Tales of the Balkans part 2

So one day you were peacefully cruising the internet looking for magical bunnies, a rocket-launcher or whatever the fuck people these days surf the internet for. Somehow, for some reason you came here.

Thus behold! For I am too lazy to make a better introduction.

Tales of the Balkans

1. Taking a dump in a minefield

So it's been a long trip. You and your dad are taking a nice drive through the country (lets say in Bosnia). The idea is to have some nice together time.

You've been driving in silence for an hour and a half, apart from the two times you mentioned how much cowshit indeed, stank in the countryside.

"I need to take a dump," You say with a scowl. Your Father gives you a long look.
"Me too."

"I believe we just passed the last diner on the road, now there's just nothing for another half an hour."

"When you gotta go, you gotta go," your father informs you wisely.

He pulls over (he's been driving). To a sort of a pit stop in the road where the abandoned skeleton of a Yugo lays, along with a rubbish bin. The countryside is overgrown with bushes.

"I'm first," you inform with finality.

"Here take these tissues, what are we barbarians? What were you gonna use without them?"

"I just need to take a dump old man."

"Hurry up, so do I. You do know we're in a minefield?" Your father scratches his nose

"Yep."

"You gotta go, you gotta go, remember, behind the sign mind you."

"Indeed if one must go, one must go. But one must make sure one is behind the sign." I said in my best old Chinese voice (which sounded Italian).

Two signs warn you not to walk onto the field, in the bushes or anywhere but the road, proclaiming: MINES Do not approach. The skulls and crossbones on the signs seem to be watching you critically.

"I need to poop," You inform their sightless eyes.












The friendly relaxation inducing sign.



But you are well versed in tradition. You walk directly to the signs. Drivers go by, each one craning to see you as you take part in the pooping ceremony.
Your logical mind knows that someone had had to check the area around the sign for mines before walking in there and sticking the MINES sign in the ground. You hope.

You place yourself behind the sign, as disappointed drivers go by without catching you pooping in their line of sight. Their chance of righteous indignation at the sight of wild pooping mashed by your crafty logic. Every time a driver and their passengers crane there neck to see your ass in action and to shake there heads in disappointment at humanity they are greeted by the skull and crossbones and large red letters proclaiming MINES or Do not Approach.

You are indeed a man.

2. An inherent distrust at gypsies.

Indeed most can agree that racism is indeed bad. Many of your neighbors claim to be open minded and whatnot.
But alas. Most of the population has had the ancient knowledge beaten into them. Don't trust the gypsies.

Since a young age you see that SOME gypsies (apparently to be politically correct you have to call them Roma's or somewhat- no matter) send there kids to beg instead of to school and hear stories of how they break and disfigure their children to get more begging money, deal in stolen goods... the list goes on and on.

But you've probably been taught by being pounded on the head, Do Not Trust. If your parents are progressive open people than they'll teach you to make an exception for the ones that gather metal junk (to resell for recycling) or those that made a neat living smuggling (that's practically what everyone's family did at one point). As always there are some good people and some bad people. But who's fucking parents were progressive and open minded? Anywhere? Well hippies I guess. But they're fucking hippies.

It's easy for Westerners to frown on the people here, but it is very difficult to muster a lot of respect for someone (anyone) who doesn't wash and doesn't sent their kids to school.












How westerners imagine gypsies. The harsh unwashed reality.


Moving on. Ah I mentioned smuggling.

3. Smuggling tobacco and booze.

The people of the Balkans will agree, smuggling weapons, people and drugs isn't very good. But everyone's morality goes a bit mushy when it comes to cigarettes and hard liquor.

If you live in Eastern Europe (anywhere not just the Balkans) chances are your grandparents, parents or you smuggled stuff across the border. Not the small couple of bottles happily unnoticed by the border control, but the cases of stuff you don't want the government to get.

Many politicians and generals had humble beginnings as booze smugglers (at least the ones not born into rich families).

It's quite easily justifiable:
If the corrupt government is going to try and cheat me all the time I'll cheat it more. We'll see who's more underhand dirty politicians!

It was more impressive for the grandparents and some parents as the commies would have you buggered for a bag of tobacco (if you were lucky).


