Tag Archives: writing

The Crazy Things You Weirdos Type Into Search Engines: The Legend Continues

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Once upon a time there was a boy who started a blog because he quit his job to be a stay at home stepdad / comedian and his wife said “if you’re going to be home all day you’re gonna write comedy every day.” The boy wrote the blog every weekday and soon, due to his tendency to swear excessively and write about weird topics, the blog started getting hits from google searches that were kind of weird. In fact, some were downright disturbing.


The boy started posting about those search engine hits when he got sick of making fun of republican presidential candidates and now we’re here in our 6th installment of The Things You Weirdos Type Into Search Engines



In case you missed out, here’s links to the previous installments –


Shitting While Standing Bad For Health

Foreskin Donut

I can’t stop farting and it’s affecting my job

the fuck you fuck you dairy

what is the medical term for queef?


and here’s some google search hits from the last 30 days!


south park mr hankey xxx
Okay, it’s bad enough that there’s somebody out there looking for anthropomorphic cartoon turd porn but I got two hits for this one in the same day.

youngnotions.com. Proving rule 34 right on a daily basis.


Hey, speaking of poop –


turd plane comedy
I don’t even know what this person was looking for. A comedy about a plane made out of turds? Jokes about pooping on a plane? In don’t… What?


knitted foreskin
What’s sad about this one is that it’s not even the strangest foreskin related search term that’s led to this site.


god are you there for hindus
I like that it’s not asking “Is God there for Hindus”, it’s asking “god are you there for hindus”. Like the person asking thinks google is god. They’re praying to the internet.


meat goo
I know this one came up because I did a post about pink slime in beef and called it “meat goo” but I’m sure that’s not what this person was looking for. I shudder to think what that person was looking for.


Seriously. You all should be ashamed of yourselves.

The Goste of Superior Shores Resort.

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Hey, kids! Daddy has a splitting headache right now so how about a story from my honeymoon with Jena so I don’t have to read every news site on the internet for something to make fun of? Here we go!


The suite we’re staying at has a guest book where people can share their experience with future guests. Many are from newlywed couples or people celebrating their anniversary talking about how amazing Split Rock Lighthouse is (holy shit it’s just a lighthouse. Calm the fuck down middle aged couples from Blaine). Some people let their children write their log into the book which can range from adorable to… this.



6/22/08
MAYBELINE SEEN A GOSTE IN THE HOT TUB. WE THOT IT WAS PA, COME BACK FOR HIS $ SO WE BURNT A PUNKIN DOWN BY THE LAKE FER JEEZUS TO COME HELP!
VERNON GUTRANKLE, TN.



Burning pumpkins are like the bat signal but for Jesus.

O, Canada!

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I just found out that I’ll be doing a couple of shows in Thunder Bay, Ontario next month. In the 11 years I’ve been doing this jokey thing I’ve never left the country and now I’m gonna hit two foreign lands in three months. Maybe this will be the start of a new trend for me. Hopefully I’ll be big in central European countries that are known for their chocolate.



Any Belgian club owners can contact me at bill@youngnotions.com for booking info.



While going to Mexico was a bit of a culture shock for me Canada should be a walk in the park. I went to Thunder bay one time in high school and as a Minnesotan I’m pretty much almost Canadian anyway. In fact, a couple of years ago my friend Mike Brody (who just released a comedy album through Rooftop Records. CLICK HERE TO BUY IT, YA JERKS) traveled to Canada for shows. Since he had never been to the country before, I sent him this email to help him along on his international journey.




Greetings, old friend. I understand that this is your first time in Canada. Visiting a foreign land can be strange and confusing so, as somebody who went to Thunder Bay on a family camping trip once when he was 17, I think I can tell you all you need to know to get by in our northerly neighbor of Canadia.



1. Eskimos: Don’t call them Eskimos. You’re going to see a lot of dark skinned men in parkas holding a spear that has a fish on the end of it. You will see these men and women living in igloos and using dogsleds as their primary means of transportation. DO NOT CALL THEM ESKIMOS. They’re Inuit. Calling them Eskimos is like calling black people the “n” word in the real world.



2. Poutine: You’ve had poutine at the HOC but Rick may not have told you that due to FDA regulations, what you’ve had was a watered down, diluted poutine solution. Much like absinthe or black metal, poutine is much stronger in foreign countries. Stay away from it. It will kill you.



3. Mounties: Don’t make fun of them. They’re not like the Canadian version of those Buckingham Palace guards who can’t move. They will throw down.

