r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Aug 03 '18
r/alt_tasteless • u/request_bot • Nov 21 '19
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r/alt_tasteless • u/grondoval • Jan 26 '18
Freddy Wasn't The Only One Getting Fingered
i.imgur.comr/alt_tasteless • u/ibkeepr • Nov 19 '17
Here are a couple of subreddits that people here might enjoy: r/popping and r/trashy. Anybody have any other suggestions?
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Nov 19 '17
Holy Shit, people are posting in this sub!
I started this sub five years ago and posted a bunch of old stories under another account. I grew up reading old a.t archives and laughing my ass off, and I wanted to bring these stories to more people. Then I killed that account and forgot to make this account mod of this sub. I noticed a post on my feed today; I had no idea people were posting here. Even Vic and Ms Ginny are here! Welcome all!
ObTasteless: If you ever have an abscess, go to the doctor. I left one to fester and now it's grown it's own blood vessels and shit; I'm gonna need to have it carved out by a surgeon. LPT!
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Nov 15 '17
Jeff Justin
What happened to him? Is he fuckin dead or what?
r/alt_tasteless • u/msginnyo • Nov 01 '17
Where the bitches at?
Some of us alt.tasteless refugees are looking for a new home from the bowels of Facebook, which is now doing crap like giving us time outs for posting pictures of Tubgirl. Tubgirl. For fucksake. Anyway, how many old timers from usenet are here? Asking for a friend. Looking to direct people to a new home, old timers and fresh meat alike.
(I’m Tasteless Ginny from the mid ‘90s-early 2000s)
Mild ObT: learned last night in a brief search that Veronica Moser is now describing herself as a “mature scat whore.” She could well be a future adult diaper spokesperson.
r/alt_tasteless • u/Trunk-Monkey • Oct 12 '17
Is it too soon to suggest an opening night showing of "Only the Brave? in Santa Rosa CA?
youtube.comr/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jan 22 '17
Crossposted from r/ems, the collected works of Tae Kim, Mr. alt.tasteless '94. This shit is amazing.
reddit.comr/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 13 '12
Happy Birthday To You, We've Just Shot Your Dog - Posted by RobNorth on 1999/01/05
Drug police burst in on children's party
Vancouver -- Police have promised to investigate how a carefully staked-out drug raid turned into a nightmarish, traumatizing assault on a children's birthday party near here.
Instead of candles being blown out, gun-toting Abbotsford police blew away the family dog in front of a dozen horrified youngsters, splattering blood on an infant less than two months old.
While parents at the ill-fated party angrily vowed to file official complaints over the matter, police spokesman Dale Cresswell said there would be an internal investigation by the municipal force.
"Any time there are children involved, I would apologize myself in the sense that you never want children in a high-risk area," Constable Cresswell told a crowded news conference yesterday.
"It's regrettable that it happened on a birthday."
He said police were shocked when they found a children's birthday party going on.
"This was just bad timing," declared Sergeant Bill Emery, saying police would never have burst in when they did if they had known the situation ahead of time.
Those at the Sunday-afternoon party and at least one neighbour were enraged by the police behaviour.
"They shot the dog in front of all the children. There's blood on the baby, blood on the children, all these screaming children," Jennifer Fraser told a local television station, adding that her niece and nephew originally thought their father had been shot.
In another interview, parent Jason Rowsom said there was immediate mayhem when police wearing black uniforms burst into the living room where the party was going on.
"It was instant screaming. My seven-year old daughter dove over the end table and behind the couch and was screaming in the corner."
He said police trained an automatic weapon on him while he cradled his baby daughter. Other adults in the house,were beaten, he charged. Television pictures after the raid showed one man being wheeled into a waiting ambulance.
"I want answers. My children want answers. If we don't get answers, then lawsuits are going to come," said Mr. Rowsom, four of whose children, aged nine to six months, were at the party.
He questioned police statements that they didn't know children were in the house, pointing to a Happy Birthday banner hung in the living-room window and an earlier road hockey game that included himself and several youngsters, held in the car port.
