Bleached ARSEn

There are innumerable ways to augment the body in order to achieve a status that is considered alluring. If it were to be numerical, it would be thirty-six. Yes. Thirty-six is a fine number.

The one I am intrigued by is number 10. Anal bleaching.

I am proposing that everyone should have a bleached anus. It is not just for those who suffer from anal retentiveness. I say, let’s put another coat of color on that chocolate starfish. Let’s put some Clear Eyes on that puckered brown eye. Let’s turn that that o-ring into a white halo.

But how you might ask. Perhaps you do not want to schedule an appointment to visit your local cosmetic surgeon, or maybe it’s just not the same when you rub lotion on your own anus. If that be the case, I have the cure.

Toilets.

Now, if you try to tell me you do not poop, then you have no need for anal bleaching. Also, you are missing out on the eighth wonder of the world: deucing. For those of us who do use the facilities normally referred to as the bathroom, then this is for you.

Fill your toilet with bleach. Number one, it is a cleansing agent. Number two (which is what will provide the trigger to this catalyst), it will bleach your anus. In my experience, feeding the porcelain god can backfire. I say let’s use the backfire to gain results. What is this backfiring? It is when you poop, and the water splashing against your arse. For some reason, it never seems to miss the anus. Have you noticed that? They say water has no feeling, but those droplets of water seem to always zero in on the zero. Maybe it makes your stand up and yell, “Whoa! Homie don’t play dat!” Or maybe, for you freaks, you like it. In any case, what if we could turn that experience into a bleaching opportunity? Yes, it will have a burning sensation, but a white asshole comes at a price.

What will such a product be called?

Bleached Arsen – You know it’s working when it burns.

Extra Joke:

How do you know you are an asshole?

When you go to the dentist for a whiter smile and he recommends anal bleaching.

What Say You?

I created this blog to become famous.

I have been blogging for a year and a half.

I’m not famous…Yet.

I’m like Zach Stone. Well, not entirely. I’m not famous, but I’m not canceled. Meaning I have not eighty-sixed my aspiration. I have instead taken to WordPress to ask for some advice.

• Should I create a Facebook page for my blog?

I have analyzed the layout of several different blogs. Some have chosen to adopt the sociality offered by a Blog Facebook page. Others have crossed the desert plain and pick up their viewers mano a mano. I’ve done a mixture of both. I post my blogs on my personal Facebook and I frequent other blogs to spread the Good Will-you come and check out my blog. That way, it is the, “I scratch your back, you give me a foot massage,” ordeal. So far I have come across very few foot massagers. I tell them to not mind the calluses on the heel; that it adds character, but to no avail. I suppose I am curious as to how illustriously a Blog Facebook page contributes to the traffic of a blog?

• Does Stumbleupon draw a crowd?

This is not a new tactic for me. I have posted my blogs on Stumbleupon to help speed the traffic of my blog. Last year, it worked well. In every circumstance, I was gaining fifteen to twenty more views from Stumbleupon. I think they are on to my self-promotion though. Since 2013, I have probably had anywhere from fifteen to twenty views from Stumbleupon altogether. I know these Stumbleupon views do not bestow a consistent fan base, but they look oh-so-pretty on the bar chart. Just ask the ladies, or men. Do they want a 10-15 view length bar? Or do they way a 100-200 view length bar? Cosmetics are important in the world of blogging. I am curious as to what other people’s strategy is for approaching Stumbleupon. Have you found it worth your while or has it wiled away your worth?

• Should I change my blog name?

The name Titillating Thoughts has done me well during my blogging lifespan, but perhaps it’s time to give it a stronger pulse. I want my blogs pulse to relate to, “I’m overweight and I just ran twenty minutes, I may die right now.” That’s a powerful, erratic pulse. The methods in which to achieve this would be to come up an easily searchable, catchy name that relates to my posts. My honest thoughts on this are:

1. Hilarity Ensues OR The Ensuing Hilarity OR Am I Funny Yet?
2. The Funny Pseudologist OR A Silly Pseudologist OR The Honest Pseudologist
3. The Face of Facetious OR The Face in Facetious

Those are some of my top contenders at this point in time. I am unsure if it is possible to keep this blog, but change the name, but if so, those are some possibilities. What say you?