And with that rather humourless entry I am done. Hurrah me! (You may interpret Hurrah any way you wish especially if there is peanut butter).

Defecate Hard

The extreme sporting event of real men that make all others not so much pale, but more turn a shade of green in comparison. So imaginary, snow border, bungee jumping, danger man, you think your tough? Do you? If only you knew. If only you KNEW! All of your sporting events make your balls look like those of a bisected lab mouse compared to the rock hard balls of those engaging in what is portrayed here. Why do I insult you?
Because I am that man.
"What do you mean? What the fuck is going on?" I hear you asking.
I will explain the epic journey of me, the great and powerful Fortesque, which will set the standard for all extreme undertakings..

Extreme defecation.

If you haven't given up after reading the title of my invention. Congratulations, you are possibly a real man. You are also possibly a real woman. With balls.

Defecate Hard

It was an ordinary day in the big city. I went to university, I learned, I watched and I ate. I paid my daily penance by riding in public transport.

But something was different, today. The sounds were somehow distant, misty... The world was interacting with me with difficulty today and it did not realize why. The world did not know that I had, indeed, had enough.

I was worn out. Worn out by work, life and by my ex-girlfriend. The everyday life of the proletariat: to live but to not live. To feel, but to not feel. I had not drunk any alcohol for hours.

But halfway during the university classes something changed. My world turned upside down. My big chance to change the universe was about to make a call.

A pressure came in my guts, accompanied by a sonata of stomach rumbling. Pictures of porcelain objects flashed through my mind.
I did, without a doubt, need to drop some of Mr. Brown's belongings. Adrenaline hit with the first feeling.

It was a hostage situation and I was the hostage.

"So Mr. Fortesque you think you are a free man?" I heard a mysterious voice utter. I span around in the crowded hallway, as I sometimes do between classes. No one bothered paying attention.

“Who is that!?” I screamed.

The voice seemed quiet but was everywhere. People made to form a wide arc around me.

"What if I told you that you live in an illusion a dream world made up of fools? Fools who believe that they have the power of choice and the means to execute it.”

“Who are you?” My bowls wanted to empty themselves

“I am the voice of reason, wisdom and awesome, I am the strength of…”

I understood. With the strength of a bear-elephant hybrid’s penis it hit me. My subconscious was talking to me, again. Trying to justify my bowels being a pussy and force me to a toilet as it had on countless occasions.

But not today. Not today.

“Suck it up bitch,” I say.

“You will submit,” A flat disembodied voice utters in a whisper, “ you will submit”

It is what I had been waiting for all week. A chance to get back at the world, my subconscious, Mother Nature, God, Mankind and Friends, I was going to change my routine and combat my subconscious, because I could dammit.

“I’m not giving in to daily routine,” I tell myself. “I won’t shit on campus today! Or in a friends car.” I will show the world by going all the way back home to take a turd-break and take the rest of the day off to celebrate chaos and my own power.

“I will show you world!!!” I scream in defiance. The people in the halls have stopped to stare at me, as they sometimes do.

I was not distracted. Time was running out and I had a hostage situation on my hands.

I began with a brisk walk towards the bus station. A small crowd was gathered with me. Around me. As if I was on of them. I had long ago risen above them, both in terms of self-awareness and in terms of body mass. How dare they.

Pressure built within as the evil Horde met the Iron Will of my sphincter. A battle was going to occur, more epic than heaven and hell, more devious than any Machiavellian character had ever encountered, more naked than Tarzan. One of us was going to have to surrender and it was not going to be me.

The bus had come. I went aboard with the surrounding crowd.

Adrenaline built within me, my breathing quickened excitedly. Pressure was building. I decided to stand, as I could not risk any sense of relaxation from my lower body, especially from my buttocks. People pressed close. I wanted to warn them of the battle within me, but my mouth was clamped tight with my Herculean effort. My eyes were starting to go unnaturally wide. Was it just my imagination, or were people eyeballing me.

Men, women, children, dogs.

