I will never understand why this was part of a field trip, what we were supposed to be learning, or who this was distributed to for masturbation purposes. Lotta weirdos out there, bro.

With health industry profits skyrocketing and the well-being of America’s children declining, you can bet your sister that this big-dicked faggot is about to cash the fuck in.

Until several decades ago, children had been the backbone of the American economy. While most were initially accidents and headaches in general, our great-grandfathers found a way to turn these soft-boned slobber mouths into dedicated workhorses that generate real, tangible, cold, hard cash in times of economic chaos. This business model supported the U.S.A.’s economic stability up until the time liberal douchebags forced hardworking children out of shining careers with child labor laws. Then what happened? The Great Depression. Fuck you, Obama.

What does all of this have to do with a for-profit children’s hospital, you ask? Well, a lot, you idiot. The pre-Depression business model that made this country a superpower is coming back, and teamed alongside a profit-saturated health industry, I think the business plan writes itself:

1. I’M THE BOSS.

Ol’ Humboz is the man in charge here. I party a little. I demand choral performances from the children at my leisure via tweet (@HumbleOzarkian). I order the medications whenever I can. I hire, fire, and bury the staff. I am in charge of making sure our clients, the ill and dying, receive the greatest and most compassionate amount of care from our staff, the ill and dying. See where I’m going with this?

2. CHILDREN CARING FOR CHILDREN.

These little shits are on the most predictable life schedules. Kids get sick, and after a nap and a xanax – BAM! – they’re magically back to health, suckin’ down fudge and giggling like sluts. Herein lies the grease that lubes my magical gears of labor. As the ill are made healthy employees, the healthy employees are made ill by the strenuous labor, malnutrition, and mandatory employee tobacco use. The two groups switch roles time and time again, and with such sudden fluctuations in recovery, the parents never stop paying. Even if the kids were able to somehow get a tidbit of information about hospital operations to their parents (which is explicitly banned), I would blame their stay on punishment/recovery for their naughty, naughty tobacco use. But won’t the parents have to come visit at some point? I’m glad you asked…

3. A GERBER BABY IN EVERY RACE AND GENDER.

Much like the baby food company, Gerber, who found the prettiest white babies in the nation and exploited them to sell liquid peas, Humble Ozarkian’s For-Profit Children’s Hospital uses the finest talent scouts to maintain an image that sells our product, perpetual illness. Our image consists of “traditionally beautiful children” hailing from every gender and race represented by our hospital’s population. When parents show the fuck up, they will be given a healthy poster child to interact with and shit. Studies find that most parents forget their sick children during this engagement and enter a fantasy world in which this healthy child is theirs. They live out this fantasy and return home happily, knowing damn well that the hospital is nearing a full recovery for their lil’ offspring.

4. KEEPING KIDS IN LINE.

Nothing makes kids feel lower than covering them in their own collective, fermented waste. Now, I’m not a gross man who openly talks about bodily functions/fluids in public or the presence of ladies, but we’re talking about running a god-damned business here. Each week, both the sickest child in care and the healthiest employee will be subjected to a form of punishment that attempts to shake them from the extremes of health and nudge them back towards the “teeter-totter” lifestyle that’s more healthy for our business. I would explain it further, but just look at the image above and imagine 1000-ish vomiting children crying at your shameful ways. You healthier-than-thou twat.

I think I had a few more ideas, but this is just getting stupid. I feel like an even mixture of Maddox and someone I loathe. Later lol @HumbleOzarkian

WARNING: Please see the following notice.
NOTICE: Please read the attached Terms & Agreements.
TERMS & AGREEMENTS: I have read the previous warnings and notices, and understand that Humble Ozarkian understands that there are fine folks in every sector of Springfield, Missouri.

The Rough Idea - Click for a full-sized JEPG.JGP (image)

As one can clearly see from the detailed image above, I have been thinking a lot about running for mayor of Springfield, MO. However, my fear of public speaking and overall personality wouldn’t be a good fit here in the quiet Ozarkian hills – which is why I plan on appointing my friend Vance as my running mate. Upon victory, I will dethrone myself  and endorse Vance as mayor, in hopes that I can quietly pursue my career in the fast-paced world of food service as a lowly civilian. The following paragraphs will explain life after an a-poll-ing HumbOz/Vance 2012 victory. Oh, yeah – someone tell Vance to read this.

OPERATION NORTHSIDE/PHELPS GROVE:

Every south side Springfieldian is scared of two distinct threats: people from the north side and Phelps Grove Park after sunset. My plan to squash these fears is overreaching and destructive at best, but I feel as if losing Drury University, Pappy’s, Lindberg’s, the bigger airport, Pizza House, and tens of thousands of lives may be worth the comfort of safety in our homes. This is why a propose building an armed-guarded man-made river that spans 15 miles across Springfield. All those north of the river might be allowed to integrate into community south of the river (South River Assembly) upon review by the Mayoral Certification Board for North River Immigrants. Any object or human that hasn’t fled the north side will be burned to bitter ash.

Our team is serious about addressing the fear of old, gay rapists at Phelps Grove Park, which is exactly why we have a creative vision for this sin-ridden public space. Firstly, the park name will be changed to “Michael Phelps 420 Goof Park.” This moniker alone will draw in goof-smoking teenagers from the city and suburbs alike. These goof-smoking teenagers naturally force out old, gay rapists with gaudy green-yellow-red color schemes, the undancibility of dub-step and reggae, and mind-numbing elementary conversations concerning such topics as the universe and the broken criminal justice system.

EISENHOWER’S FORGOTTEN PLAN, THE 10-LANE INTERSTATE:

When Eisenhower wasn’t sucking a fat dick he was thinking of how to escape quickly, and buried in his diary at the White House Museum is a plan to do just that (the latter). Eisenhower was the mastermind behind the 10-Lane Interstate; a revolutionary idea at the time because of its ability to allow a driver to pick between one of five mostly-empty lanes. Frequently disregarded as “the most retarded thing [Eisenhower] drunkenly sketched,” this plan not only fits, but overly fulfills both Springfield’s budget and needs. Think of the jobs and the pavement and the speed and the bitches.

