Wednesday, October 29, 2014

A Final Epitaph for a Pickle

For those unaware, is dying (or being put down by Google like an unruly stray cat in heat). Before it's put into the ground, I'd like to eulogize this lil' blog o' mine.

Pickleope was a good blog, often times, great (don't worry, this entire post will be masturbatory). It aspired to be more than it was, a simple text-based-with-occasional-flecks-of-amateurish-drawrings humor blog. It aspired to be thoughtful while indulging and aggrandizing absurdity. It began as a series of pickle-and-penis jokes and grew--neigh--evolved into a series of penis-and-fart jokes.
For the past four years this blog has explored the sadomasochism of sit-ups, made amends to those I may have wronged, created a fable to explain the financial crisis, let a child give us a very different view of history, gave away several million dollar ideas, provided travel guides to exotic lands, played with scammers, helped children through the loss of a pet, created an environmental group, created Anthropological Bingo, explained the obesity epidemic, tried to convince new fathers to breast feed, raised money for prostate cancer research,  fought for gender equalityfought with "men's rights" losers, alienated much of the people who are kindly enough to read this with terrible puns, created a new Christmas myth, crafted poetry for our new robot overlords, tried to seduce the Dalai Lama, got musical, and most importantly teased my mother at every opportunity.
I have owed Janie this drawing of her for a looong time. She may regret that I finally paid on my debt (yes, those are dolphin bookends) because she hates pickles, and I am passively-actively-aggressive. Visit her site, she's nothing if not present.
Is the blogging world a better place thanks to Pickleope? I think that with confidence I can say that the blogging world has remained just as stagnant and marginalized as the day Pickleope was birthed in a haze of cough syrup and jenkem (look it up). But if there is one thing I hope that this blog accomplished, it's exposing dolphins as unrepentantrelentless rapists.
Not a dolphin picture, rather, possibly the weirdest thing I've ever drawn: a minotaur with a lightening gun riding a dinosaur.
Or maybe this is the weirdest thing I've ever drawn: a sentient pickle with a jet pack fighting a sentient nuclear mushroom cloud.
This blog had range. From the serious to the outlandishly insane. For a brief time, it even became a mommy blog. But for everything it did in its all-too-brief life, I hope that this blog spread a teensy-tiny bit of joy, some laughs, and unending respect and reverence for the megalomaniacal adult-baby that writes for it. Nah, forget that sappy sentiment, I hope this blog made someone laugh so hard they sharted. If not shart, then it was all a failure. Oh well, the only final sentiment that seems appropriate to send off this unrecognized brilliance is: Rot in hell, ya' albatross.

I'd leave it there because I've always wanted and hoped to hear someone end a eulogy like that, except this: Though today I bury (bury is a strong word, more like "shot it in the ankle in the desert to let it bleed out or die of sun stroke"), Pickleope the namesake lives on. I do hope you will join me as I make the move, dumping my old stale relationship (I say "dumping" when really the URL is the one who changed the locks while I was out) and making the painless move of copy-and-pasting the new URL with me.

Please join me in welcoming and adding to your reader fead (please?): 

Monday, October 27, 2014

Requiem for a Pickle 3: Begging for Euthanasia

Hi. How are you? Doing good? Great. I love you. 
I love that you're not annoyed that I said I was moving this blog over two weeks ago because you are understanding. And I appreciate that you appreciate that the delays have been mitigated by unbelievably excellent guest posts.

Speaking of which, how could I deny a guest eulogy from the prolific and brilliant auteurs, Bryan and Brandon (in no particular order), of A Beer For The Shower
Though they've shown you their actual picture, this actually captures their souls. 
Take it away, gentlemen:

Dearly Beloved, 

We are gathered here today before the eyes of God, and Buddha, and Vishnu (Muhammad chose not to attend as he had a previous engagement) to pay our respects to someone who has finally earned said respect only in death - Now, we never really had the pleasure of knowing the real Pickleope, as he hid behind his persona the way a child huddles behind a lamp post thinking he's hidden, but we did get to know him in ways that are illegal in eighteen states and half of Southeast Asia. Our resulting medical bills will be passed on to his next of kin immediately following the ceremony.

Now, what can be said about Pickleope that hasn't already been said by an arresting officer? Well, for starters, Pickleope died doing what he loved - choking on the Internet. He brought us happiness. He touched our lives. He touched our children. He touched us all in places we'd rather not remember. His spirit will live on with us forever, and by 'spirit' we mean 'crippling debt.'

