals. Then there are sites like homestarrunner.com who do entertaining things and then people buy their various merchandise adorned with the sayings or characters that have become popular.

Now, I've been writing this thing for almost three years now, so I must have accumulated a ton of things that can be put on legwarmers and the backs of pocketwatches that can be used for merchandising, right? Unfortunately, this is not the case. Therefore, I have two options.

The first option is that I completely stop this site, switch gears, and work on a brainchild of mine that has been haunting my dreams for the past few months with promise of tens of dozens of dollars pouring in. This is where I start a once-a-week, funny, Internet Chinese cooking show done only in text. I don't have many ideas beyond that except for the title: Wok and LOL. If that's not money in the bank, I don't know what is. That previous sentence is only half-true. I'll leave it to you to figure out which half it is. Email your answers to WokandLOL@thisemailaddressisntreal.org.

So, since that's already been picked up by NBC and is in development as we speak, Kurtsy still needs to make some money until that drops Summer of '08 right after the new runaway smash hit Deal or No Deal, Just Kidding, You're Adopted.

That's where t-shirts come in. If you put the phrase "funny t-shirt" into the Internet, every web page comes up. Well, every web page that makes money. And, since I'm hilarious, and I fucking love shirts, that's where I come in.

I'm going to throw a few ideas out there and they'll all be awesome. Here goes.This is easy.
I love t-shirts!
Comedy comes in threes!
That's why I do four.

Man, it's like printing money. Except it's like what would happen if you could print the opposite of money. Some form of currency where it steals bits of your soul when you spend it. Like what happens when you buy clothes for animals.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Mo' Money, Mo' Problems!

Have you ever tried to pay for something small with a fifty dollar bill? Worse yet, have you ever tried to go in some fast food place and just get change for a fifty? They look at you like you’re holding one of those cartoon bombs that looks like a giant bowling ball with a sparkling wick hanging out of it. It’s as though you two were playing a game of hot potato with, say, a baby you were supposed to be watching or a gun that you were being hunted with and then, on the last pass back, they handed you one ACME Kaboom special.

It’s a blank-eyed look like, “Is he going to notice that he’s holding a fifty?”

I know it’s a fifty. I just want change.

It can never be simple. First, they take the bill from you like they’re running third-string IED lookout duty in Iraq. They examine it like the Coke bottle from The Gods Must Be Crazy. Then they call over the manager. You can always tell who the manager is at the fast food restaurant because he or she is the oldest and looks the saddest.

The manager comes over and the cashier says something like, “I don’t know. He handed it to me and he swears that it’s money. I’ve never seen anything like it before, though. It’s probably counterfake.”

The manager regales Mister or Misses Cashier Person with tales of how once, three years ago, C. Thomas Howell came in and paid for his and his friend’s meal with one of these. He was wearing a snowsuit and kept shouting, “Wolverines!”

Finally, after lots of discussion, they turn back to me and say, “Sorry. The highest bill we accept is $20.”

Jesus Christ.

Carrying around a fifty is like a modern-day Scarlet Letter. Except, at least Hester Prynne got some (I’m writing this sans Internet, so I can’t look up her name. If I even got her name close to right, I’ll be shocked). Hookers don’t even take fifties. That’s why you just murder them afterward (or before).

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Where in the Capital Fuck Have I Been?

Remember how you used to come here and read things that I wrote? That was awesome. Well, I've been pretty much the busiest I've ever been since I had to make a ceramic T-Rex in GATE in the second grade. If you saw that T-Rex, you'd understand the implications.

Yeah, I was in GATE. Jealous? We learned sign language and Braille. Which will come in handy when I either need to yell at a deaf person or write a blind inmate a letter.

First, I got a job. Now, I can't exactly talk about what I do because they kind of warned us against divulging too much information via blogs or other stuff. But I can say that I work for a very prominent Internet company (whose name is something one might exclaim while riding a bull or throwing a picnic basket with a baby inside over a bridge) doing editing-related work. I also participate in the art of vaguery. Or I might not. Whatever.

Ironically, aside from work, I've been pretty Internet-less. Hence me not writing anything ever again. I've been busy moving to Burbank (with help from friends and my best friend, my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ--that guy can carry a ton of shit--he carried me on the beach) which is where I'm typing this from. I won't really have Internet until a week from today, but I came home from Universal City Walk (which is, I'm convinced, an advertisement for half-shirts on fat girls) to find that my computer had found somebody's open wireless Internet connection and latched on for dear life. So, I figured I'd take advantage of Lady Fate shooting her She-jizz of Fortuity upon me from her hermaphrodite half-penis and give a quick write-up of what's been going down.

I saw Cars tonight. Fucking shit. Never see an animated movie in a theater. There's probably a good six-inch deep river of sticky infant drool that has accumulated at the front of the theater by the end credits. The room is constantly abuzz with different gurgles, giggles, and "Mommy, I have to pees." And that's just me and my friends--ZING! Seriously, though. Why can't kids be born at about age 14? Sure, gine-gines would get ruined in the process, but that's a risk I'm willing to have women take. The movie was okay, but it's definitely not Pixar's best. The short film at the beginning, though, was awesome.

If I can get back to Universal City Walk for a second, fuck that place. They called the area where my friend left his car Jurassic Parking. When I saw that, it infused my soul with a rage that would not be washed off with a thousand reincarnations.

I had to go last weekend to pick up some home-living materials from the nearby Target. Wow, was that place ghetto. There was a good 90 square foot area of the ceiling that just didn't have tile. There was another part in the store that was roped off with yellow tape like somebody got raped in the bike section (and that's not a pun).

That's all I have for now, but look for more from me after next Saturday. That's when I should finally be able to get back to updating this thing on a regular basis again. And, I'll finally have t-shirts for sale!*

*No I won't.