Thursday, December 18, 2014

"Now, gettin' to Texarkana and back in 28 hours, that's no problem." -the bandit


So I started this post last week on the eve before my pilgrimage...

"East bound and down"
I'm about to embark on a voyage-nay, a quest into the black, shit-filled he(f)art of darkness that is Las Vegas. The last time I slow danced with fate in this desert disco of debauchery, the foul gods of diarrhea rewarded my performance by swiftly filling my Farah slacks with unruly amounts of soft serve. I, uh, that is to say-I shit myself in the motherfucking desert. You can read all about that ridiculousness here.
So why would I return? Why, indeed. Well, how about because Burt Reynolds is auctioneering off what appears to be a lifetime payload of celebrity booty at the Palms hotel December 11th and 12th? That's right, my sweet, sweet bitches! Yours truly will be there, if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin' material. And probably some trouble.
This will not be the first time I'm exposed to the saccharine nectar of all things Burt. I was able to visit the Burt Reynolds and Friends museum in Juno Beach, Florida a decade ago but that yarn shall be unraveled a little further down the path, cowboy.
Burt claims that he's not a total broke-ass. He's more or less downsizing so there's no need for me to feel like a fiendish ghoul drooling over his golden flakes of shaken memorabilia dandruff. "Quite frankly, I am sick of so many pictures of myself in my own home," he recently told Entertainment Tonight, which is where I get all of my news.*

I realize as I re-read this dilettante post that I'm reading the words of a fool. A naive child, blissfully unaware of the bloody mary and buffet breathe I would inhale(and exhale)as I once again made the odyssey into the mouth of madness. You know, fuckin' Las Vegas. Despair not, as I managed to rise from the ashes like the Phoenix emblazoned on the hood of THE pontiac Tran Am, a chariot only worthy of the man whose name I shudder to speak. You know, fuckin' Burt Reynolds. I am now a man. Well, sort of. More of a jerk, but a jerk who's seen a thing or three.

I ask for your patience as I sweat and bleed out the words to articulate what I witnessed and ingested. I'm guessing this shit is gonna be a three parter, Jimmy Carter. Dare I say a trilogy? YES! A trilogy it shall be! Until then, I leave you with this:



"if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin' material"






*I used the courier font to make it look all typewritery 'n shit.  Like this. Balls. Pretty cool, eh? It's looks like I'm some sort of bullshit writer.


P.S. reynolds



Thursday, November 13, 2014

this blog ain't gonna suck itself

So for those of you who return or stumble upon this here blog and wonder "papa-where have all the beautiful stories of poo poo and pee pee gone? Please papa, I'm so terrified and alone," I truly am sorry. Forgive me, my sons and daughters, as I occasionally lack in the grace that is social. Also, sit on a dick and fart it to climax, for I am not my brother's monkey. See what I mean?

Heres the thing: You know when you do something creative and it beats your expectations which in turn scares you into thinking you couldn't possibly best it? Then you realize that you're also a lazy bag of shit and have the grammar skills of a third grader? Then you take a perfect, no splash olympic gold medal swan dive into the rabbits hole? Then you buy a pair of flip flops and think to yourself "well fuck it-I'm wearing fuckin' flip flops?!"

So in the interest of lowering the bar along with my expectation, I'm gonna pick this blog up by it's sweaty balls and wring 'em out over your lips until they crack and split like hot dogs on a grill.

Speaking of which, a funny thing to say when you're really sweaty is "if my buttcrack was a movie theatre it'd be showing 'a river runs through it.'" Or "if I emptied a box of potato flakes into my underwear I could give you 5 pounds of mashed potatos AND gravy."

When you fart, you should say "Reynolds" cuz sometimes your farts sound like "Burt." You know, "buurrr-r-r-rrrrrttt." Then get your friends to say it too and if you're lucky, someone will text you "Reynolds" at 3 in the morning and you'll know exactly what happened. This has occured several times for myself. I am lucky.

Change the lyrics to "Ain't Nobody" by Chaka Khan to "ain't no grandma-like my grandma-made my grandpa-dinner every night." This will just make you feel good. So will this:

This is how you sell records, dickholes.

Also, you should sing "tastes so good-c'mon baby make it taste so good-sometimes food don't taste like it should-you make it taste so good" and refer to yourself as "John Cougar Stretchy Pants."

When someone disagrees with you, say "thats not the cake I'm trying to bake." Or, "how'd you like a big, sweaty dick in your mouth?" 

