'Tis I, Crown Prince of Profound Disappointmentland.

Mere moments after I discovered that anyone, anywhere, could find my little piece of cyberspace with a mere Google crawl, I did what anyone else who'd written the things I did would do: I shat myself.

I didn't think I had ever said anything incriminating - well, at least anything that would be admissable in a court of law - so instead of choosing the privacy option on Blogger to make my blog non-searchable, I became actively interested in how it was that people were arriving at this little slice of "wtf." In doing so I inserted that little counter thingie at the bottom of the screen, which not only gives me an idea of how many people come (pitifully few) but also where they are logging in from (mostly the corn). Most interesting, though, is that it provides me with an opportunity to see if someone has arrived at my site by way of a search, or "referral." THIS is where the gold is, my friends. Whist scrolling through, I began to laugh out loud - laughter which was soon followed by sepulchral silence. People were finding my blog because it, at the very least, contained some semblance of the bizarre, horrifying things people troll the 'net for. While they, in most cases, left profoundly disappointed, I must concede that it is I who am a monster. I mean, c'mon - take a look at these - and may I be eviscerated by Charro's needly lizard teeth in the dark of some dread night if I am lying about a single one.

shet bag
This one is easy enough to explain, and I can do so with one word: Shoes.

MUKDUK
Mukduk is, for ye who didn't endure 10,000 anthro lectures, whale or pinniped blubber and skins that is consumed by the Inuit peoples of the Canadian northlands. I have heard that Westerners who try it immediately evacuate their stomach contents and bowels simultaneously at the wretched smell, taste and sensations that accompany the gnawing of frequently raw whale skin and fat. Mentioned in several of my "Domonic is getting to be quite porcine" blogs.

Ike and Tina Turner whiteface watermelon photo
This one makes me a little uncomfortable for two reasons: one, the association of Ike and Tina with watermelon and two, this isn't just any watermelon: it's whiteface watermelon. And someone wants to see this. They found my blog instead, mercifully - but I can honestly say I have no idea why.

"catholic school" nun "i study" mass
Huh.

origin of NapTown
Let me tell you: Someone - and I have to presume that this was one of the do-rag wearin' white-as-hominy fellas who loiter about the Greenwood Park Mall - probably thought that calling Indiana's capital city "Naptown" was "chill." Or "hep." Or whatever people with misguided social patternization say in this situation.

"why are ships female?"
Because they, as ballast, take on a shit-ton of water-weight.

[feminists sharpen machetes while listening to Ani DiFranco]

"suffocation takes coordination"
Indeed.

indianapolis ghetto apt
You mean, like the one complex we go to only in broad daylight to heave our putrid trash into their Dumpsters because trash pickup in Greenwood costs more than cable TV per month?
incirlik tattoo
I have a tattoo. Two of them, matter of fact. And I am probably one of maybe three hundred Americans who know where İncirlik is. [did the funny "i" just then give you any clue?]

locust keeper
That would be me.

Greek sodomized small boys
Goddamn. OK, great, so pedophiles are finding my site. Well, I will tell all of you right now: you shan't find this happy horseshit around here.

Houston apartment complex guadalupe apparition
There is nothing in the world I love more than a good Virgin Mary apparition story. After attempting to find the origins of this search, I was unable to locate anything. Perhaps yet another miracle - maybe involving an Eggo waffle or a water stain - is in the works?

noodle town Bloomington
Where there's crack in the sauce, sreepies in rice and the heady stench of base divinity all around - ah, Bloomington's finest dining establishment.

levrek
Some Turk is looking for bass (the fish). Keep looking, my Anatolian buddy.

amount of education needed to become a cryptozoologist
You will still die hungry. Father Bielen says so.

" I hate Indianapolis"
Well, that's not as true as it used to be. I have come to appreciate how close the airport is and how quickly fine dining and entertainment and shopping can be had. Still, whenever I go I pack heat.

dr chi hackettstown nj
Is he still alive? He was in his fifties when I was nine. Please give a shout out if someone finds him alive.