Pickleope was the Carrot Top of blog comedy. Sure, you didn't quite know what kind of elephantiasis-like monstrosity you were looking at, and half the time what he said wasn't coherent, but when it was coherent it was funny. He wasn't afraid to stir the pot in the name of a good topic. He wasn't afraid to make fun of himself, and his self-deprecating humor paves the way for shameful, tactless eulogies like this one. And above all, he wasn't afraid to commit the Japanese art of Seppuku, in which he's metaphorically disemboweled himself in the hopes that his honor will carry on in the next life rather than letting him fester into shameful obscurity in this life.

But in all seriousness, we both thank God that Pickleope was taken from this Earth in his comedic prime, rather than letting him ride out 20+ seasons of unfunny gimmicks like the Simpsons. Our dear Pickleope, you will never have to hire a wacky sidekick. You will never jump a shark on water skis. You will never reveal that you are your own evil twin simply because you grew a dark goatee. And that is how we should all remember you - scathingly funny, still relevant, and not suckling at the dried up, saggy old teat of a crappy catchphrase.

~The Conjoined Twins of A Beer For The Shower

Thank you, gentlemen. As the "Carrot Top of blogs" (I think this is complimentary? At the very least it means I can get a residency in Las Vegas, right?) I am truly honored to have been eulogized by masters of the medium.

Only one more ego-driven eulogy to go, this time from me. The end is near.  

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Requiem for a Pickle II:The Interminable Death

Once again I underestimated both my work schedule and my ability to set up a simple blog. Thankfully, instead of leaving a pickle-shaped void in the internet (like a pickleope got scared in cartoon world and ran through a wall), DCRelief has created another requiem for this sad, incontinent, diseased, three-legged mangy dog-of-a-blog. 

Besides, I'm absolutely in love with these eulogies, it's like being present for your own third-person funeral. 
I know, it's mildly annoying that I said I was going to euthanize this blog yet I keep popping back up, but what am I going to do, NOT post great reader eulogies? 
Allow me to present our eulogizer, DCRelief:

Ode to Pickleope
Unruly tho you are
I've loved you from afar
and read your every word
devoured every terd.

In serious dis-ease
I've oft been on my knees
from all your bashing creams
that filled my aching dreams.

So now you take your leave
and I will surely grieve
until another place
you bring up in my face.

Oh Pickleope my sweet
I'm left to smell my feet
as if that wasn't dour
are you sweet or are you sour?

Oh f**k, goodbye.


In order to avoid any dangling plot points, the answer is: SWEET, super sweet, really (I eat a lot of pineapple).

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Requiem For a Pickle: The Very First Guest Post

Hi there. How are ya'? I know I said I'd have the new site up by now, and it technically is up, but there's nothing there. I underestimated how long it would take to write a eulogy for this blog (aka "auto-fillatio"). In the meantime, why not end this with something I've never done before: give up my precious word space to a guest post.

The pickling I did of Kianwi a while case you were
looking for a realistic rendering of her.
Kinley Dane, who many may remember as "Kianwi", is a person whom I followed for years who recognized a change was in order and made a move. Kinley (who I always want to add an "s" in there and call "Kinsley", I don't know why) is a great slash fiction writer extraordinaire--Okay, that's not true, but I really did love her dirty version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (I don't think I need to tell you how Chocolate Factory is used as a metaphor)--Okay, that's not true either, she doesn't write slash fiction, just fiction, but I couldn't resist.  But Kinley is one of my inspirations to make the switch. She wrote a very touching eulogy song, a requiem if you will:

(Sung to the tune of the Brady Bunch theme)

Here's the story, of a lovely Pickle, 
who's been writing a very funny blog.  
Many postings on this site, were outrageous. 
Sometimes I was confused.
I picture Axl Rose singing this. Modern Axl Rose.

Here's the story, of an androgynous Pickle, 
who somehow had an antelope mixed in.
Boy or girl we didn't know, but no matter.
He/she still turned us on.

Till the one day when Pick said "sayonara
I'm starting over in a new magical land."
Well, wherever he/she goes, we will follow
Just like poo that got stuck on Pickleope's shoe.

