I have always believed that I am the kind of person who wishes others the best. I used to think that, in general, I hope everyone finds what they're looking for in life. Recently I've changed my mind. Judging by the things you people are searching for on the internet, it is not in your best interest, nor in anyone else's best interest, for you to find what you're looking for.

For example, there's the person who found my site by searching for rhino pooping pic. No, there's nothing on my site about rhinos pooping, and there sure as hell are no pics of it, but a reference was made to it by Phil, one of my commenters, in one of my previous posts, which is, I assume, the phrase that led this poop seeker to my site. Phil was telling me that someone mysteriously found his site by searching for rhino pooping, even though his site is most certainly not about that subject. Now, since he made that comment, someone found MY site a few weeks ago by searching for rhino pooping (once from a US search engine and once from a U.K. search engine) and, more recently, someone found my site by searching for rhino pooping pic. Please, for the love of God, tell me this is the SAME one or two people doing all this hunting for rhino dookie. I'm not okay with the idea that there is even one person out there so obsessed with this bizarre quest, but the possibility that there is a group of such like-minded psychos is just too much to bear. Here's a business opportunity for you: If anyone out there lives near a zoo, go take a picture of a rhino doing his business. From what I can tell, there's quite a market for such photos, and I bet the whackos in question would be willing to part with some cash in exchange for those highly sought-after pics.

To the person who found my site by searching for celebrity diapers: I know what you were looking for. You wanted to know which of your favorite stars wears adult diapers--I happen to know the answer to this. I know a lot of people in the adult diaper community because...well, never mind why. Let's just say I've got friends who have friends who have friends who pee themselves. The following celebrities wear adult diapers:
Tom Cruise (That's why he has that crazed look on his face all the time--he's probably thinking "I'm peeing myself and no one knows!")
Both the Olsen twins (Although to be precise, they're actually still in toddler diapers, not adult diapers.)
Bea Arthur (This one should come as no surprise.)
Gwen Stefani (It's true! Although hers is a diaper thong.)
Clay Aiken (Although he barely qualifies as a celebrity, and doesn't even need the diaper--he just wears it because he likes the feel of it.)

And while we're on the topic of pee, would the person who found me by searching for pee in my face please raise your hand? I didn't think so. I wouldn't raise my hand either if I were you, you urine-loving deviant. I don't even know what to say to you, besides maybe you'd like to rent some Tom Cruise movies, now that you know he's a walking pee sponge. You can at least fantasize about him while you're having trouble finding someone willing to degrade you in the manner you prefer. Please, God, tell me you're having trouble finding someone to do that.

Mr. Pee In My Face may be a sicko, dear readers, but he's a Boy Scout compared to this next guy, the one who found me by searching for stuff wheelchair goo in mouth charade. Don't believe me? Here's the screenshot:

All I can hope is that this guy doesn't work in or live within 100 miles of a nursing home. Or Larry Flynt.

To the person who found my site by searching for sweet karla, I guess you quickly discovered you found the wrong site. If you've read more than one post here, you already know I'm not sweet. If you were looking for mean karla, vicious karla, sarcastic karla, hateful karla or karla who is even now mocking you behind your back, then you've found the right Karla.

I might have to do a search on this one myself. Someone found me by searching the phrase prostitution victims of secret lemon grinder accident. Yeah, I know, you're a skeptical bunch, so here's the screenshot:

This must be a news story of some kind, so I'll want to poke around on CNN.com and Foxnews.com. It breaks my heart to think of those poor prostitutes, who, from the looks of that search string, fell into a lemon grinder by accident and met their grim death. I'm curious about the details on this story, because I didn't know grinders specific to lemons existed, particularly in a size that would hold several prostitute-sized people at once, nor was I aware that prostitutes had liberal access to these lemon grinders. What were those foolish, foolish prostitutes doing near that industrial-grade lemon grinder? Didn't they know they weren't licensed or properly trained in operating that machine? And what in God's name were they going to do with all that ground lemon peel? Let this story be a lesson to lemon-loving prostitutes everywhere. You may know a lot about fulfilling the fantasies of lonely, fat men using fake names, but you do not necessarily know a lot about lemon grinders.

Lastly, as you can see from the above screenshot, someone also managed to find me by searching for embarrassed by dark filthy warehouse-district sophomore sprawled on bartop scandal. This one might actually be legitimate. After all, I've been a sophomore twice before (once in college and once in high school), and I've been sprawled on a bartop or two in my time. I remember one time I got kicked out of the Lone Star in Kansas City because I was asleep with my head down on the table. (Okay, I guess you'd call that "passed out," rather than "asleep." Let's not quibble.) Anyway, all I can say in my defense is sometimes naptime rolls around quicker than you expect. Sure, I'd have preferred to sleep in my own bed, but I improvised, and I don't think I should be sneered at for that. I'd hardly call it a scandal, and I doubt I had the good sense to be embarrassed. The part I'm confused about is the part about the dark filthy warehouse district...although wait. At that same time, not far from the Lone Star, my friend John and his brother Steve were living in a dark, filthy "apartment" in a dark, filthy warehouse district of Kansas City. This place was never intended to be an apartment, but was supposed to be a place of business, with big glass windows all along the front of it facing the sidewalk. But there was a bathroom in there, so the incredibly thrifty owner rented it out as an apartment to my friends in spite of the fact that there was no kitchen. I guess he knew it would cost too much to get it into the kind of shape it would need to be in to rent it out as a business location. This place should have been condemned, and I mean it when I say it was never intended to be lived in--no carpet, no washer/dryer hookups, all big open street-facing windows and concrete floors; bare light bulbs hanging from the ceilings. Also, no hot water--and this was in the dead of winter in Missouri. John said he had to drink half a bottle of Jack Daniels just to be able to take a shower in the ice-cold water issuing forth from the filthy pipes. By the looks of his brother Steve, he was either not willing to take that step or still too cold-sensitive even when loaded, because the dude was just dirty-looking most of that winter. Anyway, those two meatheads may well have been with me that night at the Lone Star when I was nodding off over my tequila shot. They were probably stinking up the place with their unwashed clothing and their unwashed hair, and maybe it was the other patrons who were embarrassed about the scene--hence the word "embarrassed" in the search string. Ah-ha! Mystery solved.

So okay, that last search was legitimate, but the others are just unforgivable. You should all be ashamed of your creepy selves. I hope you never find what you're looking for.

Labels: The internet--it's more than just pornography, The mentally ill love Karlababble