Urban heat island, Singapore saw the hottest day
Um, what?

gorrilla legs
Just like I like 'em: covered in dense, black and nit-ridden hair.

g1 license practice teat
Someone mistyped "test" as "teat" and, through divine intervention, found my blog.

hand gestures boy scout shocker
A Boy Scout displaying the shocker? Never! Two in the pink, one in the stink? Oh, the humanity!

IK ONKAR TATTOOS
A Sikh is getting ready for some body modification.

underarm hair french german women armpit
I get that one a lot. What can I say?

***

I will be taking a blog hiatus from today, the 31st of October until such a time as when I have finished my goddamn thesis.

In the interest of time: PLEASE STOP ASKING ME ABOUT MY THESIS. IT IS NOT DONE. IT PROBABLY NEVER WILL BE DONE. STOP ASKING OR I WILL HAVE TO DRILL A HOLE IN YOUR THROAT.
Not that I am bitter. Or weary. Or poised on the brink of academic failure.

I shall return to thee in two month's time, if not sooner.

I remain, until then,

Domonic (don'tcryforme-sendmemoneyinstead) Potorti

Points to ponder.

Question One: Which is the worst?

a) Waiting, freshly sodomized and stripped naked against the autumn chill, hunched over a hand-dug grave waiting for a drunken death squad cadre to finish taking a leak so that he can properly dispatch you

b) Listening to the sickening crunch as you gnaw through human sinew and gristle in an effort to glean scant sustenance from fellow passengers' pathetic flash-frozen remains following a mountainside plane crash

c) Watching in mute horror as Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie savagely bring down and dine upon the cooling carcass of an unsuspecting tot

d) Going to renew your vehicle registration at a BMV

Question Two: 'owruggedahyah?

You are 5' 10", 260 lbs worth of a bearded Mainer. Let's just say that, theoretically, you are alone in your office on a lovely Sunday afternoon (because it's the only place on the goddamn earth where you can write your thesis in peace) and you happen to spy a roach scuttling across your floor only to disappear into parts unknown.

You shriek. Like, really loudly.

What does this mean?

a) You - concerned about vermin-borne contagion - had made the alleged shrieking sound to ward off the offending beast. The fact that it merely gazed upon you, feelers twitching, with only mild curiosity does not factor into this equation.

b) You have become, magically, a pre-pubescent girl.

c) It never happened. Nobody was there. Nobody can prove it. Your word against the roach's.

Question Three: WTF?

You are given a "cat." This "cat" is, at best, savage; at worst, mindlessly feral. Like, people at work think that you're a cutter. Additionally, this "cat", due to feline asthma, can only use litter so expensive that it is coated with platinum. When it isn't mowling (combination of mewing and howling) for hours on end to be fed at times of the morning generally reserved for gentle slumber or attempting to eviscerate/sodomize the dog, it amuses itself with creating a warm lair by shredding the material out from under your boxspring and burrowing into the hole like one of the creatures in Alien.

What can be done?

a) Bag of lime. Shovel. Rope. Swiss Army knife. Holy water and monstrance.

b) Leave the pilot light on and set off twelve silverfish fog-in-a-can apparatuses before departing for work.

c) Swaddle the beast and leave it in the big empty field where that Romany caravan stops.

d) Upon advice from your own sainted mother, "put the damn thing to sleep."

e) Wear long-sleeve shirts and love it anyway.

Question Four: OMFG, right?

You are working on a graduate thesis and time is running out for you to meet a completely irrational deadline put forth by your retar- uh, developmentally-delayed - department. You meet one of your committee members at an unrelated function and strike up a conversation. At this point, the committe member, despite signing your forms, approving your topic and speaking with you at length several times about it, asks: Do I know you?

What choices have ye?

a) Death.

b) Academic humiliation followed by paralyzing despair, then death.

c) Send dead parakeet on a bed of chrysanthemums anonymously through Fed-Ex with a note written with a "crayon" of dog feces; note to say "Every breath you take..." and only that.

d) Swallow your ego like a mouthful of putrid, week-in-the-sun cottage cheese and move on.