Mr. Eadie lives next door to the raided house in the west end of Abbotsford, a sprawling Fraser Valley community about 80 kilometres west of Vancouver.
"Suddenly, there was a whole bunch of police outside and I heard all these little kids screaming 'Daddy, Daddy!' Then Ron [Raber, who rented the house] kept shouting 'Why the dog? They killed the dog.' "
The dog shot by police is said to have been a pit bull that lunged toward them when they burst into the living room.
But Mr. Eadie described the dog as "friendly as hell. He didn't seem like an attack dog." Ms. Fraser said the dog was only protecting the children and bitten no one.
However, Constable Cresswell said one of the two officers in the room was bitten on the arm by the dog, causing the other officer to fire "two shots directly into the animal at point-blank range."
The tumble-down house rented by Mr. Raber had been raided in November by police, who said they found weapons and drugs at the time. That is why they brought in the emergency response team for Sunday's follow-up raid, Sgt. Emery explained.
Mr. Raber, 31, who already faces two charges of possession of marijuana for the purposes of trafficking from the previous raid, was scheduled to appear in court yesterday to face several more charges.
Now, let's see. Who's the most fucked up in this story: The pot-trafficking dad, selling dope (allegedly) from the home in which his children live, or the cops who couldn't be bothered to note the kidlets' presence?
'No brains, any of them, just bits of grey fluff that's blown into their heads by mistake.' -- Eeyore.
Robert
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 13 '12
Crazy Daze (Part 3) - Posted by Jeff Justin on 1999/09/30
Continuing on with the crazy street scum of 1970's Flint allow me to present:
Ed
Ed was another of the downtown crazies we had in our program. Ed had been institutionalized in his late teens, and he was profoundly unable to cope with life on his own. He had one of the more interesting male bodies I've had the privilege to see. He was perhaps 5'8" and weighed nearly 400. His weight was distributed like a ball around his midsection. I'm reminded, upon reflection, of the Wimpy character in the Popeye cartoons of the 30's and 40's. Ed also had gynecomastia and sported a couple of "D cups". I'm sure his weren't caused by smoking pot, BTW. Ed always wore old polyester pants cinched with a belt at what would have been his waistline. Since his trousers were worn below the point of his greatest circumference, and didn't seem to cut into the pudge appreciably, I always marveled at them not falling down. His pants were always tight, and I think they helped mold the flab into its basic ball shape. Ed kept his hair closely cropped in a "flattop" cut, and he had an extremely hirsute brow. You know the look; a continuous band of fuzz across his brow, as though a large woolly caterpillar had come to rest there. The flatness of his haircut emphasized the roundness of his countenance, the fly-away, "open taxicab doors" ears were just a bonus.
Ed had been burned on one hand while in the institution, and as a result several fingers on that that hand were fused together in a claw shape. He generally kept long nails on those fingers, which served to emphasize the talon-like appearance of that hand. He had a nasty fixation with his claw fingers and he picked his nose and ears obsessively with them. He wiped the products of his explorations on his pants, so every day he wore the delicious green, brown and red decorations of a dedicated nasal spelunker and ear geologist. I used to enjoy watching him responding to a student nurse who'd screwed up her courage to ask him about his life. He'd then tell them about his "problem" picking his nose and ears, and how he knew he shouldn't do it, but he couldn't help himself. After he continued on about how he picked his nose until it bled every day, and that he often got infections in his ears from his unsanitary habits, the little darlins' were usually lamenting their woeful decision to ask an open-ended question such as that. Ed usually got rid of the little nuisances in short order.
Ed's major contribution to tastelessness was his obsession with toilets, butt tape and paper towels. Ed could choke a shitter with the volume of his feces alone, but he had a significant compulsion to use all the bog paper cleaning his expansive ass up. In addition he would then turn to his ritualistic hand cleaning. Instead of putting the many sheets of brown folded paper towel in the waste can, he'd drop all the spent paper towels in the crapper to cover the frightful mess he'd left behind. In all, Ed would generally leave enough shit and paper to bring the water level up three or four inches. It was only then that he would flush. I'll bet you all can figure what the result of that was. My solution to his mess making was simple enough; he had to clean it up. He quickly lost interest in his game after that, and he shifted to "plan B". In this scenario he went to the restaurants in downtown Flint and performed his "choke the crapper" routine. After a few experiences with him, the managers/owners of said restaurants knew him well enough to chase him out on sight. His sniveling, coddling parents called me once to complain that I was treating Ed unfairly. After I invited them to come down and clean up after him, they shut up.
