But then again, without freaks my readership would be about 4

Have I become so intellectually mature, so high brow, so classy that I no longer understand the freaks of the world? Because I used to, you know. I spent a lifetime studying and communing with freaks. Now, more and more, you baffle me, Freaks.

As I've mentioned before, my greatest source for freak watching is via my Statcounter page. I check my "recent searches" from time to time, copy down the utterly bizarre shit I see there, and save it for a later date, when I have more time to rant and rave about the lunacy in the world. So some of the searches I'm about to reference here are old, but rest assured, they did at one time appear in my stats.

Today's first Freak of the Day is the chap who found me by doing a Google search for Nude Pilgrim Pic. Don't get me wrong--I totally understand the appeal of the nude pilgrim. Who doesn't love a nude pilgrim? I'd be crazy to sit here and try to pretend that's not something each and every one of us daydreams about 364 days out of the year--in church, at work, you name it. The flaw, though, is in trying to search the internet for a picture of a nude pilgrim because...well, do I have to explain it? Without the standard-issue pilgrim garb, there's no way to identify a nude person in a photograph as a pilgrim. So my recommendation to you, sir, is to just look at a nude picture of Carmen Electra and simply pretend there's a discarded pilgrim outfit just out of the frame of the photo. And maybe a couple of ears of corn and an angry Indian, too, just to make it more real.

Freak of the Day #2 somehow found me via a Google search for I like catheterizing myself. Again--who am I to judge? While I've never tried it, I'm willing to accept the possibility that self-catheterization can be big, big fun, an endless source of giggles. And it's not a bad idea to cultivate the skill of quickly and easily inserting a small tube into one's wee-wee, because you never know--one day you may find yourself badly mangled in a tractor collision, forevermore unable to hoist yourself upon a potty. It never hurts to have a few basic nursing skills under your belt, and if you happen to enjoy them--well, that's not a crime. So g'head--ram a tube in there sideways, for all I care. Just stay the hell away from my blog.

The final Freak of the Day hails from Canada, and connected with me by way of a Google.ca search for especially when the mutton is nice and lean. This one, I'm afraid I can't condone in any way. While I'm not a member of PETA, I do believe animals have certain rights--yes, even the sexually alluring ones like sheep and wolverines. Some of you guys have a hard time finding a woman--I get that. And it may be frustrating that it's so much harder to find a thin, attractive girl than it is to find a drunk chick who's built like a linebacker. If you like your dates petite, it may indeed be tempting to trade up the 280-pound loudmouth you're secretly banging for the quiet, demure, 75-pound sheep you think has been giving you the eye, and maybe that's the way things are done in Nova Scotia, but not here in the the United States, buster. Here, we believe in slaughtering animals and eating them, not tethering them to a fencepost and treating them like hookers in heavy wool coats . So put it back in your pants, and don't ever stop by my blog again.

How Beastiality Saved My Marriage

Have you ever thought of a really great title for a paper, an essay, a short story or a blog post, but then slowly realized the cumbersome burden of then having to find a way to create a story deserving of such a great title? Such is the case with this particular blog post.

There's no question the title is a solid 10 on a 10-scale. "How Beastiality Saved My Marriage." That's the kind of title that moves copy, my friend! But finding a way to justify the title with a worthy post is the difficult part.

Mr. Fabulous recently complained that my blog was lacking in beastiality references. Such stinging criticism is hard to take, but after several painful hours of honest introspection, I had to admit the little prick had a point. Make no mistake--there are beastiality references. I can think of at least two, here and here. But that's certainly, by anyone's standards, not nearly enough. Not by a long shot.

A peek at my Statcounter account proves it. I see queries for poop jacuzzi, picture crabs vagina and too fat to fit through, but shockingly few for subjects dealing with beastiality. People seek me out for tampon removal pictures, but it's becoming painfully obvious to me that when readers have questions about the tender intimacy that can sometimes occur between man and squirrel, they do not come to Karlababble.

At times like this, I have to hang my head and wonder if it's all been for nothing. I've slaved here at this computer, week after week since June of 2005, baring my soul in my struggle to come up with words of wisdom and beauty to inspire the masses--and the sudden, difficult realization that I've missed the mark by such a wide berth is...well, disheartening, to say the least.