Old ladies directed condemning stares from the comfort of their seats, the nappy wearing hypocrites, I had to deal with their flatulence every morning, usually in mid yawn (These were no ordinary bouts of ass rasping, but gas that made the area behind my eyes burn). They would see. They would ALL see!

I held the turd-rolls in as I attempted to stealthily release some of the pressure. Turning my ass towards the old ladies who were sitting down in the overcrowded bus I positioned my behind in an attack position. An immense volume of Gas-Spirits became homeless as the pressure built up to near intolerable amounts. The windows vibrated with the low ultrasound throb and several ears popped with the increase in pressure.

Accusing stares were directed towards my pale-green face. These people were not important. They did not matter one iota. I had risen above them with my vital purpose. Mother Nature, God and Mankind had been challenged. What was these peoples’ every-day work compared to my duties?

“I am the only one that matters!” I inform the world as my bowls squirm excitedly.

The world was not excited or happy with my announcement and its truthfulness.

The bus stop before mine was approaching. An unhappy muttering rose from around me.

A hundred voices saying the same thing.

A hundred voices rose as one.

A hundred voices saying “Fuck you.”

The doors opened one bus stop before mine. I felt dozens of hands against my back, as I suddenly realized that the hordes of God and mankind had obviously decided to resort to Fowl Play to stop me.

I tried to direct myself towards my home, an entire fifteen minutes away, as fast as I could. My legs were taut and I had to walk in a very stiff manner. My face was a contorted hideous thing. Surely the possessed did not look any more terrifying. The Green hue of my face was punctuated with the occasional purple throbbing vein.

“Fifty meters at a time,” I tell myself, “fifty meters”

Time Slowed down, slower than Matrix slow. Seconds seemed to take hours. Hours, in which my body urged me to give in and poop apprehensively in my pants. A cold sweat covered my body.

“Now!” urged my subconscious, which had obviously sold itself to Mother Nature or God, the whore. “NOW!”

My answer was held back behind the monstrosity of my face. If I were going to answer to anything it would be in a scream.

People in the street were stopping to stare. Some drivers rolled down their windows as they passed by. I walked slower now with all the alacrity of a bear orgy on stilts. I was releasing an onslaught of gas with every rigid step.

Oh God. Oh God. I was approaching the liquor store. One hundred meters left. One hundred steps until home.

Toilet. Don’t think of toilets you betrayer of a mind. Don’t, just don’t! A freight truck pulled up in front of the liquor store and a burly man began unload a couple of beer kegs. Making the path between the road and store halve. Please God let no one exit the liquor store, fair play.

Suddenly a midget with wooden legs, crutches and cheap clothes exited the grocery store.

Dammit! God you scumbag, the local beggar! There Is No Time!

He looked up towards me slowly, instead of getting out of my way.

There Is No Time!

He reaches into his pocket retracting his begging bowl from a pocket ever so slowly.

NO TIME.

“Some money for those of lesser fortune,” He pleaded in a kind voice. If only he knew.

I did not answer, I could not answer in anything less than a scream.

“Toilets,” My subconscious added in a whisper. “White tiles surrounding you… elevator music.”

“THERE IS NO TIME!!!”

The scream ripped through my body in from my repressed bowls upwards in a thundering voice that the Gods would fear. My fist flew of it’s own accord from the sides of my stiff body. It caught the treacherous midget directly under the chin and lifted him high… higher than what your imagining… into the air. His crutches were left behind along with the begging bowl and they seemed to float in the air for an unnaturally long time, as the universe stopped to survey the event that would make it rub it’s eyes (or what passed for them) before rubbing the rest of itself in an excited manner.

The midget flew slowly, an expression of surprise spreading across his face as he entered a downward trajectory towards the freight truck in front of the liquor store and it’s beer keg payload.

The midget beggar struck the kegs that were mounted on the truck, face first, with a high pitched yelp more suited to a cocker spaniel than a man, before striking the ground. My ass trumpeted dramatically.

The beer keg, which he had struck, rocked treacherously for a second before falling down towards the midget. The midget looked towards the truck, his surprise turning to horror, as his favorite beverage seemed to descend fatally towards him. It fell down and a cracking noise, that was unimaginably loud emanated. Yet another pulsation sounded from my tense but-cheeks joining in the terrible crunching sound. Surely bones don’t break in such a crunchy manner?