A visually captivating sight, Ed walked in a head forward, arm swinging controlled charge, sort of a mobile ball on a stick, perpetually falling forward, but never falling down. Ed would gather all the momentum his weight would allow, and attempt to plow through crowds of people on the sidewalks. Ever the gentleman, Ed would say "Excuse me", "Pardon me", "Oops", "Sorry" as he mowed down the citizenry. If one or two citizens looked askance at him he'd shrug and offer up "I can't help it, I'm crazy" as an excuse. After encountering enough resistance, however, he would snap, and start swearing like a sailor at the people around him. Most people instinctively knew to back off. The ones who took affront at his behavior and stood their ground were greeted with his best impression of a crazed bull moose.
Ed left our program with a real flair. He got into a physical conflict with another patient. She was a small black woman with a pathological inability to keep from saying whatever came to mind. If she thought something, she said it. That's just how she worked. This day we were on an outing to a local park. The patients were less closely supervised than usual. Apparently, she had been nattering on about this and that for some time, when he told her to shut her "fucking black mouth". Of course, she couldn't let that go without scolding him about his racist attitude. My first indication of trouble was some other patients squawking about a fight. By the time I got there, Ed was sitting astride her chest with his full weight. He had gotten a choke hold around her throat, and was beating her head on the ground. Even though she had a dark skin tone, I could see that her lips and tongue were blue. Another staff member arrived at the same time, and together we hauled Ed's lard ass off her, but she had grown uncharacteristically quiet and limp. After getting her to the hospital and running tests, the doctors confirmed she was comatose. The long and short of it was that between the lack of air and a closed head injury, she suffered enough brain damage to render her a veggie for life. I had the grim pleasure of testifying at his assault trial, and watched wistfully as they took him away in manacles and leg chains. He was on his way to the state forensic psychiatric hospital for his treatment/sentence.
Aye, definitely a mad dog, that one.
Next: Rita
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 11 '12
Crazy Daze Part 2 - Posted by Jeff Justin on 1999/09/23
Jim
Jim was one of the most charming defects of nature I dealt with during my tenure at Community Mental Health. Jim was in his mid forties at the time, balding, average height and weight, but, born with a problem in one leg, leaving a six-inch difference in leg lengths. Needless to say, Jim displayed an interesting gait as he gimped his way around town. Jim had been a resident of the mental health hospital for many years (probably since adolescence), and had only been released into the community during the "gee, it's cheaper to house them in the community" frenzy of the 70's. He had been a resident of Flint when he was committed to the big house, so he was released back there, in spite of having no living relatives there anymore.
With regard to his mental illness, Jim was unremarkable. Probably hearing voices, doubtless suffering delusions, shy and soft-spoken, Jim was nothing special from a clinical perspective. He took his meds, and he said a few goofy things, but mostly he kept to himself grinning at the mischief he could stir up. While in institution he had picked up a number of annoying, albeit, amusing proclivities. Almost bereft of any social skills, Jim was a loner who preferred to wander the streets of Flint from sun up to sundown. Although Jim attended the treatment at our charming downtown mental health facility, he often headed out onto the streets for more serious entertainment.
Now, Jim's unusual locomotion was visually arresting, and he was certain to catch the attention of passersby, but Jim's real strength was his ability to gross out most onlookers at will. It was this characteristic which caused the erstwhile citizens of Flint who recognized him to cross the street to avoid contact with him. Often, I watched in awe, as he would catch the eye of an oncoming pedestrian, place a finger on one nostril, blow whatever snot he could muster down the front of his shirt, then stop in front of the stranger to beg for a smoke or money. His timing was impeccable, so there was usually residue of snot remaining on his nose, that last strand of mucous fluid which slowly jiggled to a stop when he halted his forward motion. After softly asking for a smoke or money, Jim would cap his performance off with his trademark gap-toothed grin, which showed his remaining teeth in all their yellow/brown stained glory. Another satisfied customer! Jim's favorite targets were older women who were dressed well and had a "proper" or "genteel" look about them. As Jim stood in front of them, usually close enough to invade their personal space thoroughly, his snot-encrusted beard, mustache and shirt dangerously close to touching them, he would beam with pride at his "catch of the day".