FEDERAL MEDICAL PRISON PARDONS:

This popular idea’s roots can be traced back to TNT’s The Shawshank Redemption, which shows us all that there are some cool dudes trapped in prison. Prisoners without blood-borne diseases will be awarded a once-in-a-lifetime meeting with the Mayor’s Certification Board for Cool Dude Pardons. Prospective cool dudes will get one chance to make the judges laugh, cry, or otherwise become the victim of any strong emotion. Upon review, a “handful of ‘em” will be freed from a life in prison and let loose in Springfield. The main goal here is (50%) to appease the bleeding-heart liberal douchebags and (50%) play a sort of prank on the boys in blue.

CARVER’S SCHOOL FOR THE GIFTED:

Vance will hate this. Might hafta scrap it.

This all sucks, I’m going to work on something else that I’ll end abruptly to work on something else.

Cognitive dissonance is good.

Can I not have anything to myself? For real. I sit and stew about article ideas for weeks – most times I’m just looking for a catchy title to pave the way for content. Over many weeks time, a few “mind tornadoes” furiously ravage my fragile little thinker, leaving nothing but disconnected bits of “thought debris” torn and scattered across the wet, grey landscape. When I find time, I solemnly and confusedly trot the empty fields and streets in my brain, collecting stray “thought debris” and trying my damnedest to assemble the varying fragments into a relatable idea. And then…it happens. An idea. Okay – make or break time – let’s go to the Google’s Earch.

AW, CHIT.

CHUTHERMUCKIN’ GUTFUCKER!

This dipshit has to steal my hard-earned idea for a title. Let’s read it – ::closes tab::facepalm sand’ich::

“Yes we have devils incarnate among us; yes we can as individual serve as prey to others; and yes this world does feel like the wild but where do you draw the line in ‘self defence.’” -jaysayzwat11, 2011

You’re WRONG, jaysayzwat11, wrong (j/k :p). The art of the chameleon is entirely about not shedding your defenses. These fast-paced modern ages require that people be comfortable with adapting to social situations without appearing uncomfortable or shocked by unforeseen behavior. This requires an intricate series of defenses in which you, the chameleon, are skillfully lowering and raising in the ever-changing situation. I don’t know what I’m doing, but hopefully this shit will help clear some things up:

The Art of the Chameleon: A How-To Guide

1. Find your weaknesses. Everyone has them. Coffee house cyclists: maybe you don’t do well in douchebag bro situations. It’s because you are timid, pretentious, socially inflexible, and scared of even being seen having mainstream fun with a Busch Light in a beer bong. Drunken, bar-hopping, cumguzzling whores: I know for a fact you don’t do well in study groups. It’s because you are irreversibly moronic and your entire being, with the exception of three holes and a tit or two, is fully ignored by everyone you will ever meet. These are the extremes, but finding the groups in which you share the least in common with is a great starting point. Suggested homework: get shitfaced with some loudmouthed bar-whores, ask an elder hipster about the Elephant Six (and listen), smoke a cig with a hobo.

2. Study the unknown. A Chameleon-in-training should always have an open mind and be able to enjoyably and forcibly pursue what were once foreign subjects. My friends and I call this “filling your hump of hate,” and it can be a brutal but rewarding process. “Filling your hump” requires that you endure an activity you absolutely despise in order to gain actual knowledge and to reassure yourself that the hate is indeed warranted. Suggested homework: listen to an entire Ke$ha album alone, watch Gummo with some friends, read Pitchfork.

3. Look at the most horrific shit on Earth. I don’t know how to convince anyone that this is a good idea because it probably isn’t one. A close friend of mine (Mitch Martin) and I have been on an infinite journey since the age of 14. This journey isn’t an uncommon one; many boys from our tech-infused generation have long been sharing links rooted in hell, but you seriously need to reach the point where you can’t even begin to fathom the next way to “outdo yourself.” The WWW provided much for me at the tender age of 14, but nothing is more ingrained in my memories than dull-bladed beheadings, slimy rotting corpses, the microwaving/blowtorching of innocent pets, and HOW FUNNY MY GEOCITIES PAGE WAS. In all sincerity, viewing the most horrific shit on Earth better prepares you for unforeseen, undesired circumstances. It is a humbling, lifelong challenge that constantly puts your moronic First World problems and concerns in check, all while training the inner escapist in all of us to firmly stand in the presence of shock and awe. Is “offensivities” a word? Rid yourself of offended sensitivities, you will be cooler. Suggested homework: witness a beheading, thumb through Rotten.com at your leisure, warsh it down with an episode of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos” to make you feel better.

4. Get out there. I promise you will like it. You will learn to like it. You might hate it, actually. Go outside and get yourself (and maybe a few like-minded buddies if you’re a wimp) into some situations you feel uncomfortable with. If you aren’t fitting in or become uncomfortable, a good social lubricant is to “be real” or “straight” with people and let them know where you’re coming from. Say, “I’m sorry, but I might seem like an uptight dootch because I have not yet experienced this subculture/type of party/style of barbecue. Please forgive my shortcomings and show me how you live, as I am seeking mutual benefits betwixt us.” Don’t say it to tough guys. Practice makes purrrfect, and remember that your goal is to maximize “story value” in your life experiences. The boring old people? They weren’t chameleons.

~dO U liVe ur Lyfe liKE yOur jUsT ReAdiNg you’r bIOGRAPHY or dO U LiVE it LIKE ur WrITinG eAcH ChaPTer?~

I give up. I’m making my wonderful galfriend write the next article.

You see it at baseball games. You smell it at the neighborhood barbecue. You hear it on the playgrounds. You taste it at your favorite bar. You feel it racing through your brain to your chest when you aggregate these four senses. You are an American, and you are fucking lucky to be one.

I promise I’m not about to do the same old rant you’ve heard time n’ time again. The one about America being a great country, how we should take pride in our heritage, and show respect for those who fought for our freedom. Though this is all true, I am also not about to do the even more blood-curdling Anti-American American rant. This is about a fresh face for American patriotism; a new way to represent our country and become a deeper, more reasoned voice in the global shouting match. This is about the brave new wave of American Pride.