Seriously. This pic was from the wikipedia page for "Mounties". They'll fuck your shit up.





4. Your comedy: Doesn’t matter what you say, just wear a dress while you’re saying it.



5. The White Witch: She’s turned Canada into a land where it’s always winter but never Christmas. You must build an army with Aslan to defeat her. Do this, and you will be named the king of Canada.



For more information on Canada, talk to anybody near you because you are in Canada.

Mayday and the Killer Gutter Punk Pedal Float!

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Mayday is a holiday primarily celebrated by hippies. I really don’t have the patience to research it (re: look it up on wikipedia) but I’m sure that, like any other pagan holiday, mayday is about screwing and maypoles are a phallic symbol.



Let's hold hands and dance around the dick!




In fact, I didn’t even know that Mayday was a holiday until three years ago. When Jena and I had been dating for about 7 months she asked me if I wanted to go to the Mayday parade at Powderhorn Park. The parade is put on (or sponsored by or partnered with) Heart of the Beast Puppet Theater so there’s always these huge paper mâché puppets marching down the street. Pretty cool stuff.


We got to the parade early to get a good seat and got to witness the unofficial-yet-tolerated “parade before the parade” which was a bunch of gutter punks riding around on their homemade bikes.


See, gutter punks are like the drunk, deadbeat uncle of the hippie. They’re family so the hippie doesn’t say anything when the gutter punk show up to the Christmas party for the free meal and doesn’t bring gifts for anybody but they really wish Uncle Gutterpunk would just get his life together or at least shower before he showed up.


So the gutter punks are all riding around showing off their tall bikes and long bikes and wide bikes and bicicyles built for 5 etc. It’s like Dr. Seuss and Tom Waits had a homeless baby. Towards the end of the bike parade there was a pedal powered float. It looked like it was patched together from scraps from Fred Sanford’s junkyard. It was a two level slanted shanty. Inside on the first level were about 6 gutter punks pedaling away and drinking Black Label. About 8 feet off the ground on the roof there was a band playing with somebody steering.


As the band played and gutter punks biked and ran around the float, hopping in and out. One girl tries to jump on the front of the float. As it’s moving forward. This did not go well. The float runs her over and stops on top of her. People rush to help and start yelling “back up” to the driver but DIY multi pedal technology has yet to crack the code for “reverse”. Eventually everybody gets out and they lift the thing off of her. An ambulance arrives shortly and I’m secretly a little disappointed that it’s not pedal powered and covered in “This Bike is a Pipe Bomb” stickers.


I hope the girl is okay. I’m pretty sure she didn’t die. In fact, in the middle of writing this I thought to google it and there’s a video on youtube of the whole incident. The comment section is full of conservatives saying this is why communism is bad. Frankly, I’m surprised Obama didn’t get blamed for it.


Several months later I was at the Guthrie theater for the MN Fringe wrap party. Jena had a show in the Fringe that year but I left the party early because I had to work the next morning. As I was about to get into my car, the slanty shanty rolled down the street with a few people on the roof. I flagged down a gutterpunk who was riding his bike alongside the float and asked “Didn’t that thing almost kill a girl at the Mayday parade?” He looked at me confused and said “Uh… I don’t… think so? Maybe you’re thinking of something else.”


“I’m not. That thing shouldn’t be on the road.”


“Don’t worry, man. We’re totally safe.” And then he rode off on his bike that he, a kid with no training in mechanics or welding, built himself.

My Grandmother Thinks I’m a Pornographer.

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Several years ago I directed a play for the Minnesota Fringe Festival called “Porn! Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Dong”. It was a musical loosely based on Jenna Jameson’s autobiography



Get it? Loosely? Ba-Zing!





and written by my friend and fringe collaborator Mike Yanke. Here’s a phone conversation that I had with my grandma about the play that I found on my ol’ myspace blog. Enjoy!


GRANDMA: So what are you doing right now?

ME: I’m just on break right now from rehearsal.

GRANDMA: Rehearsal from what?

ME: Oh, just the Fringe play I’m-

GRANDMA: Oh, is this the play your uncle Ron was telling me about?!?

ME: Wha?

GRANDMA: Your uncle Ron called me and said Oh, Bill’s play is pornography! He said he read in the paper that there’s nudity and sex and pornography in this play! Are you doing pornography, Billy?

ME: What? No! I’m not doing a pornography! There’s no sex or nudity in this play!

GRANDMA: So youre not doing a pornography?

ME: No. I’m not… doing a pornography.

GRANDMA: Good. I think you can get arrested for doing pornography. I dont want you to go to jail.

