Tag Archives: Grosser Than Gross

Drinking Beer from A Dead Squirrel?

Scottish people are crazy.

A bunch of Scottish people decided it would be a good idea to make a 55% alcohol by volume beer, pour it into a dead squirrel, and sell it for $765.  That’s seven hundred sixty-five dollars.  AMERICAN DOLLARS.

First, what the hell is going on in the world where people are drinking beer from dead animal carcasses?

Second, what the hell is going on in my brain that is making me totally want to drink one?

Third, will somebody please slap some sense into me?

In my defense, however, the beer is 55% alcohol!  Do you know how much alcohol that is?  It’s more than half.  It’s like… I don’t know what it’s like.  I’m bad at math.  It’s a fuckload though.  Let’s just say that and move on:

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Are you a Farty McFarty Pants? Try Subtle Butt Disposable Gas Neutralizers!

Because people are tired of smelling your ass.

Is there anything worse than working in an office, letting a little stinker out only to have someone walk into your office to hand you a document or invite you for coffee?  Is there anything worse than walking into someone’s office after they clearly have released the gaseous demons, and having to pretend like you don’t notice the stank?  So you stand there trying to act normal, and trying to talk while not breathing in through your nose, and you end up sounding like you have a sinus infection.

Okay, fine, there are a lot of things that are worse.  Like BPSpencer PrattAnimal crueltyJustin BieberImproper grammarEd Hardy.  Still, swamp ass is up there on the List of Things That Suck.

Negotiating office gassy ass is tricky.

Sometimes office workers fart behind closed doors, but then they realize that they’re just going to be stewing in their own stink, so they crack their office door open,  hoping the odious smell will seep out into the hallway, and then someone in a nearby cubicle will get blamed.

Speaking of cubicles, they are a breeding ground for anonymous air biscuits, aren’t they?  All that open space with all those people crammed together?  When someone drops a bomb, it’s impossible to tell from whence the stench came.

You just sit there looking around, trying to catch the eye of as many people as you can, so you can give them the “it wasn’t me” look.

Maybe you frown and wave your hand in front of your nose, or pinch your nose to indicate that, yes, something smells in here, but no it wasn’t me because if it was me, why the fuck would I be pinching my nose and waving my hand in front of my nose while frowning?!

Suddenly everyone is looking around, eyes darting from person to person while frantically waving their hands in front of their faces until some guy in the back busts out laughing and everyone looks at him with that look — you know the one that’s usually accompanied by that “wah waaaaah!” sound — but no one is mad because he knows he did it and we love that guy anyway.

Maybe there’s some smarmy asshat with a corner office and you just can’t stand him because he’s so patronizing, and never does any work, he just talks about his super sweet ‘stache all day, and also because no, it is not your job to fix the damn printer!  PC Load Letter?  What the fuck does that mean?   So maybe you have a beef and cheese burrito for lunch, and maybe after lunch you sneak into Smarmy Guy’s office and crop dust the entire area before walking away while whistling a jaunty tune.

Or maybe you’re in an elevator full of people and as you’re exiting the elevator, you let loose an air assault, reveling in the fact that those sad jerks will be standing in a virtually airtight space, glaring at one another, trying to ferret out the pooty perp.

Or maybe you’re a Sphincter Whistler, letting a slow and steady stream of gas exit your fanny as you go about your daily life, not realizing that everyone knows you as “that girl who always smells like ass” or “that guy who wears too much colon cologne.”

I had to update this post to include this amazing picture. (H/T Eric!)

And then there are those who I like to call “gas ‘n go goblins1:  People who walk briskly hither and yon, leaving a trail of toxic tears in their wake.  I  don’t like those people.  Nobody likes those people.

So, if you see your friend Jim walking briskly down the hallway, and you call out, “Hey, Jim!” and Jim just sort of nods at you and keeps on walking even though you’re totally yelling, “Hey, dude!  Wait up!” Well, amigo, Jim is totally crop dusting, so best stop following his stinky ass.

Well, these problems will soon be a thing of the past.  Never fear, citizens!  There’s a solution for your gaseous gurglers and your windy woes!  Introducing, the subtle butt disposable gas neutralizer!

“I use them on airplanes, after a chili meal, and even on my dog,” Kim Olenicoff, founder of Solutions That Stick, told me from the floor of Cosmoprof North America. “Some customers have even told me that it’s saved their marriage!,” she spilled. “People with IBS and food allergies definitely gravitate toward these, too.”

