humour

WTF SEARCH TERMS: “Exersises for the Plumber Butt”

R.I.P. George Jones, age 81.

A little while ago, I said that the Klassic Kwotes well had run dry; I was starting a new feature.  This is that feature — let me know if you find it entertaining.

WTF SEARCH TERMS Part I: “Exersises for the Plumber Butt”

Crack = Bad

As a WordPress site, I have access to certain statistics.  I can see how many hits I’m getting per day, for example, and how many are unique visitors.  Some of my visitors are very, very unique.

Some of the more interesting particulars that I’m able to see are search terms.  Search terms that people typed into Google (or Yahoo, or whatever) that led them to me.   Search terms that boggle the mind as to a) what they were looking for, b) how it led them to me, or c) both.  Here’s a selection of some of the most entertaining.  This is just the tip of the iceberg.  If feedback is positive I’ll post more in the future.

Keep in mind two things!

1. Each of these are real search terms, typed in by real people on a search engine like Google.

2. Somehow, each of these search terms led them to ME!

Without further delay…enjoy.

exercises for the plumber butt

big breasted lebrains

my lebrian secret

domestic dog shit

doorway piss

shiting discas video

big butts in leather pants

fuck my old boots history

double penetrator

And finally, one guy who used an apt search term to find this site:

Part 169: Open Door Piss

RECORD STORE TALES Part 169:  Open Door Piss

I used to work with this guy, Joe.   People who know where I worked, they know Joe.  And they know Joe is a very, shall we say, unique person.  Funny as hell, but there is nobody like Joe.  Straight from my journal, here’s the proof.  I call this one the Open Door Piss.

Date: 2005/11/26 23:52

So I’m with Joe at work, talking about work or something. The conversation is as follows:

Me – (babbles on about work or something)
Joe – Hey, keep talking, follow me though.
Me – Where are we going?
Joe – Just follow me.
Me – OK, ummm, into the bathroom?
Joe – No, just stand outside, keep talking though.
(I hear him upzip his pants)
Me – Are you peeing?
Joe – Yeah man! It’s the open door piss! So what was I saying before? Oh yeah…(continues conversation).

Joe’s a pretty interesting guy.

A couple years later, I was having a Rock Band party at my house, during which Uncle Meat also did the Open Door Piss.  Must be a Record Store Guy thing?

Part 69: Porn Don’t Go Platinum

RECORD STORE TALES PART 69:  Porn Don’t Go Platinum

Yeah, it happened.  Every once in a while, someone would try to sell porn to us.  Us, a mainstream, family-oriented used CD store.

On one occasion which, sadly, I was not there to witness, I was told that the video in question was anime “robot porn”.  I don’t know what that really means, in terms of, what you will see on the video screen.  However that description alone was enough to politely turn down the video in question.

Another time, some porn came into Trevor’s store.  Trevor declined it, but the customer left it behind anyway.  At the time, Trev and I were roomates.  We were renting this shitty basement apartment.  Good times for sure, but the hallways of the building always smelled like fish.

I went to the cottage one weekend, and Trev surprised me upon my return.  Upon my bed was that porn tape.  He wasn’t home, so I decided, “What the hell?”  I removed the tape from its cardboard shell, placed in the VCR, and washed my hands.  I thought, “I wonder what kind of porn our clientele are into?”  The store was in Cambridge so I expected the quality to be less than stellar.

Well, what I saw horrified me.  This chick with missing teeth, going at it with four dudes, with the cheesiest piano music in the background, like John Tesh cheesey.  I couldn’t handle the missing teeth though, they were so friggin’ gross…

So:  Apparently, according to a survey of one, people in Cambridge watch toothless cheesey porn with John Tesh sounding music in the background.  Way to go Cambridge!

Part 35.5: Spoogecakes!

A former co-worker gets a case of foot-in-mouth disease!

Walrus Face

RECORD STORE TALES Part 35.5:  Spoogecakes!

I’m going to take a break from our regularly scheduled program, and respond to a single reader.  It’s always great to have new readers here at LeBrain’s Record Store Tales, we’ve had people from all over the world, from Russia to Iceland.  Hello!

Still, it came as a surprise to me to get a comment so negative, so full of personal vitriol…yet anonymously!

The comment in question was in regards to Part 35: Due Credit. The submitting email address: bitchingaboutpastemployers@yahoo.com, the pen-name was “Unimpressed”.  Normally I wouldn’t publish a hateful anonymous comment, but this one was bizarre and perfect for another Record Store Tale.