First, let’s start with the bad guys. These people – in their own soupy brains – usually have fantastic intentions. But in actuality, they end up wrecking the whole damned thing. Sort of like the “Let’s Roll”-ers on Flight 93 (just kidding, folks). In the red corner, we have a fucking stinking pit full of white trash neanderthals. Sadly, this crew of Americans seems to have the loudest and most recognizable voice with their trademark broken families and “YEAH ‘MURCA”-styled campaigns. In the blue corner, we have a fucking problem. Tongue-in-cheek humor twisted with an 11-month-pregnant sense of superiority can only spawn one thing: a liberal douche. These gentle souls have an opinion and they would just love for you to hear it. They are “kind, caring people” who are “sharply educated” on world events, send a dollar a day to a starving child, and pick their big, bad homeland apart in order to attain some stupid international peacekeeper’s award. These people are the worst because they see the American flag as some eye-rolling nuisance and refuse participation on July 4th – unless it’s in their own special little way. “Hot dogs, fireworks, and flags, Carol? Really? Steivin and I are doing truffles, kaleidoscopes, and Superhero capes. Yeah – it’s just kind of our own little thing I came up with.” Fuck you.

I’ve always described it like this: “Choosing between being a liberal douche and a white trash neanderthal is like having two dicks shoved down your throat and rejoicing at the luxury of being able to pull one out.”

To those who aren’t already pissed off at me: Let us now push these raging idiots aside and start driving a new ideal of American pride. This country is not just the bureaucrats, the schools, the wasteful wars, the nation building, the white trash neanderthals, and the liberal douches. This country is the first time you did “show and tell.” This country is your dad sharing a beer with you. This country is your mother crying against your face as you go off to saturate your body with drugs and alcohol for years. This country is when you and your siblings finally grew up and realized that you’re actual people, and that you appreciate that more than you ever did. It’s the guy at the bar who always crushes a stinker with you. It’s the first home run of the summer while your friends and neighbors cheer you to home base. The old lady whose lawn you mow while she watches and smiles from her kitchen. The veterinarian who sews up your dog’s leg while he tells you a dirty joke. It’s you looking into the casket holding your badass grandpa and remembering that all of the advice he gave you is all you’re ever going to get out of him, and now you need to be the fucking man. It’s getting lost in a field with the buddies you might never see again in five years. It’s throwing up while you’re smoking. The friends, family, co-workers, enemies, living, dead, and the imaginary are what make this fucking nation important.

(I’m not expecting an international audience.)

Out of the over 6.5 billion people in this world, you were born here. In the United States of America. You are technically knowledgeable and financially sound enough to command your computer to load this shitty article. Despite the tragedies, mishaps, and misfortunes that every single fucking living creature experiences in their years on this planet, you are pretty damned lucky to be where you are. Sitting on your thick butt in a chair with a machine pumping chilled air at your greasy-ass face. Think about it, you butthead.

>>>Think about it.<<<

Back to America: We need people who understand how lucky they are. How proud of the people around them they are. People who understand that other countries are struggling more than we are. Those who understand that we aren’t necessarily the best, the brightest, or the most powerful. Those who aren’t starving and handed a platter of options, only to force one down without realizing they could have had anything they wanted if they had just walked to the fucking kitchen. We don’t necessarily need to be any of that. We’re fucking America, and we’re all we need to be proud of that fact.

Once again, I didn’t really hit any solid points or clearly communicate my point, but we can all settle on this:

My apologies to anyone who hasn’t read this WEBLOG before. Things around here aren’t usually as dark and horrific as the mess you are about to read. It’s just natural progression in diversifying the content format here at Humble Ozarkian. No revision was done, and I’m still somewhat confused by what I wrote. It’s also very long. TL;DR: Some hometown dudes do bad shit to Hipsters.

The following records were found in 2052, forty years after their completion in 2012. The sketches and writings contained in this diary remain mostly intact, as it was found in a portable plastic cooler in the Jordan Creek tunnels. The author remains anonymous, but provides a detailed account of an apparent hijacking of culture in the Ozarks between the years 2010 and 2012. Classified records pertaining to this incident have been found over the years, but were altogether destroyed by law enforcement, white-collar professionals, and blue-collar workers in an attempt to cover up a genocide in which these records refer to as “The Hipster Holocaust,” or the “Death of the American Hipster.”

We talked to them yesterday. They said they just got back from Portland, and none of us knew why they went. They said they were looking to find “vinyl, sex, and maybe themselves.” This group is weird. Really weird. If you get one of them alone, they crumble in your fingers in an anxious, over-bearing thirst for acceptance. If you get them in a pack, they bind together and try talking you down, trying to make you crumble like they do without their buddies. Their personalities are not built on stable foundations and their words and actions only magnify this fact. They fucking suck. We call them “the Hipsters.”

So now the problem is getting worse. A shit-ton worse. The Hipsters have started making even more friends by picking up the fringe outcasts, the ones who never really found themselves and needed someone to answer their life questions for them. The Hipsters seem to provide everything to an empty soul, almost like a pre-packaged culture kit for a depressingly blank human template. Music, literature, diets, jobs, relationships, television, cigarettes, alcohol – they have just the right choice already made for their next wanna-be. They are slowly growing and are not providing any benefits to the local community. We are the first to realize this growing phenomenon, we feel uneasy about them, and we are going to take action.

Tyler and I rented out a building downtown on South Street. We don’t use it for a business or anything, we just pay the lady $300 a month while it’s vacant just to crash there in case we have a few too many at the bars. Kinda like our own little mini-hotel. It’s not very nice, but it has a couple couches and utilities in a back room. There is a huge, empty basement with a locked door below the back room. The store front remains empty, dark, and cob-webbed. A perfect disguise for our plan.

