Archive for the 'vulgarity' Category

please think responsibly

The CPS celebrates the revival of its internet access by reminding YOU to celebrate responsibly.

CPS cultural critics have also given this website a .08 on a scale of 1 to 10 for tasteless, idiotic feature writing.


“OCONOMOWOC, Wisconsin (AP) — A man says he broke into an apartment with a cavalry sword because he thought he heard a woman being raped, but the sound actually was from a pornographic movie his upstairs neighbor was watching.

“Now I feel stupid,” said James Van Iveren, who has been charged in the case. “This really is nothing, nothing but a mistake.”

According to a criminal complaint, the neighbor told police that Van Iveren pounded on the door and kicked it open without warning February 12, damaging the frame and lock.”

[more from CNN]

CPS political analysts suggest this as another reason to encourage Midwest secession.


Two dogs sit down next to each other in the veterinarian’s waiting room.

The first, a Chihuahua, looks quizically at the second, a Great Dane.

“Wow,” says the Chihuahua. “You’re huge. You must be really old.”

“Actually no,” replies the Great Dane. “I’m only eleven months. But you’re so tiny you must be only a couple weeks old.”

“Not me,” says the Chihuahua. “I’m eleven months too.”

“Huh,” says the Great Dane. “Well, what are you doing here?”

“Well,” says the Chihuahua, “my mistress walked by me the other day, and all of a sudden, I felt this uncontrollable urge. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d lept at her, wrapped myself around her leg, and started humping. I think she brought me here to get my balls cut off.”

“That’s funny,” says the Great Dane. “Just this morning, I saw my mistress step out of the bathtub and I felt this uncontrollable urge. Before I could stop myself I… well, I mounted her.”

“Heavens!” exclaims the Chihuahua. “Do… do you think they’re going to cut your balls off too?”

“Oh no,” replies the Great Dane. “I’m just here to get my nails clipped.”


40. Circumcision
32. Celebrity sex tape
22. List of sex positions
19. Pornography
18. List of gay porn stars
10. List of big-bust models and performers
2. JonBenet Ramsey

Wikipedia is perverse.

On a side note, so are the search terms people use to find this blog. Most recent: “vegetable penises.”

works for me

“I’ll have half a number 4 with everything on it, and— an iced tea from the cooler.”

“Is that it?”

“Yep that’s it.”

“Seven seventy-six.” Heavens

“Here, I’ve got…” Oh sweet jesus give her some coins or she’ll give you half a ton of change “There.” [$20.01]

“And— twelve twenty-five.” Ha


“Wait— Did you want The Works on that?”

“Uh, yes—uh, yeah, all the, uh, everything.” Right

Crucial Plot Point Number One: I am ordering a sandwich.

Crucial Plot Point Number Two: The girl behind the counter hates men. I suspect this because she drives a V-8 Blazer with 36-inch tires and a bumper sticker that says “Bitch.” It almost scrapes the roof of the bank drive-thru, which I know because I once saw her drive it thru. Ironically, its height would force her to lean well out of the driver’s window to reach the deposit drawer, potentially (if she were wearing the shirt she wore to serve me) compromising her cleavage, which, if the drive-thru teller were male, might jeapordize the standoffish four-wheel-drive-bitch image her vehicle seeks to project.

Crucial Plot Point Number Three: Crucial Plot Point Number Two isn’t actually crucial. Also, the last sentence is speculative.

Crucial Plot Point Number Four: For some reason I don’t understand, when you order a sandwich at this place, you can order it with just the vegetables and condiments you want—e.g. lettuce, tomato, mayo, pepper—OR you can order it with “Everything.” “Everything,” however, does not mean vegetables AND condiments; it means only vegetables. If you want all the condiments—and there are too many and it’s too complicated and you’re in a hurry because there are thirtynine tourists with a trillion touristchildren standing behind you screaming and you just don’t want to think—you must also order your sandwich with “The Works.”

