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.
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.
How do you know you are an asshole?
When you go to the dentist for a whiter smile and he recommends anal bleaching.
I created this blog to become famous.
I have been blogging for a year and a half.
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:
- Hilarity Ensues OR The Ensuing Hilarity OR Am I Funny Yet?
- The Funny Pseudologist OR A Silly Pseudologist OR The Honest Pseudologist
- 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?
As a young tike, I remember watching The Simpsons. I was always intrigued when Homer would stroll into Moe’s Tavern and order a beer. Moe would grab an icy mug and fill it up with Homer’s favorite Duff beer. The head of the beer flowing over the rim of the mug; exuding a succulent presentation. It always made Homer content to be downing the cold beverage. The foamy goodness of the beer head reminded me of the sugary texture of cotton candy (or “fairy floss” if you are from down under). I yearned for an opportunity to drown my taste buds in it. When the day arrived on my, ahem, TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY, ahem, I ordered a Newcastle Brown Ale at a local pub. The beer had a good head on it, and all my childhood memories of the Simpsons flooded my mind. I lifted the glass to my lips, feeling the condensation of the glass on the palm of my hand and the droplets of fizzled beer splashing about. I tilted my head back and took a big gulp.
Yucky. Yeah, men say yucky.
My dream fell into ruins. It turns out that receiving head is not superlative in all scenarios. In fact, beer head is actually the worst part of a beer. Do I blame The Simpsons for such a travesty? No. I blame A&W Root Beer. The frothy foam that I indulged in as a child did not transcend with the alcoholic beverage. Damn you A&W…But four or five more of these Newcastles and I’ll forgive you.
This may be more common than not. I build up an experience in my mind and when it does not translate into reality, disappointment ensues. To list a few of my other disappointing sights to mouth translations:
- Winnie the Pooh’s “Hunny” vs. Honey
When I was five or six, I use to go over to my cousins house and play in the backyard. There was a shelf attached to one of the fences in the backyard, and on it rested a pot quite similar to that of Winnie the Pooh’s. I remember we tried a bunch of acrobatic circus-foolery in order to achieve the pot. After a few years went by, our height improved, our acrobatics did not, but we were able to reach the “Hunny” pot. We opened it up, and it was just an unused planter pot. I mean, we should have known. It didn’t say “Hunny”, and what were we expecting to find from a pot that had been left outside for two to three years to brace the weather? I don’t know. What I do know, is that when I finally did get a good look at honey, it looked nothing like the scrumpdeliciousness that Winnie the Pooh coveted. I felt like Eeyore; hope for the world had ceased to be.
- Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Pizza vs. Pizza
Okay. I do not have much to say on this one. Pizza is pizza, and it is exquisite, but I am still searching for the pizza that pranced around in my dreams. I imagine someone who makes that sloppy-cheesy-yums-the-word pizza, could open up a pizza store called “Cowabunga!” I’d go there…frequently.
- Barney Birthday Cake vs. Cake
This one is the most obscure of all the ones mentioned. I use to own a videotape of Barney’s birthday. It was a colorful VHS tape. Purple or orange…It doesn’t matter. What matters, is that they made a layered cake on the video. While, I know the kids did not smooth it out to perfection as it was shown in the video, the cake still looked delicious. Since then, I have seen better cakes. Cake Boss anyone? Buddy is amazing. But still…The the cake in that video is burned into my head and was another item that I searched for as a child.
I can’t be the only one who would love a Simpson beer and Ninja turtle pizza followed by a Barney cake with “Hunny” filling for dessert.
Do you have food or other items that you are still searching for from your favorite shows?
On Friday, I received some exciting news.
I have been offered a teaching position at a high school.
After believing that I would be dining in the soup kitchen, and working on my 300 line, “Tonight, we dine in Hell,” I will no longer need such devices. It is a fantastical sensation. To put down my hedge trimmers and no longer need to lock down my landscape position in front of Home Depot. It is a relief. Plus, I was not corralling the highest amount of praise for my Sonic the Hedgehog lawn design. I guess interest in Sonic died with Sega. I’d mow a Mario, but it is not in my drawing repertoire, in fact nothing else is. That, and it would most likely end in a racial depiction of an Italian with a crooked moustache. Nobody wants that.