And just in case you’re not convinced, here’s a video that seems far too scientific for a layperson to understand:

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Elton John Performs at Rush Limbaugh’s Wedding

Did he sell out or what?!

So the champion of “traditional values” Mr. Dooshbaugh himself got married (for the fourth time… yay for traditional values!) this weekend to some 33 year old woman named I Don’t Really Care.  First of all, let’s take a moment to throw up in our collective mouth at the thought of seeing Rush Limbaugh naked.

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!

The man’s teeth give me nightmares.  I can’t even imagine the horror of seeing his other parts.  I’d rather rip out my small intestine and eat it like Jimmy Dean sausage links than even consider the possibility of making sweet love to Rush Limbaugh down by the fire.  I might tell him that I would make sweet love to him down by the fire, but when push came to shove, I would shove his sweaty ass into said fire.  I mean… GROSS.

Well, ol’ Rush got married again, and Elton John sang at his wedding for the low low price of one million dollars.

Look, I get it.  Elton John is a singer.  I mean, so what if he is gayer than Coldplay?  So what if Rush Limbaugh is one of the most vocal opponents of gay rights and same sex marriage?  Rush offered Elton John a million dollars to do what he does best–to sing.

On the other hand, the man is rich as fuck and it would’ve been nice for him to show his solidarity with the American LGBTQ community by refusing to perform at the wedding of one of the biggest hate mongers in American punditry.

I won’t pretend to know why the hell Elton John would want to perform at this asshole’s wedding.  Maybe it was for some untold subversive reason.  Maybe he doesn’t really give a crap.  But still….

It’d be like Erykah Badu performing for the Grand Wizard of the KKK.

The shit just ain’t right.

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Sandra Bullock Denies Rumors About Sex Tape

It’s like I done told ya.

I'm swimming in misery. And probably STDs.

So remember how there were rumors about a potential nasty sex tape mit Nazis and poo, and I was all “NO WAI!”?

Remember? It was yesterday.  Well, 75% of you voters were correct.  Well, it’s not really 75% of “you voters,” since you were allowed to select more than one answer.  I guess it would be 75% of the answers of whomever the hell was voting.

Look, I’m not a mathematician.  I don’t know how this all works.  The one thing I do know, is that I know exactly Jack and Taco about percentages, fractions, and statistics.  Seriously.  I had the chicken pox when they taught fractions and it’s been my cross-eyed bear ever since.  My failure is only compounded by the fact that my dad taught statistics at Howard University back in the 80s.  Sorry, pops.

But I digress.

Which is not unusual.

Um, what were we talking about?

Oh right.  Nazis and poop.

They go hand in hand like peas and carrots?  MIRITE?  What?  I don’t know.  No, YOU SHUT UP.

Moving on…

Today, Sandra told People that the whole sex tape thing is a damned lie.  A lie, I say!  Well, she says:

Sandra Bullock has broken her silence during her marriage crisis, denying an Internet report there’s a sex tape with her and husband Jesse James.


“There is no sex tape,” she says in a statement to PEOPLE on Tuesday. “There never has been one and there never will be one.”


Until now, Bullock, 45, had not commented, remaining in seclusion since reports surfaced that James, 40, allegedly had cheated on her with at least four other women.

So there.

Damn the tapes!

And the apes.  Whatever happens, you must always damn the apes.

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Sandra Bullock and Jesse James May or May Not Have Made a Hella Nasty Sex Tape

Emphasis on “may not.”

Well, since I’ve been all over the Sandra Bullock/Jesse James story like stink on shit (this pun will become funny in about 3 seconds), I might as well do my part to bolster more rumor mongering and gossip.

Ready?  Set?  EW!!!!!:

Cheating Jesse James filmed himself having sex with his superstar wife Sandra Bullock, according to a bombshell new report.


The alleged tape reportedly includes James smearing feces on Bullock’s upper lip during various types of anal sex, lots of profanity hurled from both parties, and a leather clad James, sporting a Hitler mustache with brown hat with a swastika, ramming a handcuffed Bullock’s bottom with a shotgun in his left hand.


Hopefully that’s not true.

Yeah, you think?  The source for this ridonkulous tale of poo and Nazis is Ian Halperin who has written a “tell all” book about everyone from James Taylor to Michael Jackson.  So, pardon me if I don’t immediately believe the latest scatological nonsense from him.