There is an alley behind our downtown building where the Hipsters hang out. A solid metal door is the only barrier between them and us most nights. We listen to them talk about their pasts. Sometimes they get really drunk and bawl like pussies to each other, saying how they finally feel like they’re accepted, how they finally have real friends. Then they fuck each other’s girlfriends and talk shit on each other. We can tell that a couple of the Hipsters run the group, and they are never to be crossed. One is a DJ at a bar across the street – some electronica hipster bullshit. The other brews his own beer and wine with all-organic ingredients and sells it to his Hipster friends for some ridiculous prices. Why don’t they just drink Busch? It’s cheaper. We have had enough of these fucking lunatics.

I was coughing loudly behind the metal door and the drunk Hipsters heard me. They started pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. Tyler opened the door and the Hipster DJ lunged at us, so he hit him in the mouth and blood went everywhere. I grabbed the DJ’s buddy (the Hipster Booze Brewer) by the neck and we dragged them into the basement, dropping solid blows to their jaws every second we could. Tyler tied the dazed Hipsters to a couple old chairs we had lying around. While they were asleep we searched their backpacks. Tons of empty lighters, goof, Natural American Spirits, empty PBR cans, old magazines, granola bars, stolen iPods, and knives were found. These are all things I like, but I wondered why they put so much importance into them. They talked shit on us for drinking Budweiser and smoking additive-ridden cigarettes, but we had always left them alone.

Once they woke up we started interrogating them. We found out that they used to be nerds in middle and high schools. Not the smart nerds, but the butthead nerds. The guys that were always really angsty, never-really-fit-in-because-they-were-too-busy-trying-to-fit-in, wormy, conniving dorks. The way they were describing things was almost as if they were the coolest guys in their group now, as if the years of being brushed aside were now magically cured by their mid-twenties popularity. They were irritable, cynical, and judgmental little pricks; exemplifying the exact traits they hated in the rednecks they had to grow up around, the people they were trying so hard to be different from. I learned a lot about them from this interrogation: deep down these Hipsters are very troubled, confused, sad, and depressed people. In their big groups they feel powerful and the source of outside envy, but alone they are very susceptible. Their community has built a wall of ironic pop-culture references, mystery, and brash cynicism around them to protect them from interrogation. That won’t help you when you act like a fucking asshole and end up crying to a couple strangers in a basement.

We keep the Kings of the Hipsters in our basement, feeding them and allowing them restroom time. Tyler and I are weary with the even faster-growing Hipster population. They are starting to make the news. First it started with warehouse dance music, goof smoking, and debauchery on the outskirts of the downtown area; now they are making their way into downtown, throwing dance shows, roaming the streets in hoards, littering, vomiting, and selling club drugs in bathrooms. The Kings of the Hipsters say there is no way that this cultural movement is going to stop. They say it has gone local, national, and worldwide. This shit can go global, but not in my hometown. I’m sick of the ridicule, the false sense of superiority, and mostly the fucking vegans. Once we start to take them out from the top the masses at the bottom will run scared.

I killed the DJ and the Booze Brewer today. Apparently, the DJ was a vegan and was angry Tyler only had a burger for him, then kicked an old lamp which shattered on Tyler’s head and cut his foot. He freed the Hipsters and told them, “Leave and tell your fucking friends we’re after you.” They didn’t leave, and the Booze Brewer pulled a knife on Tyler. Hearing the commotion, I ran downstairs with a lead pipe and smashed in the Boozer’s head before he could make a slice on Tyler. The DJ had a lead pipe, too, but I killed him first. We are about to leave to go talk to the cops.

The cops just left the scene. They investigated off-the-books and took the bodies with them in the trunk of an SUV they called in. They said they’ve been having a lot of problems with the growing wave of Hipsters in town. We found out that the DJ and the Boozer were wanted for a string of electronics thefts in the area, totaling around $500,000 in equipment which was being stolen from the Ozarks and sold to Chicago-based indie record studios. These weren’t true hometown boys at all. They were using speakers stolen from historic theaters to help pay their extravagant bar tabs. The cops didn’t even ask our names and said to keep this all hush-hush and there would be no problem. They gave us the addresses of a few more Hipster hideouts.

We found the warehouse listed in the address on a Friday night around 3:45 A.M. There was a big party going on. We just walked in a broken side door and bypassed the $5 door charge. Tyler and I broke apart. He spent time figuring out how everyone was connected. He memorized every face, every name, every relation. We are beginning to figure this web of idiocy out. The Hipsters seem to have around 200 “certified” members. After a few hours we left and put everything back together at our building on South Street. Cops came and verified some of the connections we had made. Some of the dudes had been accused of the electronics thefts, a couple lower-tier Hipsters had even gone down for bad checks, vandalism, and theft. The addresses of these people are available to us, thanks to the cops and some help from Case.net.

A large portion of the diary entries were torn from the spine at this point. Drops of dried blood and scattered page fragments were all that remained intact. Researchers believe that, chronologically, this portion most likely contained entries concerning how “the Hipsters” were located and detained in the South Street building. 62 people, all believed to be closely related to the “Hipster” social circle disappeared within a two-week span in June 2012.

We have handfuls of Hipsters pouring in every day. It’s just too easy. We put our cash in an envelope and slip it under the landlord’s front door, she NEVER comes by. The Hipsters break up into very small, black-out drunken groups every night they party, which makes them very easy targets. And any of them that decide to snort coke at the end of our alley never return to the sidewalk. We pull Tyler’s van up, strip them of their possessions at the door, and send them down with a goodie bag (couple bottles of water, sandwiches, granola bars, and a “Hello, I’m” sticker just for kicks). Tyler is the brains behind what goes on downstairs. I’m usually at my own apartment or just there to guard the door at the top of the stairs while he shouts at them, armed with a couple handguns. Everything is slowly starting to spiral out of control. He keeps telling them he is going to change them back into the people they were before the Hipster movement.

Tyler scolds them every day for losing their humble Ozarkian heritage and buying into a trend started in L.A. and N.Y.C. over a half of a decade ago. He says that they aren’t really themselves; that by no way did the odds play out that they all magically turned out like this. They are living from the outside in and corrupting what Tyler says is “one of the last pure cultures in the heart of America.” He says they mock our culture by only giving it “negative, tongue-in-cheek representation.” Sometimes he makes sense and sometimes he doesn’t.