By becoming a teacher, I receive a contract. It is a one year contract that dictates what I will be required to do. Teach, obviously.
I am treating it like I am an unrestricted free agent. People do not just happen across a gem like me, alright? The Alexandrite. Game time was fast approaching, and they realized they had a gap to fill in the roster. Enter me. I go in and sign this contract today. I have it all thought out. I’m taking my agent with me to negotiate a good deal.
Hint: I am the agent.
Hint #2: I’ll be accepting the first number they throw at me.
Also, like any good free agent, before I sign, I want to be courted too. I want to feel the love. In the teaching world, courted equates to someone holding the door open for you once. Secondly, I want a signing bonus. And by a signing bonus, I mean high fives throughout the office. Are low fives back in? Hugs, maybe? I’ll choose my targets wisely. Ladies…
In truth, I am excited. This is a great opportunity for me to begin the career of my choice. The past five years have come to fruition and I am now a full-pledged teacher.
Oorah! Or whatever the Marine equivalent is for teaching? Apple!…?
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.
That’s all wrong.
Stay away from hot food, keep it above the throat. Otherwise your esophagus will say esofuckthis.
Last night I was in one of those craving-the-unknown phases. The type that makes me search my cupboards frantically. Opening cupboards four or five times, hoping that it has Indian in the Cupboard-like qualities. I gazed upon the shelves contents. A partially opened saltine cracker package (but if I am going to eat saltines, I’m going to want some soup. Gawd, my workload just increased!), a half eaten bag of licorice (that I am not desperate enough to eat), a box of corn muffin mix (I buy this stuff because I love me some corn muffins, but I NEVER use it), and two cans of tuna. I closed the cupboard, paced around the kitchen for five minutes. I looked in the fridge eying the milk and the big bag of cherries (There is a poor joke to be made here, but I’m not going to POP one off). I shut the fridge and opened the freezer. Sometimes I produce a little beat when I open the fridge and freezer doors. Opening and closing; opening and closing. Breaking out in song. “I can’t stop this feeling! Deep inside of me. Girl, you just don’t realize that I’m hungry!” It was one cool beat, but that could have just been the fridge and freezer. After, I begrudgingly dragged myself back over to my cupboard. Nothing new, but at this point anxiety sinks in. I grabbed a piece of old licorice, knowing good and well that it was going to take me an hour to chew. (Is it just me, or is rope licorice significantly better than the straw type? They use to sell bags of that stuff, now you have to buy the family pack and it comes with the Darth Vader black licorice. And if you like black licorice, you have no soul or no taste buds. One of the two. A ginger? Maybe both.) As I stand their tugging on the licorice like I am a dog trying to tear apart a rope, I come to terms with the fact that my cupboard is not magical, nor do I possess any oogaly-koboogaly powers. (And yes, that is a word in the Webster Dictonary. It means: “Shut fuck up…please.” Niceties always help.)
This hunger proves to be hazardous to one’s health. I cannot go out to the store because I lack the insight into what I want to chew on. And it is a known precaution that those who have munchinitus should not go shopping because you will end up with twelve loaves of every variation of bread, and one package of Mr. Mayer. While bologna may be on a friendly first name basis with many, I prefer to keep my relationship professional. Let me remind you that this is not munchinitus that is onset by a secret blend of herbs and spices. That particular type of hunger is easily solved by the first edible source you see. No, in this case, those twelve loaves of bread are bought because who knows which one will curb that hunger, scratch that itch, or park that car.
I’m getting off topic. I did not go to the store. Instead I paced around for another fifteen minutes, making the rounds, singing, doing random finger pointing guns at cups and eating utensils, silently complaining. There is no need for verbal complaints in the presence of inanimate objects. Unless you are Dor from Xanth, in which case, AMAZING. I’d finally be able to determine if certain people were truly dumb as a rock, or if was doing a disservice to the rock, and people are in fact dumber. BUT, there was no inanimate whisperer. I had to make do with what was present.
I had a can of tuna.
Oh, you expected a riveting resolution? Let me try again. Only because I am eager to please.
I had a can of tuna AND then I was abducted by aliens.
I began this with the intent to write a relatively creative entry. This post was to be “Freshly Pressed” material. If only you could envision my vision I could envision you envisioning my vision…It would be a beautiful thing. Unfortunately, that idea has dissipated and I am left with a scattered strand of cranial matter. I have good reason for this mishap.