• Is buying a domain name worth it?

Is it…Is it really?

Third-Degree Thursday

I’ve been in pain the past couple days. It started on Tuesday. I was eating tater-tots. I do not care if you are four or eighty-three; tater tots are magnificent. They are like the french fries east coast cousin who is too hood for fast food. Anyway, I had just excavated a handful from the pan of sizzles upon which they rested.  I took one of the golden brown potato marshmallows and tossed it back. Figurative tears began to stroll down my cheeks. (Us real men are not criers; we’re BAWLERS. Oh…wrong type of ballin’.) They were tater-HOTs. I refrained from burning the roof of my mouth by quickly gulping it down my throat. There was no spitting it out; I was already committed to the feud. Upon me doing so, the burning sensation followed. It felt like Courtney Love was parading around my esophagus, it was a HOT mess. When the tater tot finally settled in the pit of my stomach, I knew irrefutable damage had been done. Unlike a rough whiskey, I had literally burned my throat. Hence the title: Third-Degree Thursday.

If I was a prostitute, my oral presentation would be shot shot shot shot shot shot; everybody! It hurts to swallow, and I may have blistered the lining. This is a newfound phenomena for me, but it will not be forgotten. Well, that is until the pain goes away.

Is that not curious? We have all eaten something well before it has reached an edible temperature. Some of us may have taken a bite, achieved that conclusion, and continued to engulf the food. We have all suffered the mouth burns, maybe some of us with lip burns, but that’s unrelated. The fact of the matter is, we are creatures of habit. A hot cookie is a tasty cookie. I’m not waiting for it to harden like my heart. Bagel bites need to be eaten straight out of the microwave. I do not have five spare minutes to blow on them like a chump. That’s why I am using the microwave. (Note: That’s not really why I am using the microwave. I am just a horrible cook, and processed bagel bites in the microwave is the salient option.)

I guess what I am really advocating is for people to stay away from burning sensations. Wear a condom.

Wait…

That’s all wrong.

Stay away from hot food, keep it above the throat. Otherwise your esophagus will say esofuckthis.

Box of Chocolate

There are only two positives that come from Valentine’s Day.

The first being Brach’s little candy hearts. I love those chalk candies. I pop them like House pops pills. (Bummer. This reminds me of the fact that House M.D is over and all my analogies involving that subject matter will soon be antiquated.) I devour those candy hearts like they are going out of style…Wait a second…This is, however, excellent news for my future spouse. I have designed a plan and all she will have to do to make me happy is to give me the “stuff”. A few pounds will suffice. As for this year, I have to buy it for myself on the Black Market. It is a little liquor store around the way, “Black’s Market and Deli;” delicious sandwiches.

The second is chocolate. This is not as luxurious of an item because its availability does not pertain to a specific duration of time. You may not be able to find exquisitely petite red boxes that scream “I’m getting lucky tonight!” or heart shaped chocolates, but chocolate is nevertheless present during every waking moment of one’s existence. Still, Valentine’s Day gives us, or shall I say me, the excuse to indulge. I put on my fat boy pants and go to town on that box. Nom-nom-nom-nom.

Which brings me to the point of all this. Why is it when you buy a Valentine’s box or classic See’s Candy assortment box that there is only ever one delicious piece of chocolate? And you know the piece I am talking about. The highly coveted caramel. The battle for that caramel piece gets intense too. Once that lid is lifted and the chocolates are exposed, it’s game time. The winner is that lucky sonofa%$#$# that get’s the golden egg: the chocolate caramel.

Here is how it goes down: I start this race by biting into one. Coconut? Flippin’ coconut? Why? Did I ask for an assortment of God’s most inadequate creations? Am I going to unearth Justin Bieber in the next one? This is horrible. I try a second chocolate. Nuts. If there is one way to quickly ruin a good thing it is by adding nuts to food products. Judging by past female reaction, that may be a quick way to ruin all good things. I bite the third chocolate. Some kind of dark yellow cream. Not horrible, and I’ll eat the entire chocolate, but by God I have to get back down to brass tacks and find that caramel. And it is usually in, on, or around this time that someone walks by and grabs a chocolate, and wouldn’t you know it, it is the caramel. It is upsetting. Not because I did not get the chocolate, I can live with that, but that they did not put in time for that caramel.