On Pickleope's shoe. On Pickleope's shoe. We will follow just like poo on Pickleope's shoe! 
Lyrics by Kinley/Kianwi 

It is oh-so appropriate for Kinley to write a parody song of The Brady Bunch considering, for a few weeks, I recapped Season 3 of The Brady Bunch for no discernible reason. Thank you for that requiem, Kinley.
This really doesn't have a place here, but I'm trying to reuse (recycle, it's green!) old images I enjoy.
In an effort to drag out the death of Pickleope interminably, I'll be accepting other eulogies if you care to submit them to But again, as soon as I get the other site up and running (and yes, it is a Wordpress site), that's when I pull the plug on this little pal of mine...or rather let its carcass float in the pool of the internet until it completely dissolves or buzzards pick it clean...with one final eulogy, my own.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Let Detroit Die

For decades now, a preternatural amount of attention has been paid to the demise of Detroit, Michigan. Once a thriving metropolis and center of automobile production, it has since become as dilapidated as the internal organs of a current citizen of Detroit (they do lots of drugs, you need to in order to live in Detroit).

All car production has moved to nations with more lax child labor laws and no minimum wage while the only thing culturally relevant to have come out of Detroit in the past 30 years has been Kid Rock. Maybe that's it. Maybe Detroit's demise is karmic payback for the guy who wrote "Bawitdaba" and for Kiss and Ted Nugent. For those offenses alone we as a society should institute the death penalty, but as it stands, we can just stand by idly and watch that pit of despair die a slow and painful death. Urinating on Detroit's corpse might be a bit much despite how deserved it is for its hand in creating Jazz, but we also don't have to keep what is the municipal equivalent of a herpes-riddled prolapsed anus of a homeless mutt, on life support.
It has become a zombie blog.

Which is kind of how I feel about this blog. It was thriving at one point, but now there are a bunch of "followers" that are abandoned accounts and only a few bohemians who still come around. But it's really a ghost town here. Couple that with Google acting like municipal works trying to shut me down, and I am taking the hint.

For a while now this blog has stagnated. This was made clear to me when it came time to renew my domain name (that's right, I spent actual money on something as stupid as "," screw you, starving people) and I could not. My credit card expired this year and Google sent me multiple emails telling me to update the expiration date. It used to be I could do this through Blogger. However, not the case this year. Dear Lord Almighty Google has changed the way they do business. Supreme All Knowing Divine Google sent me a link where I was asked to login--despite already being logged in--then logged in, and it sent me back to a "choose your profile" page which then sent me back to a login page like an endless mobius loop.

Sweet Mother and Father of All Google seems hell bent on not allowing me to renew my domain name. I even called their help line to no avail. It caused me to freak out for a bit, then I realized, "oh, other great writers have moved their writing to other domains, I've grown to dislike my own confusing, silly name, so, to what am I clinging?"

"Pickleope, it's so avant-garde, it represents mash-up culture and absurdity" too bad no one understood that but me.
I have a bit of emotional history here, but I will not go back to being "" because as embarrassed as I am to tell anyone my general domain name, adding that ".blogspot" part makes reciting the name dehumanizing. And like I said, "stagnation" is an issue. I've stagnated in my writing (though still brilliant, I haven't stretched in a while), stagnated in readers (though I love the handful of you who do read and even more those who, really, LOVE. I hope that doesn't make you uncomfortable that I LOVE you. Gimme hugs. Wait, where are you going!?!), and I have been as regular as clockwork with my posting schedule up until the last few months. I think that's a sign of stagnation. Like anyone dating Charlie Sheen, I recognize that there is no saving this relationship.

Yes, it makes me sad to lose, but Pickleope will live on as my nom de plume. Your suggestions as to what you like and don't like are appreciated (I think that's called "constructive criticism"). Much like Detroit, let's allow to die (not a dignified death, just a death, maybe a screaming death).

I'll be back with a direct to the new URL, hopefully one that's not nearly as silly and off-putting.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

True Signs of Aging

If there's one thing I despise, that would be a miracle because I despise a lot of things. Among them, people in their 20's and 30's lamenting about how "old" they are. What? This isn't the 1400's, life expectancy is above age 18 now. Our mortality worries center more on cancer and disease rather than Mongol hordes and eating a mushroom with your fingers crossed or "does that boar look angry?"

I get it. Once you're out of college, or see people younger than you playing professional sports, you're confused about suddenly having responsibilities and being forced to recognize that some technology you grew up with is unrecognizable to someone a decade your junior. But "old" is relative. We've all met "old" teenagers and "irresponsible jackasses" in their 40's who act like teenagers (not a compliment).