It’s been almost a couple weeks now and shit is getting old. Since the last writing, all of the upper-level Hipsters we captured have broken down into nothing. They are a maniacal group of people, unsupported by any sense of community in which socially healthy people could produce, even in such dire circumstances. It is my belief that what we are doing is a good thing. Ever since their capture, the rest of the wanna-bes have gone AWOL. They know something is up. While the rumors spread like wildfire around the downtown area, we go unnoticed and protected. People are starting to feel safe and more relaxed now. The media links the increase in missing persons reports to the “angst-filled, runaway drifter mentality found in higher concentrations within the Hipster culture.” The cops, media, and the general public are on our side. Besides a few crying mothers and fathers, no one seems to be missing the Hipsters.

The word is starting to spread. Fast. Through the “in-the-know” downtown community, we just found out that we were spotted taking two fixed-gear Hipsters very early this morning. They were spray painting neon orange hearts on Tyler’s van – a very dangerous and gay thing to do to someone you don’t know. They deserved it. The former Hipsters (who, out of fear,  regressed to their untainted cultural origins) are referring to this whole debacle as “The Hipster Holocaust.” We like to think of it simply as “The Death of the American Hipster,” the end of an era.

The cops are being pressured to even further investigate the reported kidnapping the other day. We got a tip from them that we should just wrap things up and get out of town. Today we slipped the old lady her last “rent payment” with a note saying “The Ozarks thank you.” She’s blind as a bat and doesn’t even know our names – she’ll never make the correlation. Except for the fact that we’re doing a nice arson job on the building. She has insurance, she’ll be find. I’m just going to make this short and sweet. The basement door is bolted and the fire has been started. I’m sure all of the screaming is unbearable. All smoke alarms have been dismantled and Tyler should now be setting fire to the main floor. I’m sitting in his van right outside of downtown. First we hit Downstream Casino, and from there we have no fucking idea. I see him in my rear-view mirror. If anyone

This sentence fragment is the last text in the record. Police and media reports describing the incident attribute the cause of the fire to “negligence by trespassers.” Gladys James, the landlord of the South Street building, went on record to say that the trespassers probably gained entrance due to the fact that she may have left the back door unlocked almost a month prior to the incident, this having been the last time she visited the property. In no way, shape, or form did the records ever point to “Tyler” or the Anonymous author as suspects in the case. Their whereabouts after the incident have never been and probably will never be known. To this day, longtime Ozarks residents still eerily and almost pridefully refer to July 4, 2012 as “The Hipster Holocaust.”

We’ve all heard of Planned Parenthood. They provide sexual and reproductive health services for men and women alike. From popular pills such as “Plan B” (a.k.a. “Bar Whore Vitamins”) to STD taste-testing, PeePee has everything covered except for one thing: A reward-driven marketing campaign for its dedicated clientele. To avoid throwing any significant blows to PeePee’s wallet, I’ve decided to cut out the conniving ad whores and provide a free packaged strategy. Backed by ten proven years of no experience and a fresh copy of Microsoft Paint, Humboz ADgency™ is graciously providing this service to Planned Parenthood.

1. Keep Them Cumming…Back.

:::::ALERT::::::

After a quick Googles Earch for “rewards punch card template,” I came across my exact idea:

Image Credit

They fucking beat me to it. Once again I have been defeated. The comments under it are highly disapproving, so I guess I’m glad I was.

This reminds me of all of the other ideas that have been stolen from me over the years:

1. A shirt that said “Cut. It. Out.” with simple hand diagrams above each word. You know, it was an Uncle Joey saying on Full House. My computer was hacked and my images were stolen in early high school. I believe my crude JPEG was the template for this top-selling t-shirt.

2. I said for years that whenever I died, I wanted my body to be hung from ropes and puppeted out of my casket, dancing around the room to some dumb song or something. I believe that this joke slowly made it through the six degrees between Nick Swardson and I, and he stole it.

3. I always stated that if I was a DJ, my name would be DJ Tanner (I really don’t like Full House all that much). Fuck Jaime Kennedy and all of that.

4. The Onion News Network was my idea for a useless cable channel that told fake stories 24/7. I told this idea to my friend, Matt, in the mid 2000′s. He didn’t think it was funny or marketable.

All of these claims can be verified by my friend Matt, who I told these things to over the years. My latest trend has been starting posts, doing no revision whatsoever, getting furious and frustrated, and ending the post on an awkward note. I’m really mad right now. Back to the drawing board.

My nickname should be Humboz (Hum-Bose).

In my first post, I discussed my dreams of having a “Dear Abby”-style section on this WEBLOG. Over the past few hours, I half-ass questioned maybe a few people if they were having any problems they would like me to take a crack at. I endured dismissing stares and silent, slow walk-aways. Having done all the leg-work, I am proud to say that I have nothing to show for it, however, I came up with a backup plan. TeenForumz.com is a site hosted and monitored by adults,  4 teens, where the confused youth can just casually chill out while being force-fed faceless advice and misspelled prescription pill names. Ol’ Humboz is going to change all of that right now by shooting fresh advice at old questions found at random.

Dear Humboz,

“I let my cat inside this morning and the right side of her upper neck and chin/cheek was very swollen. It looked like she had a double chin, but only on one side … The swelling went down a bit after I took off her collar. Anyone know what might be wrong? Should I take her to the vet if this doesn’t get better in a few days?”

-AnnaBanana

Dear AnnaBanana,

Swollen cheeks and chins are almost always caused by a high concentration of Belgrade-5 in the bloodstream. Belgrade-5 is a poisonous chemical found in the cheapest (think “Jew on foodstamps” cheapest) fertilizers and pesticides, and while virtually safe to humans at normal rates of exposure, it can be deadly for cats who get caught up in the stuff. The fact that it is only swollen on one side is also a bad sign. Because cats with Belgrade-5 poisoning always see inflation of both sides simultaneously, I can determine that the other side of the cat’s neck has popped. Best case scenario, you could have gone with a pricey head transplant operation, but now it’s leaking everywhere into its little body since you removed the collar. If you take the cat to the vet you’ll probably get in trouble by the cops. They’ll put you in jail for poisoning your former cat. The cat will die soon, so I would spend most of my remaining hours catching up on Emmy-nominated Dexter. Season six starts this Fall, only on Showtime.