The small consolation that now, after this post, I should get quite a few internet search hits for beastiality (having repeated the word just enough times to catch Google's attention), still seems like a case of 'too little too late.' Maybe I should just stop the madness and give up blogging altogether. I mean, what's the point? I don't know. Have you ever have one of those days when you just feel like nothing you do is good enough? Maybe I should see a therapist. It appears I've reached a crossroads in my life, and it may do me some good to talk to someone, or perhaps get a boatload of medication prescribed to me, or at the very least, have a sordid, degrading affair with the therapist. And if all that fails, maybe dabbling in beastiality will prove to be just the elixer I need to soothe my shattered soul.

Do any of you out there have a particularly attractive pet you could send me a photo of? A pit bull with some muscular shoulders, or a parakeet with a nice, tidy set of tail feathers? I've had my eye on Anonymous Coworker's cats for some time now. He parades provocative photos of them across the internet, showing those felines off like the eye candy they are, making me think he knows exactly what kind of amorous feelings he's inciting in some of his love-starved readers. I may have to give those furry little sluts just what they've been asking for.

I'm like "Dear Abby" for freaks

It used to be that the freaks of the world managed to find me by some special instinct they have that tells them where the other freaks are. Now that I have a blog, they find me by doing internet searches. Some of the searches listed below are recent and some are older, since I copy and paste these searches into a blog draft and let them sit until I'm sober enough to concoct a reasonably coherent blog post. I'd like to take a moment now to address these seekers, that I may help them get the answers they were looking for.

To the person who wondered what is wrong if my bowels are green?:
While I'm not a doctor, I think I know the answer to this one. What's wrong is you shouldn't have any idea what color your bowels are, since they're located inside your body and, ideally, shouldn't be visible to you unless you've been impaled by a javelin or gutted by an angry biker. If you've actually seen your bowels recently, or can see them now, get thee to a doctor at once.

To the person who found my site by searching for am I mentally stable enough to have a baby:
No. Just because I did it doesn't make it right.

To you who found me by searching for what does the name Karla mean?
I think I explained this one pretty well.

To the grade school dropout who found me by searching for do men with big penis's cheat:
In my own independent study, I discovered that it's not the size of the penis that correlates with infidelity, it's the existence of a penis. Remember the old adage, "Have penis, will plunge it indiscriminately into any willing party."

To the poor soul who found me by searching for how to stop underwear chewing:
This one is tough, but it can be done. This heartbreaking addiction recently plagued someone in my own family, but I'm proud to say that with love and determination, we were able to help him overcome it and go on to lead a healthy, happy, productive life, depending on your definition of "productive."

If you're the one who found me by searching for put on thong panties properly?:
I don't know how helpful I can be in writing--this is much easier to demonstrate in person, which I would be willing to do for a moderate fee. But there's definitely a right way and a wrong way to do it. Here's a short list of Wrong Ways to put on thong panties:

1) On your head. Fun, but wrong.
2) In a bus station bathroom. Unless it's absolutely necessary, which yes, it sometimes is.
3) In any instance in which the thong panties are 2 or more sizes smaller than your ass.
4) In any instance in which you are a man, and the thong is going on your ass instead of the ass of a female companion.
4) In full view of the remaining bachelor party attendees, after the party. Proper etiquette demands that you gather up your discarded clothing from the floor and the lamp shades and take it into the bathroom or the hotel hallway to get dressed. You may have been a star 3 hours ago, but now you're a used Kleenex.

To the person who found me by searching for where to buy roofies:
I think you've landed on the wrong website. Try here instead.

To the person who found me by searching for loser sitting in front of computer masturbating:
Please, don't make fun of my friends. I won't tolerate it.

What am I doing wrong?

Perhaps I've been misleading you.

It seems that some of you have gotten the impression that this site is the place to go to satisfy your many diverse and incredibly sick needs, to include, apparently, masturbating with a banana peel. Observe a recent screenshot of my Statcounter.com search statistics:


It must be me. There must be something about me that leads you to believe you can find info or images or stories here about masturbating with a banana peel. Which makes me think perhaps its time to reevaluate my life and make some changes.

Have I not made it abundantly clear that my site is designed to be a force to effect positive change in the world? A place where people of all races and religions and economic backgrounds can come together in harmony? Where love can bloom, trust is sacred, truth prevails? Have you not read my previous posts?

Does no one remember when I tried to illustrate how good music and camaraderie can blissfully blind a person to the ugliness in this sometimes-cruel world?

Have I not tried preach the benefits of proper manners and social etiquette?

Have I not sought to share with you the unmitigated joys of motherhood?

Have I not done my best to show you that cleanliness is next to Godliness?

Was it completely lost on you how hard I tried to illustrate the importance of getting the sleep that is so necessary for good mental health?

Have I not labored to teach you how laughter can brighten your day and enrich your life?