Since this person was anonymous, I will dub them with a name so I have someone to refer to:  Let’s call he or she “Spoogecakes” [Note added:  Her real name is Laura, and she used to have this weird psycho-crush on me back in the day.]

Let’s go!

You are begrudging them for utilizing you where they thought you shined? They wanted you in a position where you were visible to customers first-hand and you sit back and complain?

Dear Spooge:   Yes.  It’s not “utilizising” someone where they shine.  It’s taking advantage of someone in a dead-end job.  Nobody wants to stay “visible to customers” in a retail environment forever.  That’s like saying to a McDonalds employee “you’re really good at making fries, so we’re going to keep you on the fry station.  Forever.”  Know of any better ways to kill worker morale?

Record shop employees can have a tremendous influence on customer base and at a time when the internet and websites were not as expected and commonplace as they are now, your employers wanted to maintain your skills as a visible employee.

Spooge, how do you know what my employers wanted?

Just because you did something first does not entitle you to be a sycophantic jackass.

Sycophantic?  It’s my fucking story, moron.

It’s called development of ideas and if you did not speak up at the time at what you perceived as slights on your efforts then you are just as much to blame as anyone else. If you wanted to be in the office working in your 30s you should have asked for such work or began the process of finding much more fulfilling employment.

Again, who says I didn’t?  What makes you think you would know?  In fact, we all did — and we were all made promises that never came to fruition.  All kinds of stories.  I remember one story about how we’d have 100 stores across the country in 5 years, and how I’d never have to buy another CD from a crackhead ever again.

Second, it’s not called “development of ideas”.  It’s taking someone else’s idea, and shutting them out.  Period.

You are not a peacemaker. Staying silent and then making public posts like this illuminate a petty passive-aggressiveness that is unattractive and will only fuel your bitterness. It is not peaceful. You are coming up on your 40s and either grow up or shut up at this point. This isn’t High Fidelity and you are not remotely amusing.

How do you know how old I am?  And, let me help with your reading skills, Spooge.  I never said I AM a peacemaker.  I said I WAS a peacemaker.  Much like Lester B. Pearson, I ain’t anymore.  Give peace a chance?  Been there, done that!  I’m done holding my tongue.   I didn’t at the time, because going with the flow was “better than nothing” as I clearly stated.  But, why do you care?  What makes you take the time out of your (obviously) busy day to write a three paragraph treatise on staying in dead-end jobs?

Lastly:  I’m “not remotely amusing”?  Come on!  Really? — after all, you read it and felt moved enough to respond.

Sounds to me like Spoogecakes has a sore spot or two.  After all, I can’t imagine why a random, anonymous reader would feel so driven to write such a vitriol-filled comment!  What Spoogey  apparently missed was the part where I said I was proud of what I did all those many years ago.

When one creates something, one should take pride in it.  In this case, am I taking pride belatedly.  I am very proud of everything I built and created, and nobody — certainly not Spoogey here — can tell me not to.  I spent way too many years having people tell me to sit down and not to make any trouble.  And here, you’re telling me to “grow up” or “shut up”.  Just like the old days!

Grow up?  Maybe you clicked the wrong link to your Barry Manilow blog, but this blog is about rock and roll.  You can tell by the little guitars going up and down the sides.  Rock and roll ain’t about growing up — it’s about permanent youth!

You can’t tell me to “shut up”.  In fact, the Record Store Tales are only beginning.

Hugs N’ Kisses,

Part 19: The Rules (IRON MAIDEN – The First Ten Years box set gallery!)

RECORD STORE TALES Part 19:  The Rules

After a few years had gone by, there were too many damn rules to follow.  There were so many, we literally had books full of them, with new rules being added regularly.  It was pure insanity, because you had to remember some rule that was made (for example) 26 months ago.  Not to mention if you dug far enough back, you could find rules that contradicted each other.  It was like telling a dog to sit and come at the same time, you can’t do it.

One rule that stood firm was:  “Thou Shalt Not Buy Product From a Sister Store“.

We had a complex structure of locations, but under no circumstances could a staff member buy product from a store that had a different owner.  Their product was for their customers and not for us to pillage.  But, when one of those owners who was a friend, sees the Iron Maiden First Ten Years box set come in, they call you to tell you.  The rules meant nothing at that point.  There were greater goals at hand.