Now, if it were Heidi Montag?  Yeah.  I’d believe it.  Her Playboy cover is one indication that she’s got some shitty sensibilities.  Besides, Jesus loves poo.  Right, Heidi?

Sorry, there are no polls available at the moment.

(H/T straight cakin’ son!)

[via Showbiz Spy]

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Baby Got Back

Then Baby Went to Peru, Got Murdered, Had All Her Fat Drained Out, And Now She’s in the Coroner.  if_fat

There’s a roving gang of crazy Peruvians who are killing fools and draining their fat out of their corpses and then selling it on the black market to cosmetics companies.  Oh yes.  You read me right.  You better check all your lip glosses, ladies.  You might be slathering Peruvian human lipids all over your lips.

Actually, human fat is frequently extracted from one’s own ass and thighs to inject into one’s face.  Did I make this up?  Perhaps.  But I saw it on an episode of Nip/Tuck once, so it must be true.  Or maybe that was urine being used in a face cream.  Whatevs, squeeps.  I’m not Encyclopedia Brown here.

Three suspects have confessed to killing five people for their fat, said Col. Jorge Mejia, chief of Peru’s anti-kidnapping police. He said the suspects, two of whom were arrested carrying bottles of liquid fat, told police it was worth $60,000 a gallon ($15,000 a liter).

Mejia said the suspects told police the fat was sold to intermediaries in Lima, the Peruvian capital. While police suspect the fat was sold to cosmetic companies in Europe, he could not confirm any sales.

Medical experts expressed doubt about an international black market for human fat, though it does have cosmetic applications. Yale University dermatology professor Dr. Lisa Donofrio speculated that a small market may exist for “human fat extracts” to keep skin supple, though scientifically such treatments are “pure baloney.”

Oh sure, some Yalie said it’s pure baloney.  Mmmm… fatty delicious baloney.  Or is it “bologna”?  Can I get a ruling on the proper spelling of “bologna”? Anyone?  No?

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Angry Black Lady Chronicles: Carrie Prejean is a Dingbat

If Some Creepy Dude Felt Your Boobs and Told You to Get a Boob Job, Would You Get A Boob Job? Yeah. Me Neither.

ts-carrie-prejean-saint

Carrie Prejean is really laying it on thick, Alan Thicke-style.  Who can blame her, really? Ever since the controversy regarding her comments about same sex marriage, she has proven time and time again that she, at best, has extremely poor judgment, and at worst is a total idiot.  Let’s recount, shall we?

1. Ign’ant comments about gay versus “opposite marriage.” Cruise knows she has the right to say whatever she wants.  And Cruise also knows that I have the right to call her an ign’ant foolio.

2. Nude photos and faux outrage at the illicit “between shots” photos of her Tune in Tokyos which the dastardly sneaky bastardly photographer released.

3. Lying about the nude photos-turned out she posed for them.  Duh.  (Hey, I have no problems with nude photos or people who pose for them.  But with Carrie, it’s hard to deny that she has a serious glass house/stone problem.)

4. Losing her Miss California crown and blaming it on les gays and decrying it as revenge for her dumbass comments at the Miss USA Pageant when, in fact, she wasn’t adhering to her Miss California contract which required her to make certain public appearances.

5. Thinking that freedom of speech protects her against people who call her an ign’ant foolio in a public forum.

6. Forcing KeeblerKahn to reduce his bag of Bag of Douche awards by one Bag of Douche award.

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Bacon Cheeseburger Donut?!

Even I can’t get behind this monstrosity. I mean… ew… just… ew…

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Mackenzie Phillips Did WHAT!?!?!?

With Her Father????!!!!  Ew.  WRONG.  ::pours bleach in eyes::  ::shakes head:: ::runs screaming into the night::  ::trips on untied shoelaces and dies to death::ts-mackenzie-phillips

So, yeah.  This is… well… you know how when you hear something and blarghity gah! gross!!!??  You know what I mean?  No.  You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you.  OK, here goes.

McKenzie Phillips, former child star phenom has written a tell all book about her… ummm…welll… how she had sex with her father, John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas fame. Repeatedly.  An affair she called it.


Oh god.  I think I’m gonna… wait… no.  It’s ok.  She’s OK folks!

According to People:

Phillips, 49, who has survived drug addiction, arrests and divorce, writes in the book High on Arrival that she was already a star playing a boy-crazy teen on the TV sitcom One Day at a Time when her father had sex with her on the night before she was to marry Jeff Sessler, a member of the Rolling Stones entourage, in 1979.

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