And yet, it appears it has all been for nothing. Despite my best attempts to make the world a better place, I am rewarded with the banana peel masturbator. What's next? Masturbating with a syringe? Breast self-exams with a catcher's mitt? Intercourse with self-rising bread dough?

Again, let me be clear about my mission here. Karlababble.com is meant to be a safe place, a comforting place, where you can go to get away from the hustle and bustle. Here, we can grow together as people, and form a sort of family where we support each other through the trying times. There are plenty of sites out there for the sick and depraved, the soulless and the shallow. In the last day or so I've made some technical changes, so from now on, when you reach my site via a search engine query for something twisted and immoral, you will be automatically redirected to a site where that kind of sickness runs rampant, and filth and vulgarity are revered.

Until then, let's all join hands (I'm speaking figuratively, for the slow among you) and try to cleanse our minds of the mental image we now probably all have of a fat, hairy man sitting naked in front of his computer in a dingy apartment, masturbating with a banana peel, while his 17 cats crap all over his tattered furniture and chase cockroaches across his urine-stained carpet. Wait, I'm thinking of an ex-boyfriend. Okay, forget the hand-holding mind-cleansing bit and just lay off the crack pipe for a day or two. That might clear your head sufficiently enough for you to recognize karlababble.com as the peaceful garden I intended it to be.

I am a freak magnet.

The weirdos have been out again, surfing the internet for sad and strange things. Which always seems to land them here, on my site.

To the person who found my site by searching for lessons i've learned in the movie riding in cars with boys: I didn't see this movie, so maybe I'm way off base here, but I bet the only lesson to be learned from this movie is this: Avoid any movie starring Drew Barrymore like it's the goddamn plague. There's nothing more irritating than watching someone put on a fake lisp for two solid hours. And when did a lisp become something to pretend to have? People who legitimately have a lisp should be indignant about this. They probably spend all their time trying to make it look like they don't have one, and this horrible actress pretends she does have one.

To the pervert searching for chloroforming girls: It really is a shame how little useful information there is on the internet on how to successfully chloroform a girl. We all know it has something to do with a rag and a suspicious-looking bottle, but the details are important, and hard to find. Like, how do you do it without accidentally chloroforming yourself? And isn't this kind of a stinky, and therefore unstealthy, crime to commit? We all know there's got to be answers out there to these important questions, but where, where, where? Unfortunately for you, Mr. Predator, not here. You'll have to figure out the details on chloroforming girls the old-fashioned way: By trial and error. That's how our grandfathers did it, and their grandfathers, and their grandfathers' grandfathers.

And to the person looking up where is karla now: How exciting! Someone is looking for me! Hopefully it's not the chap who was looking up how to cholorform girls. Knowing my luck, it's probably the IRS or the free clinic. If it's the IRS: I didn't declare any wages that year because all my income came from illegal activity. If it's the free clinic: I got it from him, he didn't get it from me.

To the person who found me by searching for accidentally sit in urine on a public toilet seat: I understand why your search led you here, since I wrote extensively, one angry day, on the subject. But still, I think it's sad--I picture you, poor soul, wet-bottomed and angry, banging away at the keyboard of your computer looking for advice on how to remedy your unfortunate situation. As many times as I've haplessly sat in a stranger's pee in a public restroom, I never thought to get on the internet afterward and search for advice. I have an answer for you, though, my soggy friend: Go dry your butt off.

To the person looking for pregnant farm slut: I'm not sure why you think I'm the person you want. I did live on a farm for about four years as a kid--and I have been pregnant once in the recent past--but these two events did not happen even close to the same time. And as for the slut accusation, well, I won't even dignify that with a response. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some strangers to sleep with.

Here's hoping you never find what you're looking for

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.

Calling All Loons (or “An Open Letter To My Dear Readers”)

I've been getting some visitors to my site lately via some really, um...interesting search queries. This is maybe the most fun part of having a blog, in my opinion, so I save all this bizarre info in a .txt file deep in the bowels of my computer til one day when I feel like blogging about it. Today I was rooting around in those very bowels, and thought I'd share with you the fruits of my bowel-rooting. (Yeah. I can already see the Google searches that line is going to bring.)