ME: I’m not going to jail for doing this show, grandma.

GRANDMA: Well, what is this play about, then?

ME: It’s a comedy.

GRANDMA: Oh, a comedy! What’s it about?

ME: Well, it’s a comedy about pornography.

GRANDMA: Really? You can do comedy about pornography?

ME: Sort of.

GRANDMA: Is there a script?

ME: Sort of.

GRANDMA: Can I get a copy of the script to read?

ME: What? Why?

GRANDMA: Well, I think I’d like to read this script before I go see the show. So it’s not pornography and sex?

ME: No.

GRANDMA: Oh, good. I dont want to go see any pornography. (laughs) I dont even know what pornography is!

ME: Please stop saying pornography.


Thank God she never came to the show. It was all pornography.

Pink.

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Alright, while there’s still plenty more Mexico stuff for me to talk about (I should have interviews and stuff up by Friday), let’s take a break and talk about what’s going on with me stateside. If you’re still yearning for some insight on the Akumal Comedy Festival check out Ian Rans’ coverage of the fest for citypages.com!



I got home on Monday night. Watched some netflix with my family and went to bed early. When I woke up the next day I realized most of my t-shirts were in my duffel bag and dirty. There was some clean-but-yet-to-be-hung-up laundry on the floor and one pink t-shirt. I grabbed the pink tee since it seemed easier than bending over and digging through laundry for five seconds. Pink wouldn’t be my first choice but whatever. I just spent a week with my shirt off. Simply putting on a shirt seemed alien to me.



Later that day I went to the elementary school by my house to pick up the kid I babysit. I went to the lunchroom where all the kids wait for their parents/family/babysitters and he’s hanging out with some kids in his grade (Kindergarten). One of the kids look at my shirt and says “HEY! PINK IS A GIRL’S COLOR! BOY’S CAN’T WEAR PINK!”, pounding his tiny little fist into my chest for emphasis.



Okay. I don’t really care if you’re raising your kid to be a traditional “girls like pink and dolls and dancing and boys love dirt and sports and blah blah”. Not the way I play ball but you can teach your kids whatever you want. It’s your right as an American. Your kid starts correcting other people on that sort of stuff? Then I have a problem. My first instinct was to pick him up by the shoulders and put him up against the wall at eye level with me. All 260 pounds, shaved head and beard six inches away from his face and say “Does it look girly on me?”



I obviously didn’t do this. School administrators tend to frown upon physical threats against their youngest students (I’m pretty sure you can rough em’ up if they’re 4th or 5th grade) and he’s like 5 or 6 years old. Kids just say the first things that pop into their heads when they’re that age. Just ask anybody who’s obese or missing a limb. I just bent down to his level and said “Boys can wear whatever color they like. Same goes for girls.” The boy I babysit said “I like pink!” and I responded with “That’s because you’re awesome”. We high fived and walked out of there.


Later yesterday my wife and I went to the T-Mobile store to rework our plans into a family plan and upgrade my phone. My budget narrowed it down to two smart phones. The Samsung Gravity and a T-Mobile MyTouch. The sales guy (Trent, knew his shit and super helpful) told me to stay away from the MyTouch and to get the cheaper Gravity. The floor model was in pink but he assured me that they had a blue one in back.



“Fuck that. Get me the pink.” I asked if they had any Hello Kitty skins or rainbow and unicorn stickers. Trent assured me that Unicorns are actually very manly and if I showed up the next day with a unicorn tramp stamp he would give me the phone for free. I decided to pay the twenty bucks.



Me with my pink shirt and my pink phone in my pink bathroom. I'm a pretty pretty princess!

The Best and Worst of the Akumal Comedy Festival.

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Best: Sol Beer.


Sol!




I had never seen Sol beer before going to Mexico. I don’t know if it’s not available in the US or you just can’t find it in the midwest but I soon got to know Sol beer very intimately. I didn’t drink much beer the first few days as beer gives me troubled trousers these days so I mainly stuck to a drink I invented called “Pool Rum”. Here’s how you make a Pool Rum.



1. Grab a bottle of rum.
2. Drink it in a pool.



As the week went on I got a little more courageous with the beer and by the end of the week I was pounding Sol pretty hard with no gut troubles. I’m no scientist but I think that this means that Sol is a tasty magic Mexican beer and they don’t carry it around here because the government is afraid people will learn of it’s healing properties.