***

Needless to say, my few, it's been a fantastic week.

Until later, I remain,

Domonic (Ineverenvisionsavoryoptions) Potorti

Look what your God has done to me - again.

Last Friday afternoon I sat myself down over my lunch hour (lunch: Sheep medulla with a creamy snot-rocket glaze) and decided that I would write out a shopping list so that I wouldn't, um, do what I usually do and just wander around Target like a Bedouin for hours on end. After several minutes of careful contemplation I had managed to produce what I am forced to assume is

The Most Depressing Shopping List Ever.

It wasn't intentionally created to be as such, but while evaluating the reasoning behind each potential purchase I found myself reaching for a Valium and a hearty gin chaser.

1. Corn cat litter. Why corn, you ask? Well, let's see. My cat cannot use clay-based litter because it causes his FELINE ASTHMA to flare up. That means that ninety-five percent of commercially-available litters are out. THEN, he refuses to use the pine litter and the reconstituted newspaper litter, the weird crystal stuff is $18 a box and I refuse to buy it and finally, the wheat litter does nothing to absorb the smell of catpiss, causing our home to reek like a hobo's undercarriage in July. The corn litter is - and this is fantastic! - only to be found in ONE local store and they appear to not be restocking. When they sell out I will just have to leave the little bastard out in the field where I saw that gaily-colored Romany wagon last week. This is entirely beside the fact that I find it amusing and fairly ironic that I, who love the corn dearly, an forced to allow my cat to ceaselessly defecate on it.
2. Nose-hair trimmer. I'm not sure how this happens, but every couple of weeks I'll be looking in the mirror and I will notice what I assume to be an errant moustache whisker. When I go to yank it out, I - based entirely on nearly-unbearable white-hot pains from within my nostril - come to discover that it is, indeed, a tendril - nay, a tentacle - of nosehair that had begun the migration south.
3. Healthy Choice microwave lunches. This is because I am - and let's be frank here - beginning to attract the attention of rusty Norwegian and Japanese harpoon-vessels.
4. A paper shredder. Nothing says "entry into that really dull stage of your adulthood" like firmly believing that you should shred all of the paper that comes out of your home. Before you know it I'll be eating oatmeal to lower my cholesterol and wearing pressure hose.
5. The sixth season of The Golden Girls. Depressing for two reasons: one, it's not out yet and two... well, yeah.
6. Sanitary napkins. See above.

I'm secure enough with myself to purchase The Golden Girls on DVD. Yes I am.

Oh, hold on, someone's making me a mimosa - be right back.

***

Until later, I remain,

Domonic

Improbable nostalgia = early-onset dementia?

In an improperly-ventilated suburban-blight rental home lodged somewhere in the corn, a man - and I am certain this man is not me - settles his porcine form onto a couch after a long day of working with internation - uh, working as a mechanic. Yes, a mechanic. He absently notices that this particular couch has begun to visibly emit rays of reek from dog crotch and cat ass and reminds himself to burn the slipcover in the yard later; he lights a bought-on-clearance-in-July Christmas Wreath Yankee Candle in an excercise of utter futility. Unshaken by the insensate evil wafting from the furniture, he pops a movie into the VCR - yes, people still have those - and settles in for forty minutes of enchantment as the narrator begins to tell the sweeping tale of the brilliant, daring but ultimately hubris-doomed city-state of Athens.

Again, I am duty-bound to stress: this person is not me.

Now: While watching the film, this particular man begins to have a sensation that he is not sure will be dampened by the Smirnoff Watermel - uh, 40oz. Bud Light - he'd begun to consume. At first, he manages to convince himself that it's pent-up gasses yearning for release after his sup of four Oscar Mayer turkey-dogs and half a box of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese. After the aforementioned malt beverage begins a slow but relentless percolation through his misshapen hulk, though, he begins to relate to the documentary through

improbable nostalgia

which, I might add, has never happened to me.