First, we have the poor sod who did a search for Zantac chiggers. Was this person trying to treat his chigger infestation by pouring liquid Zantac on the affected areas? Was he so uninformed as to wonder if Zantac somehow caused his chigger bites? Or did this person perhaps have a chigger as a pet, and was seeking to cure the poor little thing's upset tummy? (Which makes me wonder how he knew his chigger had an upset tummy. Or why he'd have a chigger as a pet.) I guess the most likely explanation is that he had several chigger bites on his body--which as I've explained to you before aren't really chigger bites, but actual chiggers burrowed into your skin--and he, being a parasite lover, was worried that the Zantac he had been prescribed for his acid reflux might somehow negatively impact his precious chigger colony. In other words, this guy is a loon.

Then there's the fellow who found me by searching for chigger jokes. Are chigger jokes really in demand? Who is out there trying to stock his arsenal of jokes with some chigger humor? I'm not even sure most people know what chiggers are, so such a joke would probably go over like a lead balloon, unless you were in just the right, chigger-knowledgeable crowd. I must assume, then, that this search was done by the guest speaker at this year's annual Exterminator's Convention, as part of his plan to warm up the crowd with some insect humor. But this guy is no genius, clearly, because exterminators don't make their bread and butter from chigger control as much as from controlling other types of insects. So as you can see, this guy is a loon.

Sigh. And then there's the chap who found me by searching for Mexican butts booty. Never mind that I am no expert on Mexican butts, or really, booty of any kind, so there's actually no useful information on that topic on my site. But I worry about this guy. He clearly has a fixation, and one that could surely be better satisfied by loitering around the parking lot of an El Chico restaurant than by sitting at home reading my largely booty-less blog. I can imagine the disappointment on his face when he reached my site and found not the abundance of Tejano backside he had hoped for, but just a lot of barely-funny chigger references. I feel sorry for this dude--even though he's surely a loon.

And today's feature search? Well, you wouldn't believe me if I just wrote it here--you'd tell me I was making it up. I had to take a screen shot of this one.
Now, it's bad enough someone is searching for roughing it with the prissy little princess. I can only hope that "roughing it" in this goofball's mind refers to camping or living in a log cabin with no running water, and not some crazy porn-style aggressive interlude. Either way, that guy is an obvious loon. But as I'm sure you'll agree, the really fascinating element of this particular screenshot is the search for I adore creepy homeless dental sex. I'm trying to think of a joke to make here, but nothing I can think of is funnier than the search itself. I will say that, while I didn't realize until now that homeless dental sex was even a category of sex, I have to wonder if the word "creepy" is really warranted here—I think it’s implied. It would seem that this King of all Loons would find more info on the subject if he refined his search and left the "I adore creepy" part out, instead just searching for (shudder) "homeless dental sex." By the way, I’d like to issue a warning to all homeless folk right here and now: Keep your mouth closed. There’s a weirdo on the loose. It’s in your best interest to refrain from falling asleep under an overpass with your mouth open, at least until this bizarre Google searcher gets put behind bars for one of the many offenses he no doubt commits on a regular basis. God wiling, a nosy neighbor will soon notice the human bones half-buried in the back yard of his hovel, or the stench of decay emanating from one of his tinfoil-covered windows, and call the cops. Until then, hide those rotting teeth, my unbathed, transient friends.

So what have we learned from these various search queries? My readers are, by and large, goddamn loons.

To the person who found this site by searching for "adult diapers"

Damnit, I'm sorry.

Once again, my smartass attempts at humor have slowed a desperate person down in their search for help with an urgent problem.

There you were, shifting from foot to foot, struggling to hold back the tide, while frantically searching the internet for a solution to your hair-trigger bladder (and possibly bowels--but let's not think too long on that possible scenario). You needed help--and fast! And along with the rest of the tangled mess of info you undoubtedly turned up in your search, you also found my silly little blog--which was clearly no help at all. As you soon discovered, I know nothing about adult diapers, except how to use them in a joke now and then. That's bad news for you on two fronts--because not only do you probably not find adult diapers to be funny in the slightest, but if you do, a giggle fit, however small, might just invoke the kind of reaction in your nether regions that you've been trying so valiantly to avoid. In the end, it's you who will be left to clean up the mess, quite literally, and I just want to say I'm sorry. I never intended for such a thing to happen. That's what I get for trying to be cute.

So to make it up to you, I'm going to offer you some advice regarding your problem. Admittedly, I'm no expert, so you can take this advice for what it's worth--which is absolutely nothing at all. That being said, here's the only so-called wisdom I can offer you, oh Person In Need of Adult Diapers:

1) Do not even consider cloth diapers. I know, I know--they're better for the environment, they don't clog up our landfills, blah blah blah. This kind of do-gooder attitude is to be admired and revered--but only when we're talking about tiny little baby butts housed in tiny little baby diapers. Your big-girl or big-boy diapers, when filled, will have far more formidable a presence than those baby diapers you're used to seeing at your cousin's or sister's house. You do not want to have to wash those buggers out, I can assure you. Your environmental concerns will go right out the window the second or third time you find yourself dumping a 2-gallon jug of Shout on your formerly-white, bath-towel sized cloth diaper.