No, I thought. All I wanted was to poop at home to prove myself, God. Why? Why make me a murderer?

“The green convertible, the soft, soft leather of your best friends car, the guilt; the sweet, sweet guilt…” My subconscious added helpfully.

“You asshole!” The beggar’s angry squeak came from the asphalt. Relief swept over me with a renewed fit of flatulence “You broke my fucking legs you duck dildo! Wooden legs cost a fortune!”

I was already sweeping past in a bowlegged manner. Ignoring the beggar and his curses. Ignoring the passing neighbors who were looking with traumatized expressions at me. The cold sweat was accompanied with shivering now. I would poop nowhere but home. I would tease the universe to my will. The gas I unconfined seemed to propel me.

Oh God.

I was in front of my front gate.

The key! The key? I fumbled at my pocket for an eternity.

“No, no, no…” I was muttering. “Not in my pants, not I”

The keys revolved in my hands dropping to the floor in slow motion.

“The slow sensation of release…” added my subconscious, as always helpful.

I picked up the keys and jammed the correct one home. The gate clicked open. I teased fate yet again by taking the time to close it behind me.

No time.

Another locked door, another eternity, yet more ass trumpeting.

The door opened. I began to laugh maniacally as I took the time to take off my jacket and close the door.

At last I faced the toilet. It was all I could do to not crap right there out of relief. I looked down at the belt and pants barring me from giving a horrendous “up yours” to the natural order of things.

I ripped them off with strength inflamed to inhuman levels by my inhuman need, leaving them in tatters on the floor.

I turned and sat down at the same time releasing my deadly payload into the safety of my One True Bowl. It was amazing. It was stupendous. I was every action hero, ever (albeit in the scenes taken away from the final cuts). I was James Bond, Gandhi, Jesus, G.I. Joe…I was… John McClane. The lost hours of every great man never portrayed on film.

Everything I had ever achieved was nothing. My life flashed before my eyes to the sound of –plop-plop-plop-plop-plop-plop…-

It was better than the most amazing sex imaginable. I received a cement-like boner in my pantless state

But something was wrong… Why won’t it stop? Why!

The sloshing sound of the chunky sacrifice at the white altar went on and on.

A burning feeling raged from my rectum as it became ravaged.

“Nooooo!” I screamed. How could something so pure and good, go so wrong. My subconscious had nothing more to add, and had long ago decided to try to get me to hang myself on some future occasion.

I felt as if I had three assholes torn. The turdfest did not want to end.

Finally the bathroom became quiet.

I was wounded, perhaps mortally, from my struggle. I lifted myself up somewhat to observe the damage.

I was indeed bleeding profusely. I realized that I needed to call for help. But whom could I call after taking such an abundant crap, having no pants and possessing an embarrassingly immense and strong boner.

There was only one answer…

I retrieved my mobile phone from the tatters of my pants and made a call in a desperate voice, which was becoming weaker and weaker from my ever-diminishing blood reserves.

“I’m bleeding please help me at my home… In the bathroom… Please. I’m die… ing…”

The ex-girlfriend opened my gate running. She was in a panic. He’s an idiot, but he can’t die, Shana thought helplessly. She had called an ambulance and told them that he was bleeding and dying. Shana entered the house in a terror.

Her imagination went into overdrive showing her pictures of my mutilated corpse.

A noxious smell assaulted her nose as she approached the bathroom. Please let him not have died. She could hear a distant siren of an ambulance. The smell was making her eyes water.

“Ex-girlfriend…” I said in a weak voice.

As she entered she stopped in shock. Whatever she had expected it was not this.

Steam was rising from the toilet, creating a misty picture around my crotch.

“…” the ex-girlfriend’s mouth moved, but made no sound. She could see, yet she refused to believe that a Man could undertake such a Herculean struggle.

“I’m bleeding…” I say weakly, “bad…”

“The ambulance will be here soon, why didn’t you call them?”

“I have a boner.”

“…”

“I need to get rid of it before the ambulance comes.”