That second one is awful, but it illustrates where this blog is headed. I actually have no idea what I'm doing at all. Yes, my sons and daughters, Papa too is terrified and alone.



Sunday, June 17, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino part 2: the cycle of life. and a lot of piss


We stumbled into the casino like drunken seniors on the last day of high school. I was immediately hypnotized by all of the flickering lights, grinning in wonderment like a simpleton taking his first shower. Oh, how I enjoy anything shiny and a lot of. I also have ADHD so go figure. The other thing I noticed was the army of old people plugging change into machines, moaning and spending their kid's inheritance, waiting for death like defiant, bored teenagers. I myself look forward to getting old (if that happens) and wearing jeans and t-shirts that say ridiculous things like "I'm vegan AND racist" and recounting to whomever how I "once ate so much pussy, I had to unbuckle my belt and take a nap in a lazy boy." I'll be the old man who farts as loud as he can in public, grinning and shaking my head at you as you turn to see who could possibly be so rude.

I'm not much of a gambler, but I was called by the sweet siren of the slots, flickering lights and all. I slid one quarter into the beast, pulled down it's arm, watched as it's eyes rolled back into the same color and shape and finally cry out as I pulled $100 from it's belly on the first try. Yes. I magically turned 25 cents into 100 fucking dollars. Which of course meant that I was going to magically turn that into beer and whiskey.

We found our way to the auditorium which was surprisingly small with cafeteria style seating. I ordered us a round of whiskey and beer and continued to do so til the $100 was gone. Shortly after Bobcat had begun, 2 things of significance occurred, the first being some asshole under the influence decided to heckle him, and the second being holy shit I had to piss. I will concede that I have a bladder the size of a squirrel's and once I tap the seal, it's on. Although drinking a beer every 15 minutes also creates some pressure that's not ordinarily present. Now, being lazy, drunk and a dude-and by dude I mean having a wiener which allows dudes to piss pretty much anywhere quite easily-I decided to piss in my empty glass under the table. This system proved infallible, and as I filled each empty glass, so did the hatred in my heart for the heckler.

As Bobcat performed, batting down each annoying interruption (arbitrary questions such as, "where is your wife, Bobcat?"or just yelling out nonsense-anything to distract the show because "Daddy made poo-poo owie" or whatever reason he needed attention in a public forum) by the asshole seated in front of us, I decided I would do some batting of my own. The plan was simple: after the show, Brian would walk up to the heckler with a full glass of my urine and I would "accidentally" bump into him, soaking him with the seeds of piss he'd sown. However, our muscle control and coordination were sorely weakened by the copious amounts of ingested alcohol, and I basically fell into Brian who basically fell into...the dudes girlfriend. Her shirt was completely drenched-even her hair would not escape the yellow rain of revenge. So we chose the only reasonable option we had-we ran.

We grabbed a case of beer from off-sale, as we clearly hadn't had enough to drink, and hopped into the barf-filled flaming van, laughing hysterically onto the freeway like a pack of hyenas.

"A good hearted woman in love with a good timin' man."

As we pulled into the alley behind our house, an object appeared before us, laying there like a sacrificial lamb. It was a sofa, caught like a deer in the headlights, left to fend for itself in the cold, cruel world by some heartless home departers. As harsh as it seems, sometimes the only humane referendum is to put an animal down and in this instance, it was the only choice we had. I glanced over at Heath and saw something I hadn't seen before-it was the eye of the tiger. The tears come quick to us both, as the realization washed over us. I offered my hand and as he took it, turned his attention to the ghastly task at hand and floored it.

By the time we hit the couch, we were going a good 50 mph, and I can honestly say, my brothers and sisters, it never knew what hit it. The front end went up and over the beast, launching us skyward as if we were it's chariot to heaven. I could hear the narration of Waylon Jennings in my head, wondering "how the good ol' boys were gonna get out of this one" as the van came slamming down on the concrete. What was left of the carcass had become trapped between the front and rear axle and a shower of foam and sparks danced in the air-a dazzling and bittersweet display of the cycle of life. As the back end rolled over what little was left, we held each other and took solace in the knowledge that the sofa was in a better place.


And then we all totally blacked out.