There are over one hundred and twenty thousand species of flies. Each genera or family is as annoying as the last. Am I being harsh by condemning these bugs to the title of annoying? No. When you have swatter specifically designated to handle flies, that should signify that something or someone needs an attitude change. I’m talking to you flies.
I do not mind that they land on my tasty treats. It is disgusting, but it is not going to prevent me from devouring that cupcake. While we are on the subject of cupcakes, does anyone else love cupcakes more than a slice of cake? What is it about cake in a cup that makes it more delectable than its sliced counterpart? I digress. It also does not bother me that they, quite fittingly, fly by ear canals and update me with the latest buzz. (That’s just a little fly humor.) It does not even bother me when they try to make sexual advances by crawling up my legs and caressing my arm hair. Each and every fly movement I have described has had an intended destination or purpose.
The most despicable trait a fly has is being an interruption to my peripheral vision. This is the fly that flies in oblong circles. What purpose does this fly serve? It has about a fourteen day life span, yet it will spend a significant portion of that circling the center of my room an in identical pattern. I know it will never land on me, it will never bother my food, but yet I find it to be the most disturbing type of fly.
After doing some extensive research (typing it into Google and choosing the first option that relates to my question), I have limited it down to three reasons why they do this. The first of which is mating protocol. They are sexing it up. They choose to do this in the center of the room because they are exhibitionist. They have twenty thousand one hundred and sixty minutes to live, they are going to do it up big. Circular exhibition insex. They also like reminding you of the fact that they are getting some and you are not. If this fly were in a bar, it would be the first bar-fly to get some. Bad joke. I’m full of them.
The second reason has to do with finding a perch or food. Now, I am unclear as to when they make their move. Is there fly code? Is there a certain time frame or circular motions they have to complete before being allowed to rest or eat? Or are the ones still flying the Caitlin Upton’s of the egg? Maybe they are just wanting to fly through life. If it is a perch they are looking for, the entire room is full of them. As for food, if you haven’t found it in four hundred rotations, it is not there.
The last reason is that they want to interrupt my thought process. Simply put, they see the twinkle of brilliance in my eye, just my left one, and they want to extinguish it. They saw that “Freshly Pressed” was only a circle away and they committed their life to preventing me from obtaining that award. This last reason is dipped in no scientific reasoning, but I believe it to be 100% accurate. Otherwise I have no excuse for my lackadaisical entry or why I have not been Freshly Pressed.
This is Rule #2 in my Disneyland rules SPECIAL. If you did not read Rule #1, you did not miss much. Just the greatest blog post to ever grace the interwebs; that’s all.
Oh, so you do want to read Rule #1?
Just finger this O and it will lead the way.
For those of us continuing the journey. Proceed.
Now then, from the man who brought you Rule #1 and the hit Hip-Hop single Trying Desperately (#1 single on eTunes in FOUR countries, not yet to exist), the man with no plan, that one guy who writes stuff, he needs no further introDUNKtion (Because I am watching the Finals…Some basketball association. Although, the game will be long over by the time this is posted.)…Drum roll please….The titillating Kenny!
I just introduced myself. I just did that.
2. Do the Disneyland Walk™
Now anyone who has visited this magical kingdom knows of the difficulties that abound when trying to navigate the lands. The way in which to accomplish this task is to perform the Disneyland Walk™. In other words, you do not care what obstacles are in your path, you walk and you do not stop.
The Disneyland Walk™ is an innate subconscious choice. In high school, if you were walking the halls and got shoulder bumped, the dukes would go up. (No, not John Wayne.) In Disneyland it is encouraged. If I get there at eight in the morning and I haven’t disturbed eight lovely couple photos, toppled over a child to get to Goofy first, or scattered a school of, well, a school of schoolgirls by nine, I must still be in the entrance line. You have to put caution to the wind. You walk with no peripheral vision. It is only you and the Matterhorn.
There is one thing you must be somewhat aware of: strollers. Strollers are like the four-wheeled monsters of the amusement park. A bludgeon. Nobody likes them. They slither back and forth with their whiny cargo ready to sideswipe any passersby.