“…”

“That’s where you come in…” I say hopefully.

The ambulance drivers pulled up in front of my house just in time to here the inhuman scream sounding much like a koala screaming.

My ex-girlfriend picked me up bodily and threw me into the hallway. The ambulance workers picked the perfect moment to burst in.

“Ow…” I choose to say.

The ex-girlfriend looked angrily from the accusing stares of the ambulance workers to my bleeding behind, then to my boner. She flees outstandingly fast.

One of the ambulance workers bows his head.

They picked me up and drag me like a wounded soldier outside towards the ambulance in my pantless state. My manhood flapped about heroically as it is wont to do. After an eternity, in which several neighbors appeared to watch, I was loaded into the ambulance.

“I am a Man,” I inform the world, “a Man”

My home exploded in a spectacular fireball for no logical reason whatsoever as the ambulance drove away.

The ambulance worker seemed lost for words, but managed to utter something perfunctory, “Everything’s going to be OK,”

“My ass,” I say, “Why?”

The other ambulance worker was sympathetic, “I was in an abusive relationship once, something like this happened. You should break it off…”

Everyone in the ambulance looked at him for a long, long time, including the ambulance driver.

“But what do I do with my boner?” I ask desperately.

“One step at a time… One step at a time…”

I recovered in the hospital bed. The hospitals psychologist and surgeon had interviewed me after being sewed up. They leave after being treated to an hour-long monolog about me having to deal with a boner, and how I was indeed a Man.

A nurse came in. Not an old wrinkled nurse, a hot supple nurse. Fate seems to be turning my way again. She reads the medical information at the foot of my bed. It reads: Condition: Three assholes, severe psychological trauma (obsession with erection), possible sexual assault (subject known/suspected)

Treatment: stitches of the anal sphincter, advise legal action.

I knew because I had read it after being left alone.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she said after looking at me with here doe eyes.

“I know… It was so… Hard…”

She bowed her head and moved over to hold my hand. I obliged, carefully forming my face into a look of shame and pain as she held my hand firmly.

“Why? … Why is your hand? … Sticky?”

THE END

So you went to Russia and came back with... A Bear!?

I know this may not seem an amazing feet to anyone out there, but twenty years ago a man left from the Balkans as a tourist in search of cheaper booze, and returned with a bear.
A fucking bear.
In his fucking communist fucking car (I hope I painted a pretty picture).
I could end this right now.

I, sadly, do not know the man who bought the bear off of some Russian, but I do know these facts:
1. A man went to Russia twenty years ago.
2. He got drunk.
3. He bought crates of vodka to smuggle across the border with his newly purchased bear.
4. When he finally became sober, he donated the aforesaid Ursus Arctos to the local zoo when he found that owning a bear may not rock, or be cheep.
5. There was no paper trail and everybody forgot.

I am forced to speculate about the details. Hear my speculation.

The man in question was obviously one of the brighter Croatians with the knowledge that the proportion of your holiday rocking is proportional to the amount of booze. Very cheap booze.
It was probably your ordinary communist border check.
You could imagine that there was an impolite man taking you out of the line to ask you some very harsh questions after which you would bitch for weeks on end to everyone, as is acceptable in the democratic world or you could summon a communist fantasy of some kind. Perhaps the border guards are dressed in red. Perhaps you are naked and they are looking between your toes for drugs. Perhaps not.

More likely (but not certainly) they are merely drunk, and being communists, have no interest in doing real work unless there is a metaphorical or real man threatening to whip them (metaphorically) as they get the same money from working and pretending to work.

Everything goes swell for the man (we'll call him Mirko). He gets wildly drunk with Russians, gypsies and farm animals (or city farm animals, if he was in a city). We shall assume that he was not in Moscow because they are a bunch of hipster "I'm better than you" folk.

Mirko purchased many crates of vodka and perhaps other stuff. He was talked into buying a bear very cheaply.
I can imagine how that conversation went down. Imagine Eastern European accents for the following.
"Hey, nice bear," said Mirko, he had been drinking all night with the village folk (all of them) around a bonfire. The embers were still glowing as dawn approached.
The villagers hoped the person would purchase even more from them. The naive idiot had already been coerced into buying everyone drinks.
"You want bear?" The village hotshot manages to pronounce in a slurring voice.
Mirko pretends to think it over.
"I want bear."
I don't know if it was small or medium or had to be strapped to his car roof alive so I will assume that it was strapped to the roof from this point on.