Monday, June 4, 2012

beer and loathing in treasure island casino

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino. My only references to Bobcat were Police Academy II and the fact that he opened for Nirvana, which is unique only to Bobcat. I don't think Steve Guttenberg was ever asked to open for Nirvana. In fact, after several Police Academy sequels and Short Circuit, the request Steve Guttenberg got the most was probably "dude-could you just knock it off?" And whatever assholes are asking for "Three Men and a Bride" should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. Actually, that's kinda harsh because more than likely my mom is one of those assholes. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson and Steve Guttenberg? What mom wouldn't want to be passed around like a doobie in that trifecta of machismo? Crap. That's a horrible image and I apologize for any discomfort it may have caused you-unless of course you're into it-then shame on you, mister. Man-this shit got derailed and fast.

So we decided to go see Bobcat Goldthwait at Treasure Island Casino.

At this point in my heathen career, I was reaching the pinnacle of savagery, sustained by the attributes and traits it requires. Like the saying goes, "young, dumb and full of cum." Except instead of cum, I was filled with bad ideas and no filter whatsoever - the last person you'd want to be in public with. I was also at the age where a hangover was more of an "owie" or a "boo-boo." Not like present day where it feels like I gave myself terminal cancer in one evening and need to summon my family into my bedroom for last goodbyes, or make sounds and smells on the shitter the next morning that would compel the good samaritan to call an ambulance. No, this was the spring of my youth as an aimless, angry lunatic who was determined to make partying into a career, well before I would fathom limitations, and anyone divergent was a total dick. I also had congenial allies with bad ideas of their own and we totally fuckin' partied, mang.

One such friend, we'll call him "Heath", was the owner of a Ford Econoline that he had smartly painted black with flames.

Hello, trouble.
This was the go to vehicle for getting pulled over and doing the sobriety test in your underwear, getting searched and thrown in jail for a miniscule amount of weed, spending the night in a ditch after filling it with instruments after a punk rock show, and so on. Chances are if you were getting into this van, you were shit-blasted or well on your way.

We stopped at the liquor store for party favors. Our beer of choice back then was J. Ruppert's, the reason being it was $7 for a case. Now, when a beer company sells a case of beer for $7, they really can't expect it to be consumed responsibly by those who know when to say when, unless it was "when are we gonna get another case of J.Ruppert's? I'm not yet blacked out." We certainly didn't drink it for it's full body and aftertaste-you don't use a beer bong to luxuriate in the flavor of shitty beer. You suck it down like the world's gonna end and start making poor decisions. Buying a case of beer for $7 seemed almost miserly, so we bought 2.

The mud-sprayingest of cheap beer

We picked up our friend and fellow heathen Brian and were eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin' and gonna do what they say shouldn't be done, whoever said that. They sound like total dicks. This was when drinking and driving seemed downright hilarious. Even in the face of death you would've offered him a beer and a ride. As the sun went down, so did the beer. We made our way to the casino,  basking and baking in the ignorant glow of guileless youth. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, we were pretty much hammered, having drained our munitions down to a few strays. The bad idea of shot-gunning one last round seemed genius in it's simplicity, and we were all seasoned veterans in the appreciation of bad ideas. After showing our beers who the boss was, something happened to Heath that occurs after ingesting too much, too quickly on top of too much already-he barfed. And since he was the one who had been driving, he barfed all over and through the steering wheel, onto his shoes, and it's final resting place on the floor mat. This was met with teary-eyed laughter and hearty approval. After surveying the damage and cleaning off his shoes, Heath blurted out the only reasonable response to the situation: "Fuck it." Yes, fuck it indeed.

That's when things started to get out of hand...

COMING SOON-part 2 in which gambling and urine lead up to the destruction of property.

P.S I can't find J. Ruppert's knickerbocker beer so either they don't make it anymore or we drank all of it.

Friday, April 13, 2012

the dancing diarrhea fountains of las vegas pt 2: poop-fist packs a powerful punch


Poop-fist is exactly what it sounds like: a fist made of poop punching it's way out of your butt. Sure, you can fight back-maybe even last a couple rounds for show-but poop-fist will always win. Poop-fist is the undefeated heavyweight champion and that day it was working my butthole over like Rocky Balboa on a side of beef."Don't make me laugh", I begged as I scooted my way towards some bushes. Jeremy was of course laughing hysterically at my predicament and I thought even Kenny Rogers-who knew when to hold 'em-could never hold back this tsunami wave of beer batter. I made the lethal mistake of laughing, displacing enough muscle control from my brown star, and the floodgates opened up.