This ultra-rare box was issued in 1990, as 10 discs, all sold separately.  You could also get them on vinyl.  I recall seeing a few of them, on 12″ vinyl, at my local Sam The Record Man (run by the near-legendary Al King) during one of my many teenage record store excursions.

IMG_20140427_101356CDs are my preferred format today.  Collect all ten of the Maiden singles, and you could send away for the box that contains them.  Obviously, a complete set is a rare find.  This set came in complete, as is.  I still have the receipt.  I paid $135.99 on Oct 7, 2003.  (With taxes, $156.39.)

It was worth every penny, but it was also worth the shit I caught for buying it from another owner.  And did I get in shit for it!

At best, I was bending the rules.  At best!  I paid full price (no discount!), the owner himself rang it in, and he was happily on board with making a quick buck.  He even personally delivered it to Kitchener.  He could have simply said, “No”.  He didn’t.  Now, I take responsibility for my actions, but an owner has a lot more say in things than I do.  I didn’t deserve what happened next.

A higher-up stormed into my store, pulled me into the office, slammed the door, and yelled.   And yelled.  And pointed a lot, and yelled some more.

It was a weird feeling.  Here I was getting screamed at so much that the dogs could hear it 4 miles away, but also elated about my Iron Maiden find at the exact same time.  It was like I didn’t know if I should be happy or pissed off!  It’s like any time you see someone trying so hard not to smile.

I pulled it off.  I also owned the fucking Iron Maiden First Ten Years box set!

Their big argument was “It’s a bad example to the employees”.  But really, that wasn’t an issue.  No employees knew about it — not one! — until they made a big show of it by yelling at me in store!   The one that said I was a bad example, was the one who let the cat out of the bag.

I walked out of the office, head hanging, but then when out of sight, grinning ear to ear.  Of course the two people who overheard the whole thing asked about it afterwards.  Dandy Douche asked, “Do you think it was worth it?  Would you do it again?”  I said, “Absolutely.  But next time I’m wearing a beard and a moustache, the whole disguise, and buying it in person!”

Unfortunately I never had the chance to do that.  The Iron Maiden box set was one of the last big big items from my “holy grail list.” that came in.

Each disc contains two singles, plus an unreleased 10 minute interview with Nicko.  One on every disc.  They are called “Listen With Nicko!” parts I through X.  Well worth the money, Nicko is friggin’ hilarious.

FIRST TEN_0002All singles included are complete (except Maiden Japan), plus a “Listen With Nicko!” bonus track.  And again, you had to buy these all separately!   On import!  And according to the terms on the mail-in card, only UK residents could order the boxes to house the discs.  Another thing I found interesting was that you had to mail in all ten slips in order to get the box.  Whoever owned my box previously still has nine of his ten slips!  (I am missing #9, “Can I Play With Madness” / “The Evil That Men Do”.)  This can only make my box set rarer and more desirable to collectors.

DISC 1 – Running Free / Sanctuary

DISC 2 – Women In Uniform / Twilight Zone

DISC 3 – Purgatory / Maiden Japan

DISC 4 – Run to the Hills / The Number of the Beast

DISC 5 – Flight Of Icarus / The Trooper

DISC 6 – 2 Minutes to Midnight / Aces High

DISC 7 – Running Free (Live) / Run to the Hills (Live)

DISC 8 – Wasted Years / Stranger in a Strange Land

DISC 9 – Can I Play With Madness / The Evil That Men Do

DISC 10 – The Clairvoyant (Live) / Infinite Dreams (Live)

Click below to embiggen the brand new photo gallery!

 

And the old Nokia pics below:

Part 7: A Shitty Story

DISCLAIMER:  THIS CHAPTER BEST READ ON AN EMPTY STOMACH.

 

RECORD STORE TALES Part 7: A Shitty Story

August 1995.  Beautiful warm summer day.  The sun was up early and so was I.  It was Sunday, the best day to work the store.  Sunday was just a four hour shift and in the summer, very slow.  It was your basic fun day to be at work, cleaning away and listening to tunes in air conditioning.

I usually walked to work.  I put on some shorts and a big baggy T-shirt and headed out on foot.  The best way cut across this school and park with two baseball diamonds.  While walking I couldn’t help but think of how great life was.  The sun was out, it was summer, I only had to work four hours.  My family was at the cottage that weekend so I had the place to myself when I got home too.