So what the feck is improbable nostalgia? Well, it combines two fairly innocuous occurrences and transforms it into a clarion notification of a profound mental disorder which, I hasten to add, I do not harbor. The equation goes something like this:

regular, normal-people nostalgia X insanity / [the square root of] abundant impossibility

Still not with me? OK. Alright, the difference is this: it's the difference between feeling like you would have liked to live in a particular time period (combining wistfulness and playful whimsy) and KNOWING that you lived in a particular time period and being nostalgic for it DESPITE it being utterly impossible, physically, for you to have lived then.

Examples:

A) Millicent spends much of her free time learning about medieval times and yearns, in the present-day climate of near-hysteria and the decay of all the world holds dear, for the values and dramatic heroism of that age. In her dewy-eyed youth, she is unaware that it was also a time of rampant anti-Semitism, rat-borne pestilences that decimated urban and rural populations, stagnation in many of the arts and sciences, and fantastically bad smells. I mean, come on: knights had to relieve themselves in their armor once it was on, and you can bet that oral hygeine wasn't top of most people's lists. Plus, they were burning women like cordwood all over Europe. Good times.

B) During the holiday season, 26 year-old Dirk pops in his well-worn copy of A Christmas Story into his beercan-ring-covered DVD player. While watching, Dirk begins to remember being a child in the relative innocence of the early 1940s and begins to long for a time when "boys were boys and didn't have any of that candy-ass long hair", when a pack of smokes cost a nickel and could be purchased by five-year-olds and when rubbers were for only for filthy sailors on shore leave in Singapore. The sporadic Asian landwar phenomenon would be more than a decade away and women cooked dinner in heels, lipstick and pearls.

See the difference?

Let us pause for a moment and thank our lucky stars that you and I (especially I) do not succumb to this rare and highly destructive dementia.

[humming; sounds of the fashioning of a chiton]

***

This morning, Alert Life in the Corn Acolyte Keith phoned me on the way to work (wherein he then girds himself in period clothing and tells baldfaced lies to sullen schoolchildren) to alert me to an avatar of the Virgin Mary I'd scarcely dreamed existed. After a hasty pre-work Wikipedia crawl, I was able to confirm the existence of

Our Lady of Prompt Succor

who is, among her other duties, the patroness of the state of Louisiana AND the city of New Orleans. [irony? resounding "yes".]

Now, I know that calling her "Our Lady of Really Quick Help" is trashy and unbefitting her status, but come on: prompt succor? It's like something *I'd* make up. But the best part is that there is a Catholic high school that is called the Our Lady of Prompt Succor High School and I, who can faintly smell the brimstone, have to wonder:

What the hell would their mascot be?

***

Finally, a note for the gentleman in the jacked-up Ford F-150 I beheld this morning on my death-march commute:

Dear Sir,

I would like to take a moment to thank you for providing me with an opportunity to view your tasteful rub-on window declaration this morning. I am happy to know that, as far as desires go, "[You] like lipstick on your dipstick." I would like to also take a moment to inform you that part of my pleasure in viewing your aforementioned "decoration", replete as it was with a faux lipstick imprint and an amusing Comic Sans font, was envisioning the mute horror a potential lipstick donor would feel when confronted by your shriveled micropenis, which resembles in size, shape and smell a sundried salad shrimp.

I see the wad of Skoal the size of a Mekong catfish crammed in your lip and your sweat-salt-crusted baseball cap and wonder: do you think you are attractive? I see your proudly-displayed Confederate flag and wonder: do you think you are a rebel? I see your "decoration" and think: do you think this witticism is going to provide you with female-originated oral pleasure?

Who are you trying to convince?

I think you know who is shellacking your shrimpie, good sir, and I know he'd look awkward in a tanktop.

Sincerely,

Domonic

***

Until next time, I remain,

Domonic (ok,eww) Potorti