Within seconds my underwear was filled to capacity-a good 4 pounds. A second wave pushed the standing room only crowd over and out of my shorts, hanging onto my legs and stage diving onto my shoes. Without mercy or remorse, poop-fist was literally beating the shit out of me. I finally got behind the bushes and pulled off my pants, trying to find something to clean up with. Jeremy's laughter by now had reduced him to tears and as he watched me, pissed into the bushes. But he who laughs last doesn't always laugh alone. As his giggling got the best of him he became another victim of poop-fist's victory "streak."
"Someday bro, we're gonna shit our pants together" "Whatever man, let's just party"

"Holy shit", he cried out as poop began falling out of his shorts. He ran over next to me and repeated the same drill as we both spider walked over some rocks, spraying mud without restriction. The voices of hikers were heard in the distance and I wondered what would befall us if we were caught. 2 grown men porky pigging it(shirts but no pants)in a national park cleaning shit off our legs with what little was left of our underwear next to what looked and smelled like someone had gutted a pig. It was so unreal, I felt like I was having an acid flashback. It was hilarious, but also terrifying. Plus the fact that our wives were awaiting our return from our little adventure.

We wiped up the worst spills with what whatever untainted scraps of our underwear was left and then put our poopy shorts back on. It was a huge bummer. "The coyotes are gonna eat well tonite", Jeremy remarked. 'Yes they are', I thought to myself as I glanced down at the carnage left behind. "Damn the 'nam!", I cried out as I fell to my knees. "Damn the 'nam!" We embraced on the ground and wept as we looked upon our fallen brothers before beginning the long task of giving them a proper burial.




Oh-and then 6 months later I was totally divorced. Party.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

the dancing diarrhea fountains of las vegas pt.1

Before we begin this mystical journey together I would like to point the sad fact out that I no longer need to spellcheck the word "diarrhea." This here yarn I'm about to unfold is a luckless hand to be laid, and Kenny Rogers ain't around to advise through song. Let's just say shit got real ugly.


For those uninitiated to the bottomless debauchery of Las Vegas, I like to say that Vegas is to heathens what Africa is to black people-it's the motherland. During the day Vegas looks like the the Mall of America gave Donald Trump a blow job and then barfed up its guts into the desert. However, at night with all the overstimulating and hypnotic neon, it's like a giant midway for ne'er do well adults to be "naughty" and set fire to their money and inhibitions.

I arrived in the a.m. with my then wife(I was married once-whoops)to meet my best friend(we'll call him "Jeremy") and his wife at the time(double whoops)and was rather disgusted at the giant monument to western capitalism and greed. After we learned we could drag 12 packs of beer around and smoke anywhere we pleased, I immediately lost my moral compass and we indulged our heathen tendencies, almost to a point of self-reflection, and pretty much figured 'fuck it-let's puh-puh-puh-party.'


The days were spent with the wives doing tourist activities and behaving like civilized adults until they eventually got sleepy. Then we'd give the car-keys to our inner savages and say, "have at it, dickholes!" and drink and gamble til the awful and unforgiving sun came up, retreating back to our hotel rooms for maybe 2 hours of sleep. And by "sleep" I mean "being unconscious." Wake up, eat ancient Greece-sized portions of MSG filled buffets and repeat.(Weird side-note: in some casinos they get bummed if you swear. I know-that's weird, right? This was mentioned to us at a black jack table around 5 am to which Jeremy responded, "you're fuckin' kiddin' me?" to which they responded by calling security.)

So after 3 days of buffets and 3 nights of heathenry it was time to leave the city for some more tourist bullshit. It was time to go to Red Rocks Canyon. (Oh-and if yer ever in Vegas get the kobe beef bloody mary at the MGM. Holy shit-it's like drinking a steak.)We stopped for big coffees on the way and began some ol' fashioned trash talking about how that canyon better be deep as we planned to fill it with irresponsible amounts of diarrhea(no spellcheck-holla!)brewing from the irresponsible amounts of alcohol and buffet food we'd ingested.

As we pulled into the park we saw that the tourist info building was closed and man, I really needed to take a shit. The restroom was also closed but I figured I could hold it for awhile. We pulled up to a scenic view point with a trail leading into the canyon. For some reason our wives(oopsy daisy)were wearing high heels along with dresses that weren't exactly hiking friendly so we decided to go down together, leaving the women behind in hopes that the men would return-possibly with food. Wow-things got kinda western. Anyways, as we began the descent, poop-fist landed it's first blow...

COMING SOON-part 2 of this epic adventure in which shit gets ugly and the rather self-explanatory "poop-fist" is explained.

Friday, March 16, 2012

10,000 views celebratory blog blow-out extravaganza featuring a grab-bag of random horseshit

Let's start this shindig right by blowin' some shit up.