Crucial Plot Point Number Five: “Everything,” therefore, doesn’t really mean “everything.” It means “everything that is a sandwich vegetable,” or “everything you can put on a sandwich without shaking, grinding, dribbling, or squirting.” I think—I think—there are serious philosophical problems with this nomenclature. (Conversely, if you ordered a sandwich with “nothing” on it, you would still get the basic sandwich with meat and cheese, which, in fact, is “something”; in fact, I don’t think it’s POSSIBLE to have a sandwich with nothing on it because a sandwich has to sandwich something or else it isn’t really a sandwich is it? Right? You see the problem. Or perhaps that was a digression)


Crucial Plot Point Number Seven This makes me ANGRY. I do not know why. Once upon a time they just had “everything,” and then asked you if you wanted mayo mustard oil vinegar salt and pepper, but they just got lazy. That’s what it is: Lazy.

Crucial Plot Point Number Eight: They just don’t care. They should care. A sandwich shop is no place to fuck with metaphysics. People are hungry. People want sandwiches. They don’t want the philosophical underpinnings of their food-requesting language getting dildoed around by lazy people who’d rather take out the bank window than shed the knobs from their tires.

Crucial Plot Point Number Nine: I think this is the end of this post and there really isn’t any point to it other than to demonstrate an incongruity and sexually objectify a perfectly innocent woman and her wheels. Caveat essor.

The Penis Dialogues

How the conversation actually began:

Woman: “Is that a penis?”

Me: “Huh? Uh, where…do you mean?”

Woman: “Right there. It looks like he tried to draw a penis.”

Me: “That? I…uh, I think that’s her leg.”

Woman: “This? Right here?” points “But it kind of looks…I don’t know, I think it looks like…”

Me: “Let me move it where you can see it better” removes painting and leans it on a chair “Yeah, I think that’s just the shadow where her leg is foreshortened.”

Woman: pause “Weird.” pause “It kind of looked like a penis.”

Me: polite pause “Yeah, I…uh…I see what you mean, but I think it’s just…uh, you know—perspective.”

Woman: “Yeah. I thought he just tried to stick a penis on her or something.”

Me: “Heh, yeah, I don’t know.”

Woman: “It’s like he wanted to make her a transvestite or something like that.”

Me: “Heh heh, wow yeah” politely joking “Jeez I can’t look at this any more.” lifts painting and re-hangs it

Woman exits to browse back room.


Several alternate responses suggest themselves.

Alternate Response Number One:

Me: “Yep, that’s a penis all right. It’s not a complete penis, you see, but it is a penis all the same. The painter’s just trying to show it’s all part of God’s creation, and that, like all penises, it’s a thing of beauty, even if by some weird twisted freak of nature or closet pervert culture it’s become attached to what is otherwise an anatomically normal and even downright buxom-looking female body. It’s a beautiful, bold statement about the aesthetics of the hermaphroditic physical form.”


Alternate Response Number Two:

Me: “Actually, you’re half right. The artist is trying to fool you by making the woman’s foreshortened thigh look like a penis. He’s making a statement about male domination and the objectification of women. In fact, if you squint a little, you can see that the figure’s entire body is nothing more than a collage of penis-shaped blobs of paint.”


Alternate Response Number Three:

Me: “No, it’s not a penis. It’s a leg, not a penis. It doesn’t even look like a penis. Do you even know what a penis looks like? Have you ever SEEN a penis? Doesn’t look like it.”


Alternate Response Number Four:

Me: “No that’s not a penis dummy THIS is a penis HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA just kidding get the fuck out of my store.”


How the conversation actually ended:

Woman: Turning to leave “Is there a liquor store in this place?”

Me: “Uh… Well, your best bet would probably be the supermarket, I guess.”

Woman: “What, you mean there’s a supermarket?”

Me: “Yeah…just a mile that way…”

Woman: “Wow. Thanks. I need a drink after looking at that photograph.”