Dear Humboz,

“My feet have stopped growing they have not grown size i was 13. I am a boy aged 14 from the uk . Will they get bigger? everyone says my feet are like girls feet. I am a 4/5uk thats a usa womens 6-7 and usa mens 5/6 Girls what size are your feet?”

-stephen1997

Dear stephen1997,

This is a very sensitive and rare situation. I’ve never heard of it, and I can almost guarantee no doctors in the U.K. have, either. You see, the problem is that I can only judge correct foot sizes based on my own experiences, and the only experience that I can really remember is getting my 7th grade basketball shoes. I was 14, exactly your age, and I can assure you that my shoe size was the same as my age at the time. You are reading correct, my shoe size was a 14 (in Allen Iverson Reeboks). I remember another one of my pals, Nathan, having the same shoe size, so it’s not like I was a freak or anything. Your feet are very small and misshapen in comparison, and most boys’ feet stop growing at EXACTLY your age. That is hard science and I am sorry for your loss. You will encounter many embarrassing falls in the U.K. and elsewhere, if you travel, so the best thing you can do is build up a bulletproof emotional shield.

K I hate teens, last one.

Dear Humboz,

“There is this guy at my school. One day he is like hey babe next he wont even talk to me. I don’t kno what to do anymore. Any advice?”

-Sibby04

Dear Sibby04,

Your problem is that you’re a stuck-up bitch. Maybe the days he’s saying, “Hey babe” are the days his mom actually makes him breakfast, or maybe they’re the days that his father physically forces his mother to make him breakfast. Your problem is that you just don’t get it, Sibby. You just. Don’t. Get it. Us teenage boys have a lot more to do in our lives than float around on a cloud of Lisa Franke-colored ignorance like you girls. My advice to you is this: Draw pictures of him. Draw him upside-down, inside-out, and laying on his side. Draw his skeleton. Draw his guts. Draw his dark soul. Paste all of these drawings on a big sheet of clean metal and have your dad or one of his buddies with a truck drop it off in his yard. Dig a hole in the yard and put on your Sunday best. Hide in the hole and have your dad or one of his buddies slide the metal sheet over you. Your little loverboy will come home ECSTATIC that someone took the time to do this for him. After you hear the police arrive and start writing up a report on the incident, knock three times on the sheet metal…if you make it that far. Most likely you will run out of oxygen and suffer a slow death in a hole under Bryson’s lawn, but he will always remember you in your Sunday best.

Until next time, bye.

“My woman can fear God, that’s fine, but she needs to fear me first. ‘Cause God won’t hit her, but I will.” -Anonymous Guy

Women this day in age have really lost their way, I tell ya what. The days of June Cleaver and Audrey Hepburn seem to only exist in the mushy minds of our buried elders, and I don’t see too many people making an effort to reclaim this golden era (found in between sweaty non-bathing Civil War wives and the rise of ABC’s Roseanne). Maybe I’m just thinking the way every aging butthead thinks; “Oh, geez, everything was so much kewler 30 years ago, gosh the stuff nowadays is just plain garbage, Chuck!” Well guess what? I haven’t even been alive 30 years and the main women I’m talking about didn’t even survive to see my birth, so don’t give me that horseshit. Luckily, there are a few guidelines available for women to follow in hopes of steering clear of the dreaded “neo-flapper” label.

1. Don’t eat more than the man you’re eating with. Obviously some exceptions can be made (a weenie dude with a bird’s stomach), but overall this is just the worst. Imagine how it looks when you suck three pounds of ribs down to sit and decay in your gut. Gross.

2. Don’t talk about or perform natural body functions around men. “But, who cares? Everyone does it!” I fucking know this. That’s why we don’t need you describing it to show how “open,” “comfortable,” or “masculine” you are. It’s gross. In respect, men should extend the same courtesy to women. However, you should both agree that burping ONLY while drinking alcohol is acceptable, otherwise you’re going to have problems.

3. Don’t take shit. Especially from other women. True Midwestern Belles are armed with a heavy duty arsenal of witty, insightful insults to fend off creeps and cunts. You shouldn’t sit and let someone blow verbal vomit all over you, you should duck or something and fire back with something crass about the other woman’s use of clearance fall fashions that were in season LAST YEAR, and it’s SPRING ANYWAY! HA!

4. Learn to cook. It’s not sexist. It’s a fucking life skill. Let’s pan to the future: your lazy ass is so caught up in neo-feminism that you find “cooking” to be a demeaning chore bestowed upon women for generations, and you’re just not gonna do it. Now your kids are eating out of bags and boxes. They’re going to end up looking like those kids whose parents sit separately at their kid’s school play. You know why they’re sitting apart? Because the bitch was too lazy to cook while her husband was at work and they’re both starving and pissy. Their kid ate 3 bags of Combos before squeezing his malnourished ass into a fucking turkey costume for the Thanksgiving Recital. His eyes are sunken in and dark, his hair’s stringy, and he has a raspy voice at the age of 8. Stop buying Kid Cuisine and put in some effort for the sake of Jesus Harold Christ. ALSO, what are you supposed to do when you’re invited to a party and you need to bring a side dish? A bowl of fucking potato chips, that’s you, and you’re never coming back, PAULA!

5. Talk, and be funny. There is nothing more ladylike than being funny. Lucille Ball pulled it off, and you can, too. Do not be like Lisa Lampanelli or Roseanne, that isn’t comedy and you don’t want to be even remotely comparable to those hogs.

6. Hold your alcohol. Do not be the babysat girl. Do not vomit on the cab driver. Do not wear a skirt if you can’t be classy about it. Do not scream. Do not cry. Just act like a normal, capable human being who can have fun and stand at the same time. We should build a big public viewing cage in the center of the town for these girls, fill it with marbles, and mismatch all of the names/number associations on their phones. They’d just be crying, falling everywhere, yelling at their grandmothers for leaving them at the bar.