When it comes down to it, Forest Gump was right. Life is a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get…in a box of chocolates. People have to experience the bad ones to know the true value of the good. Or they could just buy the box that states what each chocolate is, but that would negate this whole post. And that, my friends, is no Bolshevik.

Wannabe Loner

I sit. And by sit, I mean lay down on my bed. I always do my best work in bed. I begin preparing myself for the writing task ahead of me. What will be the focus of my post? What topic will I hack the normalcy out of?

And that is where it stops.

I’ve realized something important about myself from my writing methodology. I am a wannabe loner. And by this I mean I want to establish an idea and catechize it alone, but I do not. My process is a little different.

Here is how it works: I prod the kitchen of my mind and find the correct ingredients to prepare my idea. This is difficult to do. Imagine being in a five star restaurant’s kitchen. Imagine all those rare succulent delicacies and piquant seasonings. The all too ample amount of the finest cookery spread throughout the islands, counters, and cupboards. Just imagine. Now times that by forty-two; the answer to life, universe, and everything; and you have the innards of my minds kitchen. May I remind you, this is just the kitchen. Once the required ingredients are obtained, I make dough. Yes, flour and water. When the mixture has accumulated into a solid mass, I make magic happen. I take that dough, the essence of my idea, and I do what any decent chef would do; I slap it. I slappa da dough! This is the most climacteric step in the entire ordeal.

This is where it goes from solo to a show yo.

In Mighty Morphin Power Ranger terms, this is where my Tyrannosaurus Dinozord joins forces and becomes the Megazord.

Or, in my kitchen analogy, it’s where I slap people in the face with floury dough. A much kneaded process. Hitting people with my idea both literally and figuratively allows my mind to churn. There feedback, albeit often irrelevant to the direction I take, aids me in flushing out that wondrous dough into a pizza masterpiece. Once this is done, I slather on the tomato sauce (glue of my story), overload it with cheese (the jokes), and sprinkle on some pepperonis (no symbolism, I just like pepperonis). And viola! A bost is porn.

While this blog is comprised of 93% of my own ideas, that 7% of others insight is a tremendous boost in making what is great, brilliant.  I am not completely alone in my process. I can’t be. Hence, I am just a wannabe loner.

Bookaganza

Books. Only a letter away from having my complete interest…You know, ’cause I love to cook and all. Ahem. Ahem. Still, I stand not at ease with books, but at attention. I love a finely worded sentence that when woven together with one thousand six hundred and ninety-one others, placed on a delicate roll of parchment, and professionally bound, construct a book. Books provide me with a mind-bind fond-bond experience! Once upon a time I thought about becoming a librarian. (Sidenote: Are you aware that all librarians have master degrees? I was completely unaware of the educational prowess it took to become a librarian. It turns out that you do not just need a pair of glasses.) Instead I settled upon a career in teaching. Just the same, fortune and fame are not in my future. Only an ample amount of free time awaits me. Such is the horrible trade-off (>.>). But with that time I can read these books that I have so fervently excreted over. Ever hear of the white album? Yeah…

I enter into sporadic spurts when involved in books. There will be months on end that I only read for necessity, and not out of the necessity of pleasure. Then, out of the fog (because the blue is limited in my realm), I will immerse myself in word soaked paper and read. I have been tracking my progress with GoodReads.com; a site I suggest you join and friend me, even if we are not actually friends and it is just a mutual agreement to criticize one another’s atrocious reading selections. Well, your atrocious reading selections, unless of course you are reading what I am. Then it is okay. Straight up. Word. Speaking of such, I do not care for the phrase: “The book is too wordy.” It is a book. It consists of nothing but words. And I know what they mean, but before we fix the book, let’s fix their vocabulary. Too wordy? Gah! I digress…