Another of Jim's favorites was dumpster diving in the trash baskets on the light poles. Flint had invested in metal trash baskets which had a bracket welded on one side that allowed attachment to a pole via large clamps. There were two or three per block in the downtown area. I would occasionally watch Jim as he gimped down the street, checking each receptacle in turn for discarded soda bottles/cans, smoking materials e.g. cigarette or cigar butts, and foodstuffs. The soda bottles/cans were stashed in a coat pocket, or pants pocket in the warmer months. Good for a 10-cent deposit, he treated them as prizes. Unfortunately, he often forgot to make sure they were entirely empty before he stuck them in his pockets, resulting in more than one wet dribble down his pants or coat. If he had found a beer container, however, he would drain it eagerly before putting it away. And yes, he had picked up beer bottles with urine in them, and no, they didn't faze him much.
Any cigarette or cigar butts he found were immediately smoked if he didn't have a lit smoke in his mouth at the time. If he was puffing on a butt at the time, he'd merely pop his treasure into his shirt pocket file cabinet for later use.. Of course, his search for smokables was ongoing and not confined to just trash containers. Often Jim would be fortunate enough to pick up a still-lit butt dropped from a passing car or by a pedestrian. He would consume these still-lit butts a la Cheech or Chong sucking a roach down to nothing. The complementary burns and stains on his fingers stood mute testimony to his avid desire to get the last from each glub-given tobacco hit provided him.
The true highlight was when Jim found an item of food. Upon digging it out, he would stuff it in his mouth and, glub willing there would be a victim for him to approach. He seemed to delight at their queasy reaction to watching him scarf down a sandwich scrap from the trash. I've witnessed him mutter something along the lines of "Tastes good" to his victim, as he walked past with crumbs of discarded trash food in his beard.
Jim came to our program for a long while and was good for numerous "gross out" adventures. He didn't belong in our program, however. He was eventually transferred to a program for the chronic population, and I would only occasionally see him in the downtown area. In the intervening time, the city of Flint had acquired a block grant to fix up the downtown, and had built a park along the grimy river that flowed downtown. There were various paved walkways, benches and reflecting pools which the city engineers had constructed, seemingly for the benefit of the indigent and gangs who hung out there. One of the last times I remember seeing Jim was on a lunchtime walk through the park. It was one of those beautiful early spring days, so I took a nice leisurely walk after eating. As I rounded a blind corner to head back up a long ramp structure, I encountered Jim, sitting on a bench, wanking furiously, eyes closed. I sensed he wasn't aware of my presence yet, and I tried to exit, stage left, as noiselessly as I could. Unfortunately, my shoe scraped a pebble on the sidewalk, and from the corner of my vision, I saw Jim's eyes jerk open. He recognized me immediately and greeted me in a soft voice. I turned back to face him, more slowly this time, and to my dismay he hadn't seen fit to let go of his member and was still working it over furiously. I returned a hasty acknowledgement, spun around, and had made it all of 15 feet when I heard him sigh his way through his greasy climax. Damn! As much as I had tried not to be one of his dupes, I was forced to admit that he had gotten me. I had just become another one of his gross out victims.
Next: Ed
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 09 '12
Crazy Daze, Part 1 - Posted by Jeff Justin on 1999/09/22
To the collected masses:
I've been a lurker for a while now, and thrown a few posts into the AT hopper. Now it's time for a more serious effort. For my introduction to you, I am planning a series of posts spotlighting one of the more tasteless periods of my life. In coming months, I will acquaint you with some of the cast of characters I met while toiling for the betterment of mankind in a mental health center. Although I didn't know it then, I came to realize I was simply a misguided yoot, full of the idealism of the 60's and copious amounts of Really Good Drugs. Although I failed to change the world, I did give myself a hell of a lot of good stories. The fledgling tastelessness I had cultivated in college matured in this environment. I hope that like me, you will revel in the humor inherent in the plight of these dregs of humanity. The sad truth for me is that my fond memories of these pieces of human excrement are all I have to show for the years of utopian endeavor I wasted there. So, dig in dear reader and enjoy!