Right in between the first baseball field and the second, I felt my stomach gurgle a little bit.  I’d had the farts a bit that morning but that was nothing unusual.  I continued along my walk.  It sure was a quiet day in town that morning.  I loved the way the sun was shining through the leaves.

As the gurgles continued, I entered the mall.  I strode down the empty hallway to the big glass window of our store and opened the door.

Just when I had closed the door, locked it behind me and was in an enclosed space, I let off another stinker.  It was rotten, like a rotten egg had just been dropped behind me.  It was powerful and sour.  They kept coming too, in little squirts here and there.  I started to feel crampy.

I picked out my music for the day (Joe Satriani), opened the door letting out the smell, and waited for customers.  I was really starting to feel rotten.

I worked the first two hours just farting up a storm.  Unsurprisingly, I didn’t have many customers that day.  They could probably smell me down the hall.  I don’t know what I ate, but I know what my sausage farts smell like, and this was worse.  I wasn’t feeling too mobile anymore, so I pulled up the chair.  Suddenly I really had to shit.  I was still farting too.

2 o’clock rolled around.  I made it halfway through the day.  The rest should be no problem.  Halfway there.  Point of no return!  Hah.  Whatever.  Piece of cake.  Only a few people came in.  The cleaning could wait.  I’d just tell the truth.  I really wasn’t feeling well.  Besides I could really just catch up the next day anyway.

I farted again.  It felt good.  I felt a tremendous amount of relief.

Then, the horror struck.  The feeling that something wasn’t right.  The smell.  I looked down, to see a tiny trickle of liquid shit rolling down my leg….

There was someone in the store!  Holy shit, I couldn’t leave!  Oh fuck.  Oh fuckity-fuck-fuck!

Although I was in complete denial of it at the time, there was no way that guy didn’t smell me.  There was just no fucking way.  It was unavoidable.  It was a wall of stench just hanging there, stale, in the air.  It was incredible.  Still, the man had etiquette.  As he paid for his cassette, he politely asked me, “Are you feeling OK?  You’re turning green.”  I told him I had thrown up earlier.  He wished me well and left.

Completely and totally freaking out, I waddled over to the door and locked the store.  We didn’t have a washroom.  I had no choice, I had to make it to the mall washroom and fast.  I prayed to God that it would be empty.  I improvised a “back in 5 minutes” sign.  I tried to waddle anonymously down the hall.  I hung a right.  Down another hall.  Why the hell were the washrooms so far away?

I entered.  It was empty.  I entered a stall.  Bracing myself for whatever lay ahead, I took a deep breath and prepared to look down below.

It was bad.  A deep puddle of rich brown liquid shit lay in my undies.  Luckily, it had acted as a bowl, to catch most of it.  A few streams went down my legs, but none reached my socks.  Small victory.  I’d take that.

I had no choice, there was only one thing to do.  I removed my shorts, and then carefull removed the underwear while maintaining the bowl shape.  The flushed them down the toilet.  I prayed that it would not plug.  It did not.

Grasping a generous amount of toilet paper, I cleaned myself up the best I could.  The washroom still empty, I wet some paper towels as well.  My shorts had been stained through.  I cleaned them as best I could but they were definitely tainted.  Luckily, my baggy shirt, when untucked, more than covered the stain.

I sat there on the store chair the next two hours, not moving my ass once.  I phoned up Tom who was in Waterloo.  “I just threw up man,” I lied.  “What should I do?  Should I go home?  I have two more hours to go.”

Tom urged me to go home, but some perverse sense of duty prevented it.  I’d hang in there.  That day, our store earned a record low amount. $99 in sales, for the day.  That record stood the whole time I worked there.  Even on the worst snow days we’ve ever had, my record stood.

I closed up shop.  Spraying our vinyl chair with a healthy dose of Lysol, I wiped it down.  It stank.  I cleaned it again until the smell was gone.  The last of the evidence was wiped clean.  I waddled home, the shit now drying in the crack of my ass.

As I walked, the friction turned to heat, the heat turned to burning, and the burning turned to agony.  I walked through the park, now occupied by many people watching a baseball game.  I strode between the crowd and the diamond, the only pathway.  I walked like I had a pickle up my ass.

I got home, tossed out the shorts, ran a shower and cleaned myself thoroughly with generous amounts of soap.  After my shower, I just ran a cold bath and soaked.  Ahhh.

When you have a day like that, you can handle anything, I guarantee it.  I am not ashamed of my incontinence.  Rather, there is a lesson here.  Shitting your pants is definitely a good reason to close the store early!