What do you Suppose Are the Search Terms that Randomly Bring People to my Blog?
Oh dear. I thought I was sick. Well, this made me feel better about myself.
Yes, there are no less than three searches for something called “toilet brush fucking,” which, as twisted as I am, I never imagined existed. If words alone are not enough, I recommend you visit a charming little site called SlutLoad and see for yourself what this might mean. (Obviously it’s NSFW, so don’t come crying to me if you’re too stupid not to click on it on front of your 5 year old or your boss. It’s called SlutLoad, dumbass.)
Other winners are, “when should I use a toilet,” and “can i know the use of toilet.”
And I must point out the preponderance of users searching for the answer to the ever stupid, “How do I Use a Toilet Brush.” Who knew my blathering was good for anything more than entertainment?
Happy Hanukkah, everyone!
P.S. – Also from today and and not figuring in these archives is the one that brought this post on:
do not piss on toilet desk
I have no idea what this could mean and it might slowly drive me crazy a la Lewis Black if I think about it too much. Oh, world. You’re so mysterious!
I am not sure what brought this to mind, but this is one of the stupidest questions I was ever asked.
Ah yes. Where do I begin?
I was once friends with a girl I’ll call Holly after a song I once wrote about seeing her beaten up called Bloody Hollywood.
I’d known her since high school and even then she was taking her clothes off for money, having bought an identity from an older girl.
Neon Stripper by duncan
Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself because the incident in question was one in which she was driving the little red Audi she had before the sugar daddy stepped in with the SUV.
I was working as a cook in a little pizza joint at the time and didn’t have a car. Near the end of my shift, she came in and had a couple pints of beer and when I clocked out I joined her for one.
At that time, there was a club in town called the Toy Tiger. I had seen it since I was a kid, but never been inside and the neon tiger on the sign had always held a certain mystique for me. He brought to mind the Pink Panther and his tail wagged in a neon arc as he stood leaning Fonzie style against one edge.
Image of Where the Toy Tiger once stood by 60 in 3
On this particular night, we were both lit and going down Bardstown Road – Holly was driving and I saw a sign at the Toy Tiger for a hot legs competition. I told Holly she should do it and as we were yelling at each other over whatever music she was blasting in the car she lurched violently to the right and hollered to the guy at the door to see if the competition was still going on. It had ended and just as impulsively as she had entered the drive, she peeled out, braking violently before punching it to speed back onto the road, jumping the median, and making me think she had ripped something out from the underside of the car.
Those hazy nights were always full of hotdogging and near misses. I have said it before and I’ll say it again. Strippers can’t drive. I have argued with people about this and been told time and again that this supposition is wrong, but every stripper I have ever known has had a higher than average incidence of car accidents. Perhaps it’s an occupational hazard of being paid to drink with people.
Well, hell knows what we did that night. It blends in with so many others. Was it the night I got food poisoning and barfed in her bathtub?
Drano. It's like gold, you know. Photo by 365bunnies
Maybe it was the time that I got blitzed and went on a rant about plastic surgery and she ditched me at a biker bar after screaming at me, though no one would have known she had had breast implants until she made a scene. I guess she felt insulted. I made it home on the back of a bike, too drunk to be afraid.
Was it before or after we went to Sturgis on a Greyhound bus and I spent what seemed like hours listening to her scream (not exaggerating) and bitch indignantly when they stowed a borrowed backpack she had sworn she wouldn’t let out of her sight on a bus other than the one we ended up on after the first bus broke down?
Biker Bar Photo by V'ron
She refused to pay part of my reentry to the campground after I went to town for groceries, cigarettes and beer and hitched a ride back into town with a deaf hippie with a tattooed face and a baby in search of propane. I made it through that trip as a salesgirl in a leather booth by the grace of some old road warrior’s generosity.
I think I had had enough of Holly even before I sobered up. Though she could be a lot of fun, it was her violent rages and humiliating public talking tos that cured me of any affection I had for her. I got tired of the one way nature of the relationship. She would do something horrible, like deliberately giving herpes to a married man during a breakout, laugh about it, and then need consolation over her poor self esteem at another time. It got to be too much.
Maybe it was that she quit hanging out with me when I found out that someone dear to my heart had slept with her. I asked her if she told him about her herpes (not quite sure that was the only thing she had) and she told me that she hadn’t. So I told him. I didn’t tell him about the early morning bouts of anguish as she confided unprotected encounters with strangers in alleys or specific details about why she might not be the best sex partner, only that he ought to be careful and that if herpes was the only thing she had that she was a damn lucky person. I don’t even think he told her what I’d said. I think I told her. And I think that was the end of a turbulent friendship.