Me: “Heh heh” it’s a painting not a photograph what’s wrong with you

Woman: “Ha just kidding.”

Me: more awkward laughter until woman leaves

wrist-slashing prompt #4,796

Potential customers #497 and #498: Tall-ish man wearing cross around neck and possibly in need of a shave; short-ish woman, sun-tanned/burned complexion, long black hair, denim mini-skirt.

Words spoken by couple during their entrance to, and traverse of the first room of, the gallery (in response to “hello”):


Words spoken by couple during their traverse of the gallery’s second room, in which I sit:

(no words)

Words spoken by couple during their traverse of gallery’s third room, which, to reach, requires walking past three to four dozen paintings, many of which possess visible brush-strokes, impasto, and signatures, and many of which bear prices in the mid- to upper five figures, and most of which, in fact, are so obviously original works of art as to make the following statement border on the farcical and indicate that said couple either a.) are both partially blind, or b.) have seen only a miniscule number of actual paintings in their lives:

Woman: “Do you think these are originals?”

Remaining words spoken by couple during their traverse of gallery’s fourth room, their return through the first three rooms, and their exit through the front entrance (quietly):

“Thank you.”

Emotions felt by gallery staff in the aftermath of couple’s brief perusal of inventory, especially considering they were two of only a very meager handful of customers to enter the premises that day:

Annoyance, frustration, incredulity, despair.

a sense of hummer

My heart flooded with optimism at the sight of its gleaming blue-gray flanks—the color of the early morning sky over the Rockies. The word “Independence,” emblazoned on the passenger-side door, glinted even in the dim afternoon. The mass of it overwhelmed me; its ingenuity awed me. These rhino bars, this trailer hitch, those massive wheels rolling impassively over the pavement—surely here stood the glittering epitome of America’s technological success; surely this was the worthy capstone of the past century’s automotive progress.

And how could this vehicle—which neither mountain crags, nor gulches, nor barren dunes can constrain—how could it allow itself to be bullied by bureaucrats, planners, construction workers, and parking enforcement officers who saw fit to delineate the frontier—to pave it and draw lines on it, and thereby circumscribe that freedom that our forefathers fought so hard to protect—the freedom that this very vehicle celebrates? The answer is: It could not. It did not. In parking it—in posing it on the street corner to impress the world—she placed it in not one parking space, but two.

She! That icon of womanhood! That princess of automotive freedom! When she immerged from her metal steed, it became clear to me that she represented not the dowdy, downtrodden driveresses that populate our tattered byways, but some higher ideal—some butter-haired icon of driverly beauty—some all-American vision of the freedom of the roads!

Imagine my surprise at her entrance to my humble place of business. Imagine the joy I felt at upon realizing that hers was no paltry natural beauty, no improbable exception of age and physique, but a shrine to the triumph of science! Her hair golden long past its natural ability; her skin suntanned and smoothed in no way even nature could devise; her figure girlish years—decades—beyond any deservance on her own part to be called so: I marveled at these, even blessed myself that I should live in an age, in a nation, where such miracles transpire.

That the first words to flit from her lips should ask, “Do you buy old frames?” transported my delight to ecstasy. Here, embodied before me, stood the American Spirit in toto. Not content in her evident riches—not content in her mighty wheels and meticulous bod—she yet felt within her the American yearning to achieve wealth—nay, glory!—to market, to barter, to dicker, yea—to vend!

“My family used to own an antique shop,” quoth she—but how she spoke! With a disinterested nasality that murmured a frustration with the present, suserrated a desire to run free, to seek the future, whatever be its forms. So overcome was I, nary a word could I speak, not even in the interest of the frames, for verily they seemed hideous.

My eye watched her with patriotic zeal
As she walked out and climbed behind the wheel;
And I looked on from stodgy world of art
As she and Hummer boldy did depart!

heard in the art world

This just in:

Q: What do Cher and the coast of Maine have in common?

A: They're not fucking sonny any more.

(NOTE: This is only funny if said out loud.)