7. Just do whatever the fuck you want, no one cares. Die alone on a mascara-streaked pillow. You were selfish and gross.

On a lighter note, this woman may be a better counselor on this topic than myself:   A Midwestern Belle

Weak stomachs and hearts: Do not watch.

Tim and Eric fans, others: Do not watch.

Very NSFW.

In no particular order.

Goof – derogatory term for marijuana. Related: getting goofed, goofhead, Goof Troupe.

Crushing Stinkers - smoking cigarettes.

Boneyard – a collection of mostly empty cans and butts. Can include other waste.

Crep – one who creeps.

Co-Deans of FSU – mutual partners in having a great time.

Butch – Busch Beer. Cold as a mountain stream, smooth as its name.

Chit – synonym for shit. “Aw, chit.”

Carp – synonym for crap. “Oh, carp.”

Nuch – “not much,” or “Nothing Unusual, Chilling Hard.”

More to be added.

     On every continent, in every country, in every city on the face of this bustling planet, there are ordinary people standing up to the masses and taking a firm and unpopular stand for what they believe in. Today, it all boils down to North America > United States of America > Springfield, Missouri. Standing in the face of public disapproval, over-generalizations, and grossly calculated underestimations, Guy Fieri (pronounced Fee-ett-ee) needs some support. Your Honor, I am here on behalf of the global minority who actually defends The Case for Guy Fieri.

     Before you attack my dissenting opinion, keep in mind that I know everything you are about to say in order to support the fact that he’s a douchebag. The hair, the “peeping Tom” backwards sunglasses, the jewelry, the Ed Hardyesque tats, and the sweatbands don’t really build a solid foundation, as far as first impressions go. The one thing you need to realize about Guy Fieri is that he doesn’t give three shits (let alone one) about your first impression of him. You work at Pier 1 Imports. You eat egg salad. You drink Bud Light. He flies all around the world eating, looking, and acting the way he did since the day he first brightened our lives on Food Network, and I don’t see one thing in the distant horizon that is going to change his mind.

     Kind folks, just as it is too easy to take the highway through the corner of one of our lovely 48 states and say, “BEN THEIR, I HATE NERBAKSA,” it is much too easy to watch Diners, Drive-ins and Dives and say, “SAW HIM, HE’S DOUCHE.” This man is putting his tears, sweat, and blood into four “popular” television shows. This man pays you hard cash for 60 seconds of spooning peanut butter onto a small hedge using only your armpits. This adventurer travels cross-country in a sick whip so that you don’t miss the best Barbecue in Kansas City. This gentleman pledges to help your incompetent self make a bucket of liquor and an alpha-male dinner (all while giving you a cool Dale Earnhardt, Jr. fridge to look at during the lesson). AND FINALLY, this stand-up Guy takes a couple days a week to host a show allowing all of you buttheads to compete in a reality show to take his job. On top of his entertainment career, Guy makes sure his many self-created restaurants aren’t spiraling down the tubes because of goof-smokin’ Nancies like you. Wake up, America; this is a man of the people.

    On top of all of this, Mr. Fieri is one of the most likable, genuine foodies on television. I appreciate Anthony Bourdain visiting and eating in the Ozarks, but as much as I love the guy he just can’t ever really click with the people around him. After years of watching Guy’s programs, I have never seen a failed connection.  Truckers, liberal yuppies, African-Americans in North Carolina, and grandmothers alike can all attest to his meticulously placed wit and charm. Give the man a break, he’s a hard working father and husband who made it big on The Next Food Network Star and is living his dream. Just imagine being shitfaced in a limo with him, George W. Bush, and Ned Reynolds. That’s a good time.

    I wouldn’t want to hang out with him for too long, though.

     The story you are about to hear is true. So true it’s scary and shit. Ask anyone around Delmar Street. It’s fucking true. Everyone grab your Cinnamon Teddy Grahams, a couple boxes of Juicy Juice, and a hot blanket…Humble Ozarkian’s telling a story. Also, go to the bathroom before you grab all that shit; I don’t want anyone interrupting me with their pissy bladders. ALSO, brush your teeth while you’re in the bathroom, too. You’re likely to fall asleep on the floor if I don’t explain this story right. I forgot I told you to bring Teddy Grahams and Juicy Juice. Looks like you’ll have to wake up to brush your teeth anyway. Fuck. STORY TIME.

   The calendar read August? 2009, and this particular evening happened to land on the Sabbath. I emphasize the Sabbath Day because the events that were about to unfold were anything but holy (that’s irony). My good buddy/co-worker and I (we’ll call him Frank) were sitting in the basement of my shitty house, drinking Busch and watching a Macho Man Randy Savage DVD.  This was a lot of fun and all, but we decided that we should go mingle upstairs with the rest of our hooligan friends. Eventually everyone migrated northward to the front porch, which became the stage for Frank’s spot-on and lively Macho Man impressions. He became Macho Man, it was that good, especially considering the B.A.C. he was rocking at that point. Unnaturally, a brand new black Corvette keeps creeping through the hood at around 10 M.P.H. or so. Hardly unnoticeable. After a boatload of laughter and a large handful of hacking and coughing, we see a young woman on the sidewalk approaching us from the west.

     ”HEY LITTLE KITTEN, WOLKIN’ DOWN THE ROOOAD!” screams Frank as we all watch in shifty amusement. The least expected happens: this skirt-clad, low-cut top wearing, makeup-smeared hooker emerges from the shadows and approaches Frank, much to his bewilderment. I thought he was going to drop the act, but he kept it going like the Screen Actors Guild was holding a shotgun to his fucking temple. The hooker, in a scratchy but pillow-soft voice, tells Frank to “walk her to a party down the street.” Frank obliges and the two take off towards an empty building across the street (keep in mind Frank is shirtless at this point, he tied it around his head in order to more resemble his hero).