Now that I have expressed my interest in books and have established the amount of time I have to read such wonders; I need to find them. This is where I stand at another ill-slated front. Do I buy, borrow, or steal? I want to start defining my book collection, but I do not want to forfeit appropriate currency to build it. I have found myself wavering on a borrow/buy concept. First I will borrow the book from el biblioteca (library). I like borrowing from the library; the books have character. They are soiled and worn. Just imagine all the fecal matter that has been disposed of in the presence of one book. That is a lot of shits. And with shits, comes innovation – ideas. Or maybe just shitty ideas. On that same topic, I often wonder which is dirtier, a pornographic magazine or a library book? That’s a good ‘ole mind tickler. Anyhow, I borrow the book, read it, and if I enjoy its contents I will splurge the three dollars at a thrift store or Amazon PRIME and purchase that book for my collection. I know, this concept leaves people dumbfounded. Why would I buy a book I have just read and have no intention of reading it again anytime soon? Good question. No equally good answer. Because my bookshelf is bare? Because I want to support the authors (who are mostly dead)? Because I want my collection of books to be a representation of myself? Science fiction and fantasy mixed in with a touch of non-fiction and historical accuracy. Not all in one book of course, but that’s not to say that it can’t be. Historically accurate fantasy. Do you believe in magic? Perhaps in a young girls heart…Or maybe I buy the book just because…I do what I want.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It’s the most wonderful time of the year…Or at least it is according to the lovable tunes of the frequency modulation. And quite honestly, I concur. Who doesn’t love Christmas time?

If you do not love Christmas, get out.

No, seriously. #Serious. See, I am even using hashtags. Yeah. This just got real.

The hoary winter winds are the perfect way to usher in a White Christmas. However, a frosty blow does not necessarily correlate into a snowy peak. If you catch my drift. (That, my friends, was a wind-pun trifecta.) There is nothing finer than when the weather outside is frightful. It awards the opportunity to consummate one’s affection of hot chocolate. Toss a candy cane in that cup of bliss; it and I will both melt. Yes, it is a marvelous thing, until…You get to the bottom. Culminating under all those delicious tastes of chocolately goodness is the sip of hell.  And although I know that it is coming, I still place that cup on my lips and tilt it back. The peppermint aroma vigorously penetrates my nostrils and that nip of hot chocolate slips down my pallet; except there is little chocolate and peppermint galore. It burns like the DICKens…Hm. That might be a less holiday friendly burn. Regardless of burns, it is a sure fire way to clear your respiratory system if you think you might be falling victim to the pneumonic plague (Christmas cheer isn’t the only thing that is infectious this time of year).

Then, once the nostrils are clear of mucous membranes, you can embrace the fir. I know I do. I gravitate towards Christmas tree lots. It’s an addiction really. Smelling the sweet needles of joy. I don’t garden, but come Christmas time that is the department you will find me in. I am more of a Noble Fir man myself, but from time to time I have an afFIR with a Grand Fir. Other times I find that I just PINE for a Scotch. And no, that is not short for a Scotch Pine…Sometimes I just want a drink.

Add the lights (Go big or go home), carols (fa la la la), holiday goodies (popcorn balls and mint & chip cookies), and I can’t forget the movies. Christmas brings back claymation at its finest. Except for “The Leprechauns Christmas Gold.” Come on now leprechauns, you have your day. Yes you are green and look like little elves, but no. Not Christmas. I prefer to stick with the classics. My two favorite Christmas films are “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” and “White Christmas.” And then we have the always awesome Doctor Who Christmas special.

All the fine traditions of Christmas take me back to a simpler time. Each year is like a trip with the Ghost of Christmas past (I always picture Jiminy Cricket); reminiscing. Yet as I grow older, my childish joys diminish. The magic of Christmas is a gift that can fade. That is until I see the excitement on little children’s faces when they speak of Santa Claus. That is something that I look forward to replicating with my own devilish offspring someday. The magic of Christmas…

Hmmm…It got a little sentimental right there. Unintentionally so.

Lets wrap things up. Thank goodness I am dealing with words and not wrapping paper because it would be a mess. Too late for that you say? Ho Ho Ho…Funny. Let me attempt it anyway. I just want to congratulate a specific someone on their early Christmas present and wish the rest of you a Merry Chr…Bah humbug!

Ha. No really, Merry Christmas!

 

Brain Flatulence

I am obsessed with examining minor menial tasks and how people perform them. Lately, I have been busting academia nuts into spoonfuls of A+ wordage. In the process of writing my essays, I have noticed there are times in which my mind sputters and I absent mindedly write the same word twice.

An example: “They call me DJ Oriental because I lay down down crazy tracks.”