And who’s bright idea was it to let the ten year old push it? There is a reason why ten year olds do not drive in highly congested cities. Does that mean I am advocating for a ten year old to have the right to drive in South Dakota? Sure. I’d be impressed if they hit anything of value out there. You took out the Corn Palace? The Corn Palace? You did the world a favor.
I’m sure everyone has a story or two about being sideswiped by a stroller. Worse yet, the tandem stroller. Now the monster has grown. I don’t even want to know what monster will be revealed when the Octomom uses her hard-earned soft-core porn money to take the children to Disneyland. Get hit by that beast, and there goes your ACL. Stick a fork in ‘em, they’re done.
Or are you? There are always wheelchairs. You can rent one from Disneyland for the price of your first born child. Who do you think they fill those costumes with when it is 100 degrees outside? Don’t worry though. There is always an upside. Here is the chart:
Give up first born –> Get a wheel chair –>Don’t have to wait in long lines.
Let me weigh the options…Whatever is pound for pound the best choice.
The slightly altered rule applies for wheelchairs. They must Disneyland Roll, but the premise is still the same.
So Rule #2…Disneyland Walk™ over Jiminy. There’s no conscience. You follow the Dewey Cox and walk hard. Strollers are inevitable; brace yourself for impact at all times and do the Disneyland Walk™.
Disneyland…The happiest place on Earth.
Do I concur with the aforementioned statement? Partially.
My experiences at Disneyland have not been documented to the extent of other interests I have divulged. Yet, do not let that contort your mind into believing that Disneyland is not a legit place to go. While you faithful savants may have your own impression of Disneyland, let me express to you mine. This will be a SPECIAL three part blog. Each blog will contain a rule on Disneyland. If you do not like Disneyland, you may not care for this SPECIAL. Also, I am unsure why I capitalized SPECIAL, but I can’t stop now. I’m no quitter.
Now then, I have broken the Disneyland down to three distinct rules.
There are three rules of Disneyland.
- All Six Universal Emotions need to be used. You will come happy; leave angry.
If I had photographer skills other than the capabilities that my iPhone 3GS bestows upon me, I would sit (maybe stand; depending on my mood) outside of Disneyland and take pictures. This would make for a great coffee table book…”The Happiest Faces on Earth.” I would love to capture people on their way in to Disneyland and their way out. When going in, you are fresh and spritely. People are doing little skips down Main Street, not a worry in the world (Well, except for locking up a Fast Pass to Pirates of Caribbean). Now, when people head back down Main Street to leave the park, one might think they stepped on the set of The Walking Dead. If you do not look like a cranky zombie; you are not doing something right (Or you went back and took a mid-day nap. You sly son-of-a-bitch you!). You ever why the characters do not come out at night? It’s because Mickey Mouse doesn’t want to be punched in the face after the realization has set in on some cranky forty-seven year old mother that she just spent $24 dollars on two pretzels. Rule number one implies that every visitor of Disneyland should experience the six universal emotions.
Happiness – “Yay, I’m in Disneyland, this is the start of a wonderful day. Ooh! Look! There’s Pluto! Photo-op!”
Sadness – “Thunder Mountain Railroad is closed down? Wha…I never get to ride this one. *tear* I mean, come on! It’s not like someone died on it.” OR “Where is Jessica Rabbit at? I never seem to find her…*sighs*”
Fear – (Thunder Mountain Railroad opens up. You decide to ride it.) “Holy shit! I think I’m gonna die!”
Disgust – “There is STILL no Aladdin ride? Pitiful.”
Anger – “I HATE STROLLERS!” OR “How the hell do I get out of here?!”
End note: Why don’t they have rides for some of their classic 90s films? Aladdin, Mulan, Hercules, Beauty and the Beast, and flippin’ Lion King.
Aladdin practically writes its own ride.
It’d be eye opening. I’m envisioning it taking you wonder by wonder. It would go a variety of directions. Over, sideway, and under. Like…oh, like a magic carpet ride. All, I’m saying is it would be a whole new world.
No, really. Disney should take out that stage they never use in Fantasy Land (Yes, I know my park. What what.) And they should build a giant Cave of Wonders. The ride would be a mini rollercoaster-esque magic carpet ride. I am imagining a mixture between Peter Pan and Indiana Jones. That would be amazing. If you read this Disney, get on it.