    Meanwhile, on the porch, us lollygaggers had no idea what was going on behind that empty building. According to Frank, the whore planted her grimy palms against a wall, jacked up her skirt, and politely asked him to eat out her clam. I bet there wasn’t a pearl in that clam, probably just a dense mass of methamphetamine residue and deep despair. Anyway, he says that that wouldn’t be his preferred method of stranger-on-stranger sex, so she hands him a Trojan Magnum while she sucks down his beef noodle, sitting on a dirty milk crate. Not wanting to be under a streetlight, he asks her if she wants to go behind the building, to which she replies, “No, I like it out in the open.” I think Frank actually tried to put the condom on, but he was so nervous and lit up that his rock-solid Johnson just simply wasn’t going to get hard for her Dillonhole.

     Frank essentially says, “Fuck it” and walks away from the scene of the crime. No money was exchanged. As he makes his confused stumble across the street, he notices that SAME FUCKING CORVETTE FROM EARLIER. The whip pulls into a driveway and goes around the block, picking up the slut on its way out of the neighborhood. All we could see through the tint was an older man driving. He had been sitting there watching them the entire time. What the frick?

     Now, with all the facts present, I present to you my theory:  This dirty, rich old man is buying this hooker’s time in some way. Money, drugs, food, I don’t know. But WHY would he be paying her to whore herself out to other men? I elevate him to the likes of Saint Nicholas, raining free blowjobs and alley fucks on the wonderful boys of Springfield, but my tongue-in-cheek admiration is not the emphasis here. I believe that this man pays hookers to do this so that he can watch and masturbate. Isn’t that messed up? It is.

  The road doesn’t end there, Buster. About 8 months later, In the same house where the aforementioned atrocity occurred, I was cleaning up the kitchen and packing up boxes around 2:00 A.M. in preparation to move out the following day. The front door was open, as I was constantly in and out, which allowed a certain not-sexy gutterslut to make an unannounced visit.

     Our conversation went as follows:

Whore: Hey, can I check out the house? Are you moving out? I like it.

HO: Uhh, no you can’t check it out. It’s already rented, anyway. Next people move in tomorrow.

Whore: Are you SUUUUUUUUURE?!

HO: YEP BYE  ::DOORSLAM::

    So I’ve gotta be honest, I feel like this story’s losing momentum. Just like I forecasted in the introduction. To make it short, the whore and the Corvette showed up to the loft that I was moving into the next day, and the chick sat on a concrete ledge and exposed her lower parts to me. It looked kinda like a bruised cow tongue with a dog’s tongue coming out of it. I told her that my friend next to me was my boyfriend and that we loved having homo sex with each other, so she left. I found out later that an acquaintance of mine railed her inside of the elusive Corvette behind a bar downtown. I hope she’s dead, but I really want to interview that guy.

   I’m sick of this story, so I’m just going to end this post with three misogynistic jokes I made up at work the other day:

(To a woman) How do you know when your boyfriend loves you?  He doesn’t beat you on your birthdays.

When is the first time you should spend money on your girlfriend?  When you help her parents pay for the casket out of guilt.

How many holes does the perfect woman have?  Well, the perfect woman is dead, so it depends on how you killed her.

(INSERT LOL HERE)

I hope my children admire my thirst for violent drug sales at an early age.

I also hope I am six feet under wormy dirt before they see this. A big shoutie-hoo to my good friend, Kurious K. Senior year wouldn’t have been the same without you.

The biggest cities crumbled as the lights went dim.
The airplanes started crashing on the country’s rim.

New York and Los Angeles, having praised glamour and fun,
knelt before the Midwest begging for fire and guns.

The Midwest responded (being properly born and raised)
with a helping hand, eyes tired and glazed.

The self-proclaimed ‘coastals’ tried their best with us locals,
but the connection was too faulty, and failed being made;

these guts and gears had been churning for years,
away from the hustle, bustle, and fame.

Rusty shovels were gripped, spit-polished, and tipped -
down to the earth to dig graves for L.A.

We packed the grave plots with soil and not a song was sung,
trying best to hold our grins while the ‘coastals’ wept for their young.

In Missouri, the days can get rough and they make us grow old,
but we’ll never go down leaving the gun barrel cold.

The poor Yankees and yuppies, banning their own weapon use,
saw a swift end to their lives due to Midwest abuse.

We’ll empathize, sure. Lend a hand? You bet.
But around here, a savage death greets those who don’t bleed and don’t sweat.

::::: Found this on my computer, timestamped 5:23 A.M. :::::

Nah man, I’m not tired. My dad told me about sleep. He said he got into “sleep” real hard in the 70′s. He was doing it almost 6 hours a night, EVERY NIGHT. Got to the point where he’d sleep 30 times a month. Sometimes he’d sleep so hard he’d imagine things that weren’t real. He’d imagine everyday situations, except what he experienced never existed in the physical world. He consulted over a baker’s dozen hippies. All of them told him to nap, and he did, but we all secretly knew he was seeking that hard R.E.M. that everyone warned him about. My father became a man I did not know. He used to talk to me, but when I sought advice I’d just find him in a coma, so relaxed and high. I wonder if he was happier on “sleep” or on “awake.” It came to the point that “sleep” wasn’t enough and he was doing “awake” more regularly. “Awake” was the “new sleep,” and everyone delved deeper and deeper into the game. “Losing My Religion” (R.E.M.’s new street name) was to blame, and no one gave two fucks whether they were “awake” or “sleeping.” It all got out of control. Some people were conscious….some weren’t. Ironically, the “awakened” ended up really liking R.E.M. (the band, not Rapid Eye Movement) whilst the “sleepers” stupidly gave into Pearl’s Jam in their mindless rest. The whole world separated into two, like Blacks and Whites. All of THE sudden, flocks of protesters were “sleeping” at R.E.M. concerts, whilst the “awakened” were moving around at Pearl’s Jam concerts. Fan bases switched. The whole music scene became unraveled, and Kurt Cobain was so embarassed he shot himself and left behind his old wife and a baby or two. That’s when I knew my dad was right; I should never try “sleep.” But…..I have.

::::: I think I’ma do this more often:::::