I thought this tantalizing incident to be of interest only to myself, but after further debation and observation…I am not the only one suffering from this brain flatulence. It is a prevalent phenomenon that appears to be only privy to those who are aboard the key; or those who use a keyboard. I have yet to read a handwritten document that demonstrates these traits. Then again, if it doesn’t have the all powerful red squiggly line under it, I assume everything is hunky-dory. All hail the red squiggly line!

The part that is most intriguing is what occurs during that short circuiting. Where does our mind go during the brevity of the moment? Are life’s greatest mysteries solved in the blink of an eye? Well, that is a little farfetched…for everyone else that is. I, myself, am quite capable of such measures, but just as capable of forgetting them in the same breath, or blink. My attention to analogies is short, it is like the…I am sure for that instant I have stopped wondering what’s in a wonder ball and have no longer pondered over the locality of the beef. If only I could recapture my epiphanies I could make the world a bett…well, no, that’s a lie; it would probably be the same.

There appear to be different types of mind blips. They can be quite frightening too. It is one thing when they occur in the privacy of my own home, but what about when they happen while driving? I experience these on an almost daily basis. I will be driving and enter a daze only to snap out of it a few minutes later. In the process of that daze I am to recall point F and point K, but you see (or should I say U C. Heh heh) I am not able to recollect the mid section. Who knows how many people I have slaughtered or even worse how many stops signs I have bypassed. Hm, come to think of it, I always snap out of my stupor due to oddly placed speed bumps. In my defense, who places a speed bump in the middle of a crosswalk?

I know I am not the only one to have these blips, absent mindedness, stupors, dazes, brain flatulence. How has it affected you? Do you ever think, “I hope no law enforcement shows up at my door or I receive a ticket in the mail?” Or maybe it’s more simplistic for you, and you only have to worry about grammar Nazis.

Or maybe I am the only one experiencing this and people are only agreeing with me that they too are suffering from said issue so that I may maintain my last strain of sanity.

Happiness is My Drug

The veins of expression, in state of austerity.

The drug of obsession, still sought with severity.

The frantic pursuit is bogged with despair,

The ecstasy remnants daubed with err.

The needle’s depleted, the traces remain.

The presence retreated, the memories engrained.

The euphoric sensation, emotionally thwarted.

The attainable elucidation is perplexed and distorted.

My addiction is plain, happiness my fixation.

My ability to obtain, manifested in desolation.

And so I remain enslaved to humanistic desires.

Immersed in cessation and what the future transpires.

Merging Idea

I’ve been engrossed in absent minded automobile steering during my exstintsive. (You see what I did there? To save internet space I conducted a merger of extensive and stint…Hm, although, now, this explanation of such Tom Foolery negates my initial purpose. Pooey.)  I have been incorporating the aforementioned activity to alleviate the contention that is circumnavigating the vessels of my mind.

Is this an effective strategy?

After heavy scrutinization I have established a concluded concurment. The strategy is effective given proper auditory balance. In layman’s terms that means: do not listen to melancholy melodies sad songs. To achieve happiness one has to want it. The band that puts me right in the head (Am I ever truly right in the head?) is Vampire Weekend. Even their glumified songs sound chipper. And so I just tune in, turn off, drop out, drop in, switch off, switch on and explode.

Explode you say? No. I type it apple-slice; get with it.

Anyhow, I have noticed explosions of road rage. Actually, I am unsure if what I do would be consider road rage. Perhaps it dons no classification. I question this so because during the act of, typed road rage, I am lacking true anger and aggression. Let me explain…

When performing the activity, I have this need to adhere to my code of driving. Rule #34 states that if driving on a two lane road and a merger is approaching that I should speed past the car in the opposite lane so that I am not forced to suffer sitting behind one more car. So I try to speed past them in attempt to secure the first place position. Usually I am successful in my expeditions, but I never quite think it through.

So what happens? I get to drive slowly behind the semi that is now directly in front of me.

I suppose I live for the instantaneous high. Unlike others I know, who drive like EMT’s juiced on coffee and smoothie kicks, my driving is pretty sane, so I thoroughly enjoy these little victories. Also, if you ever saw my car, you would realize that speeding or being a dare-devil is not in the CARds.

Here is one song from Vampire Weekend. I like the meaning.