Just because some website, ravenous for page views, presents, "high school freshmen don't recognize this thing you're nostalgic for" doesn't mean you're old. So what if a young person is perplexed by a Nintendo? They also don't know how to drive or not eat their boogers in public. Not wanting to stay out until 4 AM at a club playing obnoxious music isn't an indicator of old, it's a sign of good taste, it means you did it and now you're smart enough to know how stupid that is. Losing your hair doesn't mean you're old. I've seen bald children...sure, they were going through chemo at the time, but still, bald as a salamander's butthole. 
Throwback drawing, back when I had a scanner and MSPaint 
"I remember when EDM was called Techno," is not a legitimate old person complaint. "When I was your age, I walked a mile uphill both ways to-and-from school every day," is an old person complaint because it's clearly a lie that means to aggrandize that generation. Truly old people, for some reason, need to make their generation seem strong or important, hence the lie of "the Greatest Generation" despite that generation being more hyper-racist than a stadium full of European soccer hooligans. "Back in my day, memory was stored on a floppy disc, not some invisible cloud," is just not going to make your generation seem like it endured anything.
Too bad he still doesn't know that he should either grow out the full beard or shave that stupid looking goatee. Goatees are like the overalls of facial hair, they've always looked silly but somehow they keep making a comeback. Image Credit.
Although, I think I hit an indicator, a true indicator that I am getting old. Other than my metabolism quitting like Roberto Duran after eight rounds with Sugar Ray Leonard (getting that joke may mean you're old), my memory suddenly decided to Kurt Cobain itself (if you can keep track of all of the dated references, let us know in the comments and you'll win a No Prize).

The man wrote an anthem of a generation. Oh god,
my generation sucks.
For the first time in a long time, someone asked me if I knew all of the lyrics to "Ice Ice Baby." Sadly, and shockingly, I was not able to. If you're in your 30's and don't know the lyrics to Vanilla Ice's seminal work, that's probably an indication of early-onset Alzheimer's. That and perpetually-floppy-dong/desert vagina (technical terms for limp dingy and corpse crotch), along with knowing how to play the card game bridge, are the only true indicators of aging. 

Monday, September 29, 2014

Million Dollar Idea: Embarrassing Purchase Proxy

Tired of the harsh judgement of the store clerk when you're buying the 32 pack of industrial strength three-ply toilet paper? Sick of buying the "magnum" size condoms because you're too embarrassed to buy the regular size so now you're stuck with this garbage bag hanging of your dangly bits during naked slappy time?
If these were carnival prizes, would anyone play the knock-the-bottles-over game?
 Maybe you're just not interested in the teenaged cashier swiping your hyper-absorbent maxi-tampon, picturing your monthly flow as so heavy that it would make Katrina look like a drought.

How can anyone hope to avoid such mundane human experiences? Hire B.E.T.T.E.R. where we help you Buy Embarrassing Things Through Electronics Regularly but without the shame.  At B.E.T.T.E.R., we empathize with the desire to never acknowledge any bodily functions yet still indulge in all of the products that make those bodily functions tolerable. 

All employees of B.E.T.T.E.R. go through a patented process of shame and judgement removal. Not to give away our secrets, but it involves spending a week with my mother. Sure, you could buy your herpes cream from Amazon, but think of all the judgmental hands it goes through: the payment processor, the warehouse worker, the person mailing it to you, it's a chain of shame. 

What's worse is that Amazon stores your purchase information. Say you buy one tube of Preparation H (it's for hemorrhoids, they're like poop blisters) now every time you go to Amazon, your "suggestions" page will be replete with anus creams. The "targeted advertisements" will involve anal care. Hope you don't let anyone else use your computer. Not with B.E.T.T.E.R., we don't store cookies or personal information. If you don't want us to even know your address, we'll meet you at night on a dark corner. We'll take instructions to leave the package on a park bench at noon wrapped in a newspaper if that's what you want.
Well, they're really not burying the lead, are they?
No job too big, no purchase too small. Are you an obese person embarrassed to buy another pair track suit, or want to try an at-home enema? A celebrity who needs a proxy to purchase a solid brick of cocaine...well, too bad, we don't do illegal purchases, but if your dietary restrictions insist you eat nothing but baby food, we can do that. We'll even buy McDonald's for you, pretend vegetarian who won't shut up about Whole Foods. Too craven to buy the DVD collection of the 12th season of Grey's Anatomy (seriously, how is that show still going)? We are--albeit begrudgingly--there for you. 

Every cashier everywhere is like a 50's judgmental, disapproving mother.
Don't try to trick the clerk into not noticing the diarrhea medicine buy hiding it amongst a slew of other purchases, let one of our B.E.T.T.E.R. Butlers proudly strut to the front of the line and make eye contact with the cynical, teenage (redundant) cashier to make that purchase for you. 

There you go, world, go ahead and make this a reality since I'm too lazy to be any sort of entrepreneur.