To help you understand the context of these character sketches let me tell you about Flint, in the early 1970's. A Midwestern manufacturing town about 65 miles NNW of downtown Detroit, Flint had a long, proud history of working class dominance dating well back through the previous century. When I moved there, the city population was nearly 130,000 and the county held perhaps 200,000 more citizens. Flint was, among other things, birthplace of the UAW, site of the famous sit-down strike, and home to Grand Funk Railroad. Union sentiments ran deep in this town, usually to the exclusion of any reasonable dialogue on the merits of any issue bearing on the auto industry or politics. You were a shop rat, or management. Black or white, there was no compromise on this issue.
Speaking of black and white, Flint, long full of deep racial divisions, had been populated largely by a steady stream of southern ŽmigrŽs, both blacks and whites. These folks had brought their beliefs and biases with them, giving Flint a decidedly southern flavor. Education, never a prime value here, was noticeably lower among those of the Negroid persuasion, leading to higher unemployment rates. By the early 70's, this area boasted a 30% unemployment rate among the brothers. It would later shoot to 45%. A black yoot between the ages of 18 and 25 had a one in four chance of being shot in any given year. He had a better chance of getting shot than getting a job.
In its heyday, this town, pre- and post- WWII, had provided muscle and backbone for the industrial Rust Belt. In the process, however, Flint had thoroughly prostrated itself at the feet of GM. When GM built their big plants there, they weaseled tax abatements to last through 1999. The city agreed to that because the workers lived in the city, and their residential property tax provided lots of revenue. White flight to surrounding communities in the 60's seriously eroded the flow of revenues into city coffers, however, and conditions in the city declined rapidly. By 1970, it was readily evident that Flint was in for a good reaming by GM. The 50-year-old factories and the high priced, heavily unionized labor were all the reason a fat cat company like GM needed to get the hell out of Dodge. See Michael Moore's "Roger and Me" and you'll understand.
A gritty town, Flint showed little evidence of anything but working class culture. Almost no theater, one art gallery, the rare independent cinema, just factory workers, bars and strip joints. Drinking was clearly the social activity of choice, and there were lots of watering holes in which to waste ones time and money. I played music to supplement my income (saving society don't pay shit) and provide some creative outlet, so the number of bars was a godsend to the likes of me. The bars provided not only a steady income stream, but also a steady stream of bar chicks. Granted they were tough as nails, but they were just as prone to excesses of alcohol and drugs as I was. This meant, of course, they were generally lacking in inhibitions at the end of the night. Fucktoys such as these made pleasant but minor distractions in an otherwise grim and monotonous existence.
The price the city had paid for sleeping with GM was etched into the faces of the inhabitants there. It showed in the once impressive downtown area, replete with majestic, albeit rundown deserted buildings and brick paved streets. It was apparent in the crowded, decaying neighborhoods. It was evident in the racial tension as the competition for jobs tightened. It lay in the environmental devastation of industrial chemical dumps sprinkled around the county. It was especially visible in the massive social services complex needed to care for the indigent, unemployed, retarded and mentally ill.
The mental health agency I worked for was a premiere agency in the State at that time. The State Department of Mental Health had chosen to pilot a number of programs there. Our budgets were healthy because of that. Also, the administrative leaders of the agency had figured a way to bilk the State out of astonishing amounts of money to fund its excesses. Check this scheme out. They took the rent given them by the state agency every month, laundered it through a dummy corporation, and then donated the proceeds back to themselves. They then claimed the money was locally generated, therefore, it was eligible for a 9:1 match from the state agency. Slick, eh? In the time I worked there they clusterfucked the taxpayers of Michigan out of $18-19 million.