Worst: FUD Hot Dogs



FUD





On the third night I picked up some brats, hot dogs and buns for some late night drinkey snacks. We ended up moving to a different rental house the next day and while I remembered to bring the hod dogs and brats, I forgot the buns. That night we were getting into the Sol and pool rum and wanted something to eat but the only food was the brats and dogs. The brats were Johnsonville, a brand that’s everywhere in the states so we knew what we were getting. The dogs were FUD brand.



According to Wikipedia, FUD (pronounced “food”) is an acronym for the Spanish words Fino, Unico y Delicioso (Refined, Unique & Delicious). Looking at it through american eyes you just end up saying “Food” and really over pronouncing the “u” like it’s something you’d find at Ikea. Whatever. It’s pretty hard to fuck up a hot dog, right? We put them in a pan and threw water in to simmer. Festival Comedian and friend Nate Abshire manned the pan while the rest of us got back to drinking.



After a few minutes I looked over to the pan and the hot dogs had swelled to literally three times their size. Their smooth texture had been replaced by a wrinkly one. I asked Nate to describe what it looked like this morning on facebook chat and here’s what he gave me.



“They looked like an uncircumcised penis, riddled with leprosy, slowly becoming engorged with malignant desire.” He’s not wrong.



When they were taken out of the water and off the heat they shrank back down to roughly their original size but the wrinkles and cuts from their hulk out remained. Now they were just withered little things that we had no choice but to eat because we had the drunken munchies and you don’t want to waste food (there’s starving Children in America). They tasted like wet pencil erasers. No amount of hot sauce made them palatable.



The wikipedia article for FUD states that they just struck a deal with a US company to license and distribute the wrinkledick dogs up here. Consider yourself warned.

Stupid Mexico is For Jerks.

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I hate this place.



I’m not just saying that because my wife has expressed jealousy that she’s not here, this whole area is just awful. It’s been the worst week of my life and I want to get out of here. Just look at some of the shit I’ve had to put up with in the last 7 days.



Stupid ocean.





This area’s home to some of the largest coral reefs in the world. I hate it.



Stupid hammock.





Hammocks suck so bad you have a hard time staying awake in them.



Stupid swing chair.





At La Buena Vida, the bar stools are swings and there’s tree houses you can sit in and order drinks by lowering a bucket down on a rope. The food and drinks are super tasty and affordable and the staff is friendly. I hate it.



Pfft.





Building stupid sandcastles on a stupid picturesque beach. Whatever.



Stupid pool.





Hanging out at the pool behind the Casa Del Sol with my friends. Not my idea of fun.



The waterfall's loud.





Hanging out in the backyard of Casa Del Sol, the five bedroom house we’ve been staying at. There’s a pool and waterfall in the backyard and a path leading to a stupid lagoon where you can swim with a bunch of tropical fish or whatever. The Grateful Dead used to stay here or something. I hate it. There’s too many kitchens.



Who has fun drinking?





Drinking with my friend Chris. You can get a decent bottle of rum here for like 7 bucks. Booze has been flowing freely in the house and we’ve had parties almost every night. It sucks.



I can’t wait until this festival’s over. I hate comedy.

Magical Mexican Voyage: Day 6.

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Chatting with Jena earlier today I told her I didn’t know what to blog about. She told me I should talk about what I’m doing in Mexico besides pooping. Honestly I haven’t gone out too much. There have been some parties, one of which had a surprise Mayan dance routine bust out right in the middle of everything –



Sure I was a little disappointed when I found out they weren't strippers but it was a cool show anyway.





But for the most part I’ve been writing and drinking. Not most people’s ideal for a tropical vacation but I could think of worse ways to pass the time.



It hasn’t all just been hunching over a laptop and emptying bottles of rum like some modern day fart joke Bukowski, the organizers for the Akumal Comedy Festival lined up plenty of activities for the comics and with shooting sketches on location there’s been plenty to explore. Here’s a quick rundown of what I’ve been up to –



BUSTIN’ COCONUTS
Remember this guy?



I can eat it!





Trees like that are all over the place down here and I wasn’t sure if they were coconuts because the only coconuts I’ve ever seen were the fuzzy brown bowling balls hanging off the lone tree on the tiny island in comic strips. Turns out in real life they got a big ol’ husk surrounding the bowling ball. I saw some in the back yard of the villa where the organizers and crew are staying and asked my friend and festival organizer Gus Lynch if I could have one. He gave me the go ahead and I set about on my task. Opening a coconut.