Years later I was approached by another friend. “Holly told me if I ever see you to tell you that she misses you. She wants you to call her.”
“Why would I do that? Is she nuts?”
“Well, she’s in trouble.”
“What else is new?”
“She really misses you, but also she wants to see if you would testify for her in court.”
“Ah ha. Now we get to the heart of it. Of course she misses me, now. What happened?”
“I guess there was this time at the Toy Tiger. Some guy says she ran into him with her car. Messed up his leg or something. She wants to know if you’ll be a witness.”
“Are you fucking kidding? I remember that. She was driving drunk. I’m not sure either one of us would know if she had hit someone. Do you think that’s the kind of testimony that she wants?”
“I don’t know. She just wanted me to ask you.”
“Well, you can tell her to fuck off for all I care. No fucking way I’m getting mixed up in that shit.”
That was far from the end of her decline. I hear she got mixed up in shooting dope and who knows what she’s up to these days if she’s still alive. I can bet that she didn’t have a witness in the suit, though. Tough luck, Holly. I hope you didn’t hit him, but I couldn’t swear to it.
What were his parents thinking? How did they arrive at that name?
I can’t help it. I first heard his name on the BBC World Service in the middle of the night more than 10 years ago and I wondered if I was insane or hearing things.
Awesome Cartoon Image by GasBombGirl
Imagine the torture he must have undergone as a child.
What were his parents thinking? What his dad some super militaristic asshole with a “Boy Named Sue” aesthetic, demanding that his son be able to withstand the force of ridicule of, well, a dick army? Or what?
Most apparent, the name brings to mind an army of dicks. Even more graphic: a veiny dick-like arm or an enormous arm-like dick. So when they called his name in homeroom, he was probably the first, starting with A and the teacher probably said, “Armey, Dick?” And he was forced to raise his hand [on the end of his (dick) arm(y)] and say, “Present.”
It is not my purpose here to analyze Armey’s connection with Freedom Works or wax poetic about his “[a]lleged role in organized disruptions of August 2009 town hall meetings on health care reform” (Wikipedia’s Dick Armey page), but simply to ask: What the Fuck, Dick? Why not Rick? Why not Richard? Why not your middle name, Keith?
Well, one thing’s for sure. No one’s forgetting your name.
Okay. Maybe this seems like a stupid question, but it’s not.
by Rennett Stowe
While I seldom go to the doctor if I can help it [a habit that has surely sprung from my experience with inept doctors, fraudulent chiropractors (well, one in particular: a Carol Ward of Louisville, Kentucky - and yes I'm naming names here and I swear she's on the take), my lack of insurance and the fact that lucky for me, most things I get seem to resolve of their own accord], I have had the chance since being in Argentina to be seen by more than one doctor.
Image by lanchongzi
The first occasion was when I went to get a routine exam to be accorded the privilege of starting yoga. Legislation here (which seems to be enforced in a hit or miss fashion) mandates that those who would exercise in a professionally run work-out facility must first get an EKG to insure that they wont be dropping dead on the treadmill. Smart, huh?
So when I went to the doctor before beginning yoga classes, I was told by an old man sitting behind a banged up, old metal desk in a room with a medical table to take off my shirt.
I didn’t understand when he said, “Saca la blusa,” and so he mimed the action for me. I was to take off my shirt, right in front of him with no other nurse or aide around.
I was taken aback. Litigation (and perhaps rightfully so – my point is not to condemn the patient or the doctor here) has made it so any female patient (Guys? Is this true for you, too?) being seen in the United States must have a “witness” present if any disrobing is to be done. Not so here.
To have to take any portion of my clothes off in front of someone else has always had quite different implications for me as a corn-fed American woman. I can think of several occasions when it has happened, but it has never had the dusty, old, routine feeling of detachment and professionalism I experienced on this occasion.
I was told to lie on the examining table and the doctor checked my pulse, listened to my heart, and then he swabbed my flesh with alcohol, took some round, stainless steel things about the size of a dime, settled them between my bra and my skin, and clamped some lightweight, plastic clamps to my wrists and ankles.
Were this procedure to have taken place in the United States, it would have required that sticky, disposable pads that were brand new be unwrapped from their sterile packaging to be affixed with their wires dangling prior to being attached to the EKG machine to be thrown away immediately afterwards and likely treated as a biohazard.
Image by clevercupcakes
When I went to the eye doctor, there was no need for me to be weighed or to have my temperature taken with a disposable plastic sheath. I was going to the eye doctor and I saw no one but the doctor to whom I told the nature of my problem. There wasn’t even an entire room, just a cubicle and I sat on the other side of a machine from her in a line of other patients sitting in front of other doctors and had my eye problem seen to. Nothing to throw away besides the slip my prescription was written on.