So back across the many borders Mirko had to go lugging his vodka crates and bear.
He eventually had to encounter a border. With police and shit.
Unless he was smuggling the bear across areas without roads, past villagers and forests, which would be too hilarious to exist without imploding the universe.

Knowing the minds of the people around here, I understand how this most likely went down.
"I see you are taking bear across border." The border guard adjusts his special border guard hat and pretends that he is not stumbling around drunk.
"Da," says Mirko.
"You are not a gypsy, you have no legal right to own bear. I have to check your vehicle to see if you have a gypsy in there, to give you legal rights to this bear."
"Shit!" Mirko proclaims. The border guards rummage about.
"I see your are also taking, ah, seven crates of alcohol more than is allowed across the border..."
"Uh, da"


(Drinking ensues)

Mirko wakes up hung over and with one crate of vodka bribe less than before.

Note that he had to cross several borders with a bear and crates of alcohol.

Several bribes down the road I'll have to assume Mirko came home and gave himself a pat on the back for using the old, distract them with a bear and crates of alcohol to smuggle cigarettes inside the car seats.


Seeing that there is no practical purpose for a bear. He donated it to the zoo. Who took it happily.

Hooray I took a nice rumor with some truth (Man returns from Russia with a bear after being gloriously drunk and donates it to zoo), and turned it into neat fabrication.

Yay me.

Tales of the Balkans

Despite the pseudonym Fortesque I am not British. Neither am I gay. Fortesque is the alternative to using an obscure Eastern European name. Bobsworth is just there for the hell of it.

Why am I prattling on?

Because today, to let you get the picture of some of the things I have dealt with growing up I am going to write some things that I think the world should know about the Balkans, notably ex-Yugoslavia. I am sick of hearing propaganda from the western world about how barbaric we are.
Instead I, the great and powerful Fortesque, will issue propaganda about how barbaric we are.

Field toilets, or Turkish toilets

Have you ever been bored with classic toilet design?

Sitting down too boring for you?

Are you too much of a man to sit down while you shoot the poo gun?

Than welcome to the idea of the Field toilet (as we call them here- on a humorous side note they can also be translated as Polish toilets when translating from the "poljski WC").

To use them you must squat like a little girl. Or a big girl, as they have to squat however they use it.
Much more manly.

They were around when I was growing up, but are being fazed out of use because of the large amount of people who don't like shit washing around their ankles when they flush.

Oh yes, shit. Washing around. Squirted with dirty water. Over your feet.


These things were originally a step away from a hole in the ground. But thankfully toilets have evolved a long way. But sadly the model used since ancient Egypt was skipped (oh yes the whole "sitting down" toilet is that old, the pharaohs' even had golden ones). And porcelain versions of the even older "hole in the ground were adopted. A flushing version with elevated places to stand was innovated soon after. The schnapps drinking creators thought this was a much better way than to sit down on something.

So you could squat like a little girl. The creators obviously didn't think about the whole "water and poo washing around everywhere" issue that occurred whenever you flushed.

It was obviously too boring for the Balkans to have an ordinary toilet because they had to add the wonderful after-turd party game where you had to jump around inside the toilet avoiding your own fecal matter and brown water that squirted all around.


Luckily they were only public toilets, diner toilets and border crossing toilets.
Basically all of the things to make a tourists day.
Also luckily, they have been phased out in most places (the further away from the central part of the Balkans the less there are, so Slovenia and Croatia have the least, while Bosnia, Serbia, Macedonia, Albania, Romania, Bulgaria have slightly more (but not much more- only a few sporadic ones here and there).

So if you were hoping to make a trip to see this amazing device, know that it is an endangered species and as such deserves to be utterly destroyed.

There are still Field toilets that are just normal wooden outhouses, which only smell bad and are scary. Not to be confused with the above.