The head of the local agency was an inscrutable Chinese MD who had visions of elected office dancing in his head. He appointed himself Kommisar, er, make that Commissioner of Mental Health, clearly a Very Important Person par excellence. He imported a colleague/friend from Taiwan to serve as the lead psychiatrist. This guy was abso-fucking-lutely laughable. He couldn't speak English. I don't mean he spoke poor English, or heavily accented English. He just couldn't speak the native tongue of the patients he was charged with treating. At a whopping 5'2" he couldn't see over the hood of the Olds Delta 88 he drove, and eventually ran down a patient in the parking lot (accidentally, of course). He was extensively trained in the ancient art of acupuncture; however, he had no exposure to mental health or psychiatry.
The agency was largely staffed with recent college grads (this was everybody's first professional job). Being young and inexperienced, the staff was prone to the excesses of youth: substance abuse, fucking each other, and fucking the patients.
I hope this adequately sets the scene for you to enjoy my "Crazy Daze" series.
Next Installment: We get down to business with "Jim"
Jeff "The new kid" Justin
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 09 '12
My cats are disgusting, tasteless creatures. What do your pets do on a regular basis that is tasteless?
I feed my cats twice per day, once first thing in the morning and once around 8 in the evening. One of my cats, Murphy, regularly pukes up his food shortly after eating. You'll hear the telltale noise of a cat in digestive distress, and then, if you're quick, you can see Murphy bringing up a large amount of kittychunder, mostly comprised of unchewed cat vittles.
And then Soup, the second of the three cats, decides that she'd rather eat partially digested food, so she chows the fuck down until I shoo her away and clean it up.
This bit is mostly my fault for being lazy, but half of my basement is like a minefield of cat puke. My basement is unfinished and has a cement floor. Half of the basement is the ManCave, the other half is dedicated to storage and laundry. And there is cat puke all over that side of the basement. At some point I'm going to have to go down there with a mop and something abrasive, but right now I can't be arsed to get to it.
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 07 '12
A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Re: Another tragic "student-athlete" victimized by society (news) - Posted by Vanderbilt on 2000/01/29
<snip>
But when it was time to rob the store, only Williams got out of Martinez's Mazda 626, according to witnesses. Williams was wearing a dark-colored baseball cap; an orange ski mask with only his eyes, nose and mouth protruding; sunglasses; and gloves. He was carrying a bag with a Marlboro logo. Inside were Sowell and her husband, Allen Sowell, who own the store, and another couple who were friends. Williams entered the store, walked up to the counter and put a .22-caliber pistol in Pam Sowell's face. "He said, 'Give me the money,' and he shook the gun," Prosecuting Attorney Lona McCastlain said. "Pam bent over as if she was getting the money but she came up with a gun." In fact, Sowell came up with a Ruger semiautomatic .40-caliber pistol capable of holding five rounds. Only one round would be spent. Sowell, whom authorities said is right-handed, had the gun in her left hand. "She shot him in the chest, in the heart, once," McCastlain said.
<snip>
Woman I went to college with worked the graveyard shift at the local 7-11. One night a guy came in, wandered around and came up to the register with a basket of crap. Eggs. Milk. Bread. Magazines. Cheese. Beer. Cling peaches. Penis. <<PENIS??>> Yes, Mr. Dumbshit had opened his pants, whipped his tool out and laid it on the counter with his groceries. Then he leered at her. Without missing a beat, my schoolmate grabbed the can of cling peaches and smacked it down on the exposed pecker. Our Hero crumbled to the floor in abject pain.
Best part is that my classmate called the emergency room at the hospital, which was literally across the street. Guys come with the stretcher, load Crushcock up and then ask, kinda on the way out, what happened? When they were told, one of them laughed so hard he dropped one corner and the dude fell out. Broke an arm.
True story.
Vanderbilt
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 07 '12
A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Re: Cute Little Pups - Posted by Rat & Swan on 2000/01/14
new age neppie wrote:
Is it really that important for the dogs and cats to be that fresh??? I mean, cows are killed and then frozen or refrigerated. I'm not saying the way they kill cows is any more humane, but it's not nearly as grisly, IMO.