The main issues under discussion in the debate about national health insurance in the U.S. seem more to be about the waste in manpower, and the corruption and disorganization in the system than they are about the rampant and unnecessary disposable waste that we expect and demand as a part of what we consider responsible care. When you have items that have to be purchased for the most simple appointment and companies charging $15 for a band-aid, out of control costs pair with unnecessary waste to produce wastefully high costs.
I don’t think that things like this are likely to change anytime soon in the American healthcare industry, but when you see the lack of materials used in another system, you realize that what we’re used to isn’t the only way. In the no frills hospitals and doctor’s offices that I’ve been to here, I’ve come to realize that a lot of the procedure and sterility in their U.S. equivalents is more show than it is function. We are a society in which mandated procedure trumps judgement and it shows in the bottom line.
Today’s stupid question is one that I asked. It’s stupid in the way that other stupid questions on this blog are stupid in that the answer leaves something to be desired.
If you care to hearken back to my very first post, you will recall that two tenants moved out around the same time. It was this post that sparked the following exchange on my Facebook page:
While these offensive statements are perhaps uncalled for, you must admit that no names are mentioned. If you add to that the fact that I have a private profile on Facebook and that I was not friends with the parties in question, and that no one really gives a shit what’s on my Facebook page anyway, you might surmise that there would be no way I would personally offend either of the parties in question.
You would, however, be wrong.
Less than a day after posting what you read above, I received a diatribe of an email. The letter began by stating that it wasn’t an attack, but continued by calling me a fraud, rude, “on the internet pretending that [this person] is some kind of pervert”, and asking me what I was running from, among other accusations.
I will bet now that the person that wrote this letter to me is going to be one of the first people to read this post. In fact, I can guarantee that he is one of my biggest fans.
Without going into more detail, I will simply focus on the second response I wrote. You can see it below.
After the word vomit that we had both spewed forth into the e-universe, this is short and sweet and asks a simple question.
Here is the response it received:
Pretty patronizing, right? Slander? Not once has this person’s name been written, nor was the party in question ever insulted in any serious or hurtful way.
But then the Internet is a cruel place that can reveal what people really think about you if you care to repeatedly stalk them, insist on taking offense at what you dig up when you go where you’re not invited and then confront them about it.
And the answer is stupid. Especially when my settings are private. I have done nothing to change any of them since this exchange and the screen-caps are below.
When I logged out of my page and googled even the exact words on my page, googled myself, pasted my profile into the URL bar on my browser, I could see nothing.
Then I decided – enough with the obsessing. That’s for perverts!
Not like this:
Image Courtesy of Jo. Click the image to go to her site. Many thanks!
Details
Image Courtesy of Robert S. Donovan
Today’s stupid question comes from Los Angelista.
I found the link to her blog through a re-post of her original on Stuff White People Do.
The question posed by a white woman to Los Angelista, a Black woman with natural hair was, “Can I touch your hair?”
Los Angelista makes the points about what’s wrong with this much better than I ever could, but the audacity of the strange woman went well beyond the original question. Take the time to read this provocative post.
Not like this.
From our hotel in Mar del Plata, this age old mistake was repeated on each floor and carefully painted around time after time.
Strangely, the little room was not an office or anything approximating on office. It was a closet with a little gas burner and teapot with a sink and several water damaged cabinets.
I‘ll be out of commission for a few days, kids, so forgive me if your comments are slow to appear. I wanted to leave you with this little nugget to tide you over.
One of the first puzzling things I encountered upon arriving in Buenos Aires was the bidet.
We don’t have them or use them in the US, and though I quickly came to enjoy the ease of cleansing, I had some mishaps. I scalded my nether regions badly, and once I learned to test the temperature, I encountered the occasional bidet that sprayed several feet into the air, dotting my clothes with telltale spray.
The best bidet story I’ve heard was told to me by another American.
In answer to the stupid question, “How do you use a bidet?” The answer is:
Not Like This
Which one Will the Fountain Bless? Photo: JMazzolaa
He got food poisoning in the middle of the night – the kind where you’ve got it coming out both ends. The bidet’s proximity made for an easy target for the esophageal elimination and he barfed into it in a big way, heaving the contents of his stomach in great, spouting spasms while his intestines mimicked the action on the other end. By the time he was done, he was a limp, naked mess of tears and exhaustion.