I figured Tom Hanks did it in like three days on Castaway so if I beat that time I’m good. I spiked it against the cement patio and while it didn’t bust open, the husk was softer where it hit. I peeled a little back but it was slow going. I was going to need tools. I went to the kitchen and got a paring knife. I was worried I might cut myself hacking away at it so I got the smallest blade possible. When I went back out to stab away and enjoy the sweet coconut the cinematographer for the shoots looked at me holding a knife and coconut and said “careful. I’ve seen four people cut themselves trying to open coconuts before”. I was starting to think it just might be better to go and grab a Mounds bar but I’ve mad my decision. I’m cracking this fucker open and eating it. After ten minutes of hacking away I finally saw the bowling ball. I threw it against the ground and it split open, spraying coconut water everywhere. I don’t know if it was all the effort put in but that coconut was one of the sweetest things I’ve ever eaten. I enjoyed my reward and felt assured that if I get lost in the jungle I can survive indefinitely with nothing but a paring knife.



BURNING THE SHIT OUT OF MY SKIN



I’m bald. When you’re bald you know how important it is to keep your head from burning. A sunburned bald head peels and it looks like you have the worst case of dandruff ever. It’s gross. I’ve taken care to not burn my head this trip but there’s something I forgot. I have skin on the rest of my body, too.



I’m also fat. As a fat guy I usually don’t make it a point to go to the beach or a pool party and when I do I swim with my shirt on. Here in Akumal, though, there are plenty of guys just as fat if not fatter than me running around. I’m not looking to get laid down here so fuck it, time to deal with my man boob embarrassment and just walk around with my shirt off.



Big mistake. My torso hasn’t been exposed to direct sunlight since I was ten years old. After two hours of shooting a sketch on a beach I was glowing red. An hour after that I was dizzy and cold. The pain hasn’t set in yet but I’m just waiting for one of these jackasses I’m staying with to slap me on the back so they can watch me have a seizure. Damn you, Irish ancestors!



Stay tuned this weekend. I’ll be posting bonus blogs full of interviews and pictures!



No pics of my sunburn, though. God already punished me for showing my bitch tits to the world. I’d hate to think what he’d do if I exposed them again.

Reverse Montezuma’s Revenge

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I’ve been trying to make sure that I do everything right while here in Mexico. I haven’t introduced any invasive species to the environment, I bought a hat to protect my sensitive Minnesotan from the unforgiving Mexican sun,



I don't care what everybody who has seen me in this hat says. This hat is badass. I love this hat.





and most importantly, I haven’t had any tap water.



Everybody knows about the Montezuma’s Revenge. You drink the water and you poop for a week straight. wikipedia even talks about it so you know it’s real (but he was defeated by the Spanish. Shouldn’t this only affect Spanish people?). There’s plenty of bottled water here and our villas have those big water coolers but I’ve just been playing it safe and only drinking booze. I’m just trying to live healthy down here.



"If my empire shall lay in ruins so shall your boxer shorts!"





There’s just one problem. Not only have I so far successfully avoided the revenge of Montezuma, I haven’t pooped once since I arrived on Sunday evening. That’s two and a half days. It doesn’t add up. I’ve been doing nothing but eating fajitas and Pringles (Pringles are huge down here for some reason. They’re everywhere) and drinking rum and tequila. I even had a few beers (which I’m totally not supposed to do). I’ve considered having a glass of tap water just to get things going.



I think I know what the problem is. When I was a kid my family would go camping one or two weekends in the summer every year. It was a lot of fun but I hated the idea of pooping in an outhouse or the woods so I just wouldn’t. From Friday evening to Sunday afternoon I just made the decision to not poop. After doing this a dozen times it got easier and easier until I didn’t even feel the need to when camping. Like a Pavlovian response. Now that I’m in Mexico I think my guts have gone back into camping mode lockdown.



Granted, there are toilets here. I have a bathroom all to myself in the villa. This shouldn’t be a problem but when I first went to the bathroom this sign was on the wall next to the toilet.



Wait... What?





Wait… after I’m done wiping, I’m supposed to take the toilet paper and…



Oh no. No, no no no.





Oh God no. I know I’m in a different culture but seriously? I can’t just throw poopy paper in a waste basket. I pretty much have three options right now.



1. Just not poop until I’m back in the land of the septic tanks that can handle a little Charmin. Hopefully I won’t explode like the fat guy in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life.
2. Find a toilet somewhere around here that can handle toilet paper. There has to be one, right? This can’t just be something that everybody does down here.
3. Man up and work past my weird poop fear (not gonna happen).



I knew I was going to get homesick down here but I didn’t realize I’d miss my bathroom so much.






*UPDATE*
Just pooped. It was alright.