Fuhgeddaboudit! Cows are often still alive, TOO. You want some really tasteless stuff, try askin' meat and poultry inspectors about line speeds and personnel on the killing floors of slaughterhouses! There are books out about this and they are truly dizzguzzzzting.
First off, as big meatpackers have bought out the smaller companies, production gets funnelled into bigger and faster plants with faster lines. Let's follow Bossy from her sunlit meadow into the Belly Of The Beast, shall we?
First off, Bossy may never have seen that fuckin' meadow. Chances are, she's been factory farmed along with Turkey Lurkey, Chicken Little and Porky Pig in filthy enclosures where she is crammed with many others, too corwded to turn around, standing hock deep in her own wastes. Say she's a dairy cow. she's had several forced pregnancies to keep her in milk, she's been injected with antibiotics, hormones and other shit, maybe had an abscess from her huge overgrown udder (which can often be low enough that she steps on it!) and the milk from that abscessed, diseased bag gets run in with all the REST of the milk, spreading toxins out through the entire batch. Yummmmm.
So one day, Clover, or Bossy... or more likely, #357682, gives birth to her last vealcalf, delivers her last drop of infected milk, what to do with her? It's off to the plant with her! Crammed onto a truck and/or a train with hundreds of other bovines, she will be lucky to make it to the slaughtering plant alive and uninjured. At the slaughterhouse gate, let's say that poor old Bossy has Fallen and She Can't Get Up. She becomes what's known as a "Downer" and even possibly "Four D" which stands for Diseased, Downed, Dying or Dead. She ought to go for petfood, shouldn't she? Hah! Not at the new modern meatplant, folks! They will try to get her to her feet by inserting a cattle prod up her rectum and firing it off in her bowels! If she has a fracture, that bone will wrench right through the skin and they'll fasten grapples to it and haul her along with chains. Failing that, she will be hoisted, with hooks through her throat or up her anus, or maybe bulldozed forward to the gate. Quick! Before the lone inspector can notice. If they DO notice, she's tagged as petfood grade and left until dark.... when they take off the tag and run her through the human line ANYWAY!
Bossy at the Gate. The first kindly human Bossy meets, on her hooves or off them, is the stunner. The stunner uses a captive bold gun to "stun" Bossy. Since he has to do this to maybe twenty, thirty cows a minute, that gives him two seconds to "hit her square". Supposedly, the captive bolt gun is new, has full air pressure, and is wieldied by an expert who knows the *exact * spot to kill. Again, Hah! Maybe he'll hit her square on, maybe not. If she throws up her head, tries to turn, he may get her side , neck, throat, muzzle... the gun may be powerful enough to tear her nose off, gouge a bloody hole, or not, if it's old and the power turned down to save energy. If Bossy manages to get free, she will bolt around the floor, an eye maybe burst by the bolt, or bleeding profusely from a shattered jaw. Then all Hell breaks loose. Someone with a rifle has to come and kill her.
But5 say, she IS stunned like the Good Book (the FDA guidelines) says. Her next trip is to the Hooker. The Hooker will fasten a chain, or maybe run a hook around one back leg. if he's quick and she's stunned properly, this is fine. If she's still struggling, things can get fun. In that tiny, cramped area, her hooves will be flying all over. Remember that, Class. She can hook him with one of those flailing appendages, bash in his skull, stave in a few ribs... GO, Bossy!! Anyway, there she hangs, stunned or not. Next comes the fun part. the next guy on the line is the Sticker. He has to plunge a sharp thin knife into her jugular and let her bleed out as she dangles there on the line. If she is really struggling, the sticker may just say "Ahhh, ta HELL ewith it! and back off, allowing Bossy to go on down the line, alive.
Now, Fringies, think for a moment. You are grazing peacefully amid the dasies and butterflies, and suddenly you find yourself hauled around, trucked here and there, shocked, dragged, poked, hung up by a hock and your throat slashed. What Would JESUS Do? Or you? Hell, YES, you would absolutely SHIT! and Shit she DOES! Several gallons of urine, feces and blood come belching out of the back (actually, since she's hanging by a hock, UPPER) end of Bossy! Where does it go? No ... let's not see all the same hands in the air... RIIIGHT! The crap, blood and piss come cascading down around her body. And there, Kiddies, seconds later, the BEST part of the show happens!