Amazing Kebabs and Čevapi

You had better know what a kebab is, invented by the Turks, but perfected by the Bosnians in Sarajevo, who did this amazing feat while horrendously drunk on plum schnapps. Just. Eat. The. Goddamn. Kebab. In. Sarajevo.

But what the fuck is Čevapi? I here you asking.
You most likely can't even pronounce Č (It's -ch-).

Čevapi is the most goddamn manly food on Earth. I cannot explain the goodness...


Just go into the street right now. Wherever you are (if in the western world) and go from street diner to street diner screaming: Chevapi?!
Eventually you will meet some of the helpful diaspora from the Balkans which will be able to direct you (this will always happen- listen for telltale people who swear at you in an eastern European accent and interrogate them). Order with onions, otherwise your a chick... Or gay.
It is one of those foods that clog your arteries and cause your heart to scream in pain with every bite.

Eat. It.

Also if in a fancy part of Europe (anywhere) just look directly across the street from an airport or train station. Follow your nose to the fattiest smell around. If your nose led you to a man putting fat on a big cooker repeatedly with a ladle, followed by some unknown meat and a strange piece of bread, ask him "Chevapi?" after which he will say something.
Whether he swears at you or not, the answer is -onion or "looka"- He will know you mean business and let you be. Perhaps he will mumble an apology for looking such a man in the eye.

Mowing the lawn. With scythes.

If your an American the way to mow the lawn is with these:

If your from the Balkans you mow your lawn with these:





















Except the people are less British and wield the scythes with deadly efficiency and don't pose for photos, these ass puppets have probably never held or cut anything with a scythe in their life.


You know who else wields a scythe with deadly efficiency??






Mother. Fuckin'. Death.













You decide which way is more manly.

I am to lazy to write more so you'll have to wait for more wonderful Balkan facts when I'm not looking at midget porn. Which is not right now.

The Internet Ate Pandas and this is What Came Out.

Pandas
Bad...digestion...blah...

Today we shall explore the most diabolical and awesome application of bullying ever, in human history.
As I'm sure you have somehow ascertained it is to do with pandas.
Pandas have been written about extensively and are probably more annoying than anything else I know of... except maybe furry sex, sexy furries, panda furry sex... What was I talking about? Ah. Everyone has said everything there is to be said about pandas.
Or have they really?
What if the most awesome thing about them has passed unnoticed by the small intestines of the internet and forcibly ejected from the colon here. It seems that the facts in question were just too awesome to be digested.
Luckily for you I have special Awesome Vision glasses.










Human kind is bullying pandas out of existence. An entire species. By pretending to help.
Like what you had done to you in primary school except with science.
I have studied this phenomenon for literally minutes and decided to show it to the world. So as to make species destruction even easier for future generations.
The title of this post could have been how to efficiently make an entire species commit suicide, but I can't put two titles, can I? Oh.

How to make an entire species commit suicide.

(A post for when you are looking to exterminate a species or nation but fear the ramifications of such an action)

Step 1:
Destroy their home stealthily. Or accidentally on purpose, via pollution or something you were "ignorant" about. Get a lumber company or lumberjack to do it for you.

Perhaps you that the best way to break the moral of the enemy, or in this case, an innocent bystander species, is to take away what is dear to them. Their home. This is difficult for humans as my ongoing research into this evasive subject confirms. Humans just decide to live in a box or hotel if you burn their house down. Take a dump on their bed and they'll just clean it up. Throw bricks through the window and they'll board them up. Insult them for days on end and they'll still be living there. Other species are not nearly as adaptable, but I am told that bullying people out of existence can be done. Well anyway.

Now comes the difficult part.

Step 2:
Use the parts of the species in question for medicine.

China with their evil and witty communist regime managed to pull a psychological move that would have put Jung in awe. (Jung was some dude who wowed the world of psychology by making pigeons run in circles)

"Yes, the pigeons run in circles, therefore man must!"
Also on an unrelated note, Jung is a scientific hero and has his own action figure I wanted to write that somewhere so fuck you.