2) Do not eat Mexican food, ever. I know, I know--it's yummy beyond words, particularly if you live here in Texas. Here, you'll find none of that wanna-be Mexican food like they sell in Idaho's and Missouri's so-called Mexican restaurants, and you will surely be tempted to partake of that authentic goodness. But heed my warning: Avoid this urge. For someone like yourself, who apparently lacks the proper constitution for it, it can only end in disaster. Woe unto you (and any unfortunate bystanders) if you ignore this plea.

3) Avoid alcohol. Not only do you not need any extra fluid in your overwrought bladder, but you also do not need the lowered inhibitions that a mind-altering substance can bring about. If you must drink (say, to keep up appearances at a company Christmas party, or perhaps in order to find a particular member of the opposite sex attractive enough to continue chatting with in a seedy bar), then at least do so in moderation, and for the love of God, avoid beer at all costs. May I recommend Jaegermeister? It will dry you up like the Mojave desert, at least until you find yourself ejecting it from your throat while curled into a fetal position on the bathroom tile.

4) Do not, under any circumstances, wear any clothing on the lower half of your body that contains even a small percentage of lycra or spandex. Such clothing is intended for people wearing tiny, or perhaps no, undies...NOT, I repeat, NOT for the wearers of adult diapers. Yes, I know--it's not fair that, on top of the inconveniences your condition already presents, you now also have to carefully scour the racks at your local department store looking for only the roomiest, un-clingy-est clothes, but must I remind you that life is unfair? Just as it's not fair for you to have to have to constantly contend with your wimpy bladder and/or bowels, it's also not fair to make the rest of us visually aware of the potential horror going on down below.

So there you have it, my bathroom-frequenting friend. I hope I've redeemed myself for the thoughtless joke I made previously in my blog concerning adult diapers. You needed help--you deserved help--and finally, I was able to rise to the occasion and provide that help.

You're welcome.

To the person who found this site by searching for "Transsexual Kleptomaniacs Wearing Scuba Gear"

Where do you people come up with this stuff??! And how did you find my site?

Oh, I'm just kidding this time.

Ha. You guys are a bunch of suckers.

But really, it wouldn't surprise me. I bet there's someone out there Googling that phrase as we speak. And now they really are going to end up on my site because of it.

To the person who found this site by searching for "Hospital humiliation bib diaper"

Alright pal, I don't know what kind of sick fantasies you're into, but I'll have no part of it. There are plenty of websites out there for pervs and sickos; there's no need for you to bring your creepiness here. Although I do congratulate you on spelling "humiliation" right--I tend to think very twisted people are also bad spellers. Why is that?

And if you're not a sicko, and have instead found yourself hospitalized recently for some minor thing like hernia surgery or appendix removal, and vaguely remember half-waking at some point from an anesthesia haze to discover that a wacko doctor had dressed you in a bib and diaper and was filming some kind of seedy hospital porno film with you as the unwitting star, then I apologize for thinking you were a creep. Please call the police immediately. Although I warn you, these kinds of accusations are very hard to prove; I know when it happened to me it was my word against the doctor, who was very well-respected in that small town. Even when the investigating officers found the hidden stash of adult diapers and video tapes in the back of the doctor's office closet, they still chose to believe they were there for some higher purpose than filming patients in humiliating scenarios and selling the tapes on the black market. Please, if any of you out there have purchased one of these tapes, I could really use you as a witness should my case ever be reopened.

An apology to the owner of the racoon with long toenails

I'd like to apologize to the person who stumbled upon my website by doing a Google search for "clipping racoon toenails." I wish I had some info here that would help you, but instead, you merely found my flippant remark about trimming my baby's fingernails. You turned to Google, and then turned to me, for help, and yet there you are, still taking it one day at a time with your long-toenailed racoon, who is probably even now clawing your patio furniture or one of your neighbor's children. I wish I could be there for you in the way that you had hoped I would. But I promise you this: If some good, solid information about racoon manicures ever does fall in my lap, I will post it here on this blog, without a moment's hesitation. In the meantime, stay strong. Wear several layers of clothing. Don't make any sudden moves. Stay away from the trash cans late at night. And stay tuned to this blog for further information.