Holy shit that makes me happy. I've watched this over and over and man does it never get old. Never ever.

Over 10,000 people have now viewed my blog, many of which I'd assume they wish they hadn't. I'd like to delude myself into thinking that my name alone would be enough for thousands of people to scour the Internet in search of my prose, but that would be a huge load of horseshit. I've brought in, like, maybe 2. No, over half of the poor souls who have been tainted by this blog(a colonic for your sense of decency, as described by a friend)have been mercilessly misled here by one Mr. Stevil Kinevil.

Well guess who's watching you and possibly jerking it?
Not only has he gone out of his way to support my horseshit blog, he will also indulge my whining whenever I phone him, crying with a diaper filled with existential crisis. I'm also lucky enough to call him a good friend. And an asshole when we've been drinking. He once whacked my helmet so hard my head rang. After I refused to hit him back he derbied me into some bushes to even it up. I also attempted writing "I eat poop" on his forehead since he broke the golden rule and passed out with his shoes on. The time we've spent together in the physical world has been limited, but to quote Linda Hamilton at the end of Terminator, "in the few hours we had together we loved a lifetime's worth." For those uninformed, check out all hail the black market often, and at least buy a sticker, for shit's sake. To borrow a page from Stevil, I'm toying with the idea of adding some merch. I'm sure there's a heathen bike slob or three that would appreciate a "KNOW BON SCOTT, KNOW AC/DC-NO BON SCOTT, NO AC/DC sticker and as those in the know remember, I used to co-own a t-shirt shop which became a medium to express myself via textile, so some sweet threads may be available as well. Some examples:

Yes-heathen haw.
Pretty self explanatory
Triple down in moose knuckles town
Bon, could you cover up those moose knuckles for once? Thank you.
Oh-and check out the new shirt at Stroker Ace for all you Minneapolitans:



So there's that. I was also toying with the idea of utilizing AdSense to maybe make a little spare change on this here blog. Of course my knee-jerk punk rock reaction to this was, "fuck that shit-that's the man, man!" cuz we all know being punk rock means being shit-ass broke and indignant. Luckily, google made the decision for me:


Hello John Schreiner,

Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.

We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.

Issues:

- Inappropriate language

---------------------

Further detail:

Inappropriate language: We've found that your website contains content
that isn't in compliance with our program policies. We don't allow
websites with excessive profanity or potentially offensive content to
participate in Google AdSense.

Potentially offensive? That's almost insulting! This blog is totally offensive! Oh well. See? Fuck that shit-it's the man, man!

So far we've covered a wide range of broad topics such as the difference between drinking cold and hot diarrhea, drawing a pentagram with dick blood, blood in your stoolblowing up paint cans, the moose knuckles of Bon Scott, slow cooking a rump roast in a dutch oven, and my undying love for the Love Boat and all things 1970's.

Sweet gift courtesy of Sarah Johnson


And who could forget my dead grandpa's cock? Speaking of which, here are some amazing search keywords-misspellings and all-that resulted in showing this site:
*in the back-end of blogger you can see where traffic comes from, referral sites, views, search keywords, etc.


"choking grandpaw with my cock"
"cock grandpa cock"
"cum fraom grandpa"
"grand pa cocks"
"i dick my grandpa"

The ironic thing is compared to the rest of the sites those search words pull up, mine is pretty tame. Lately, the entry "my grandpa's cock" has taken off like a rocket. Pun intended. I honestly don't know what I'm doing with this blog thing. I basically stir the awful thoughts in my head, poke the gag reflex in my poor taste, and then barf it out onto my keyboard. I will continue to do this with greater frequency and as inspiration strikes. Speaking of which, to me this is the definition of bringing it. I could give 2 shits how popular these guys are now or that pitchfork media sucks their cock with every album. This is just an honest performance that made this heathen well up the first time and gives me goosebumps with repeated viewings. 

I'm just fucking with you. Here's the real deal:


Dude, even Letterman is stoked afterwards. 


I would also like to give quick shout out to my good friend Nicole Clemetson who has been sweet enough to photograph this dirtbag, giving me the head shots that have allowed me to win such roles as "wolfman on pcp", coming soon to something somewhere. She has also graced the cover of the Portland Mecury of few times now and as I like to say about Portland, it's like moving into Whole Foods. I would also like to thank my good friends that have braved possible tarnish after sharing my posts as well. Lastly, I would like to thank you, the person reading this right now. You are a horrible person for being here and I love you for it. To quote the late, great Bill Hicks, "it's just a ride."