A self-described crybaby, apparently unable to prevent himself from sobbing while hurling, you can imagine a crying man who has just been wracked by cramps and pain weeping wretchedly to himself in a small bathroom that stinks of shit and vomit as he’s confronted by a logistical problem: What can he possibly do to clear the vomit filled bidet of its offending cargo?
So what did he do?
Apparently, he cleaned it out as well as he could an then turned the spigot.
Heathen American that he was, he had never tested or used the bidet. He had no idea that turning the handle would unleash a pressure, the psi of which might put certain fountains to shame. Naked and spent, he went into a near blind panic as chunks of his own vomit and more water than he knew what to do with were flung from the bidet reaching the ceiling and walls and landing in his hair and on his bare skin.
I wish you could hear him tell the story. The best part is that it’s more mature than toilet humor. It’s bidet humor.
I was asked this in earnest and I will describe to you the circumstances.
Photo by satguru
As you know, I rent rooms.
Toilets in Buenos Aires, though often accompanied by a bidet (not in the case of my apartment) can be on the weird side. I lived in a place where there was a little shelf built inside. You pooped onto the shelf and when you flushed, the waste was whisked down the hole in front.
There is an element of quality control that’s missing in certain models, like mine. Each time anyone drops a load, something about the shape of the toilet causes a smear of shit to be left behind, stuck to the bowl, one that a second flush is woefully inadequate to remove.
Photo of Shelf Toilet Courtesy of kalleboo
I suppose not everyone has the same strong aversion to fecal matter that I have. Some people accept it as a fact of life, and let the shits fall where they may, smears and all.
The Story
I had two short-term tenants move in around the same time, both straight guys. During the course of a single day, I found myself confronted by shit-smear-toilet on no less than three occasions when all I wanted was to take a piss. In each instance, I used the conveniently placed toilet brush to clean it up, but when I awoke the next day to find another long smear of shit to greet me for my morning pee, I just had to do something.
I wrote a note. It was fit for passiveaggressivenotes.com. I admit it. It listed a short litany of things I found tolerable, such as having to buy all the toilet paper or sweep up in the kitchen, but laid out that in point of fact I would not be cleaning any shit smears that were not a direct byproduct of the fruit of my own intestines and suggesting the offender(s) please use the brush provided to clean up their own shit.
One of the guys stopped me later that day. He told me that he had had a roommate in the past who left notes and it had been a real problem for him and told me that he was the leaver of shit smears and that if I had a problem with anything in the future that I please take it to him in person.
No Place Like Home. Photo: boni_face
I ask you: What kind of exercise in humiliation would it be to knock on each individual roommate’s door and ask, “Excuse me, but did you happen to just take a shit?” I told him that I would as often as I were able.
I found this whole process disheartening and distasteful. From cleaning up his shit, to talking to him about cleaning up his shit, and finding out that it was indeed his shit that I’d been cleaning up, I was very uncomfortable.
Now fast forward about a month into the future.
At certain times I had noticed that the cup the toilet brush was kept in had brownish water about a cm deep inside it. I had noticed that the white bristles weren’t exactly white. But on one particular day as I, in flip flops with bare legs, went to pull the brush out of its cup (and yes, at this point I should have known better to yank it out so cavalierly), my legs and feet and the floor and toilet were all sprayed with a mist of shitty water. Talk about eau de toilette.
There were chunks of toilet paper in the brush along with well ground in shit, like someone had tried to clean a melted chocolate Easter bunny from the dashboard with the brush and then just left it there.
I was furious. I had to take a minute to breathe. I couldn’t help but to see this as a deliberate fuck you. A literal, “I shit on your stupid toilet and your stupid toilet brush.”
D'oh! Photo by dmuth
There was nothing to be done about it. I said I wouldn’t leave a note, and this time I was aware of which individual in the house was less inclined to be disgusted by an item caked with his own fecal matter. Now I knew I must simply organize my thoughts, try to approach him with humor and ask: Do you know how to use a toilet brush?
The following is an approximation of the ensuing dialogue.
Me: Hey. I was just sprayed with shit water from the cup the toilet brush is kept in. Do you know how to use a toilet brush? (So you know, I was smiling and trying to make a joke out of this. I’m not sure how to do this properly. I guess I’ll have to ask Miss Manners.)
Him: Oh, really? How do you use a toilet brush? (Also amused, apparently and completely unashamed)
Me: Well, yeah, You have to flush the toilet first.
Him: Oh. I was just flushing the toilet once.
Me: Well that’s how the brush becomes caked with shit. So if you flush it first and then brush it, it works better. Then after that, if the brush is dirty, you can flush it again and kind of rinse it out. You know?
Him: Oh. OK. I guess that makes sense.
That, my friends, is the kind of thing you should expect when you are living with strangers.