By using the parts of the species in question for medicine (sham medicine) they managed to create a feeling of existential guilt in the pandas, making them feel dirty for having magical healing powers in their bones, which led to depression and the lack of a will to live. Learn from the Chinese methods.

Step 3:
Round up and cage most of the surviving members.
This is a very important part of your regime or work. If you were to apply more direct methods of death on the species, race or neighbors in question you would undoubtedly have to deal with widespread dissatisfaction from your friends, family and nation.

Step 4:
Use the predominant food supply for yourself, or make furniture out of it.
This will break the moral of your mark even further and it will give you a nice looking chair in the process.

Chairs. Yep. Make chairs is what I'm trying to say. (Chairs)

Step 5:
Cage the surviving members while issuing propaganda to your own people/species about assisting the needy species/race.
This is the most difficult step in the process. It should not be difficult directly as the species in question will give little resistance to whatever you do, being depressed and demoralized.
What you have to worry about is support back home or in your nation. People will generally frown upon direct extermination or persecution. You need to show to your own camp that what your doing is for the only way to save the species in question.

the only way.

Step 6:
Employ scientists to break the reproductive instinct of your mark.

The key step.
I'll have to talk you through this, as the reproductive instinct is a powerful force to be reckoned with, luckily Science has the answer.
I am studying to become a scientist, and as such I have been taught some standard scientific methods, which I will share, being the first to reveal this secret knowledge.

a) Watch your jailed marks sexual activities constantly, preferably with a clipboard and a serious expression. Teams of scientist work more effectively. More scientists watching= less reproduction going on.

b) Inform the world that you are disturbed to find that your mark species is having less intercourse than necessary to effectively continue the species. The world will then send you money and will finance even more scientists via charity funds.

c) Roll naked on charity money.

d) Now is the time for more direct methods. Use scientists or assistants to actively encourage sexual intercourse, watched by scientists with clipboards and intent expressions the entire time.
Show pornography to the male mark, when females are in the room, while helpfully making hip-gyration moves the entire time. Note that you must wear your intent expression the entire time, and make notes on your clipboard to be effective.
The world may question your methods at this time, but helpfully tell them that you have a lab coat dammit, and they are just not qualified or educated enough to be able to know what's best.
Maintain dry expression, clipboard and lab coat at all times.
Get an underpaid assistant to actively try to stimulate erections in the male of the species.

Step 7:
Watch the species lose all interest in life and reproduction and die and tell the world that sadly the species has disappeared. Evade the blame.

Vaguely hint to the world that sadly the lifestyle of your people, or everyone is to blame for the species dying. The newspapers will pick up on it in a few weeks. You may have to hint heavily when talking to the press, for example: "The lifestyle of the world may," at this point nudge the reporter with your elbow repeatedly and wink, "have caused the ________ to die."
Roll naked on charity money.

If you doubt the effectiveness of this method on the grounds of: "You couldn't stop me from having sex with a hot chick just by watching, hell I might even be excited," oh dear... you are so wrong.
Imagine, you are in a jail with a large window. The view is full of scientists with clipboards, probably Asian scientists making notes with serious expressions, one scientist sidles into the room with an intent expression and a clipboard. He gyrates his hips showing you what to do. The scientists prod a female of your kind (probably human) through the back door. The excitement in the air is palpable (of the scientists) the sound of scribbling on clipboards quickens.
Now instead of scientists imagine pandas. In lab coats. With bamboo clip cylinders. They gyrate their hips towards you helpfully, while growling support at you. Are you still excited?
You sick fuck.



Congratulations you have effectively destroyed a species and evaded the blame.
More helpful advice pending.

Welcome to the Ass of the Universe. What the fuck are you doing here?

Welcome.

This is not a porn blog about ass.

I was shocked to find that there was no internet area in the universe that could pride itself on the knowledge that it is where shit comes from. If you have been foolish enough to stumble over here, perhaps drunk, perhaps not, perhaps trying to put your horny cock somewhere, you will be assaulted by an array of shit, notably shit jokes in the near future.
Prepare. After getting a full on face view of what was too stupid to be digested in the small intestine of the internet, you will never be the same.
I'm not saying anything here... I'm just ever so slightly implying it.
(Your face will have turds on it).