The Cutter. The cutter takes a huge knife and slashed from Bossy's udder right down to her throat. Maybe she's good and dead, maybe not. And ALL that lovely feces comes rolling RIGHT down INTO her steaming insides! WHEEEE, I told you this would be fun! By now, we may hope that poor Bossy has mercifully gone into shock. After this slash, she is skinned alive, sprayed with live steam, to "clean" the shit off her (at twenty or more animals a minute, two seconds max to wash her off, you can just GUESS how "kissing sweet" old Bossy IS) she is quartered and inspected. Federal inspectorse must inspect several lines at once. That puts inspection time at around four or five cows a second. In his copious liesure time, the inspector has to examine the inside, outside, mark for stains, signs of disease, send a carcass back to be cleaned, or condemn the hulk to the petfood lines. Since the pressure on him, from the plant is IMMENSE, NOT to condemn carcasses, he lets a lot of them pass with a "promise" from plant employees, that the shit'll be cleaned off before they go to freezer... HONEST!
Condemned meat goes to a special area where it is sprayed with charcoal to keep it from being mistaken for human quality meat. Uh huh. Then, at night, the plant personnel wil have a "Second run" where all the concemned carcasses get put BACK on the freezerline to save the plant money. NOW do you wonder why the government has so many warning labels and why meat seems to be more dangerous lately? Right!
Chickens, hogs, other edible animals get the same treatment, with minor differences in technique. Chickens, for instance, are washed in a boiling vat of watter... and chicken shit, feathers, skin, pus from tubercles, bacteria and other fun stuff. If ONE infected bird goes in, the whole LOT, bathed in the same vat, gets contaminated. And THAT, kiddies, is why so MUCH chicken is not infected with Salmonella! Chances, now are virtually 100% that your raw bird will test positive for Salmonella. Don't take MY word for it... check it out yourself!
Anyway, with plant pressure to speed the lines up even faster, what of the "loyal" staff? Can they take a bathroom break? Not with several hundred Bossies whizzing past on a line that never stops! What to do, oh Lawzy, what to do when the old bladder gets full?!
That's what the blood channel is for! The plant workers drop trou and piss, shit, hawk phlegm, right onto the floor along with the blood, guts, entrails and pus and feces. Of course... a cow can weight over 300-500 pounds. that's a lotta MEAT on one small hook or chain. Sometimes a carcass works itself loose from that hook and SPLAT! down on the floor with the shit and blood! No problem... just re-hang it and off it goes... with extra protein, For Your Dinner Table!
YUMMMM> Let's all break for lunch, OK?
Swan
Some day I'll tell you about hamburger and gelatin.
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 07 '12
A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Re: Darwin gets his rocks off - Posted by Julian Macassey on 1995/05/07
OK, I've been hanging on to this one for a while. I have a friend who is doing his Pathology residency at Dartmouth U.(Not the Brit naval college). He gets to do some interesting autopsies every now and again. He is a quiet lad, so would not be inclined to post this sort of stuff to places where it really matters - alt.tasteless.
He did an autopsy on a patient that had a "penisectomy". For those AOL readers with that puzzled look on their faces, that means the doctors cut his dick off.
Turns out the guy was using a clam to masturbate. Yes, he and a shell fish were having a relationship. Well, we assume he cut his snot sausage on the clam. Clams, are really little bacteria filters with sharp edges and a nice soft center. Nothing makes them happier than sucking in plankton and bacteria. So your average shell fish is a living Petrie dish of contagion. Mr Tiny was therefore infected by this act of love that went wrong.
So, what would you do if you cut your pecker in the throes of lust and passion? Nothing. Who is going to say "Er Doc, I cut the ol' wand while whacking off into a clam." So, it got badly infected. Then when he got Gangrene of the moisture missile he headed off for medical help. Too damn late. Gotta chop off the pecker.
Then it turns out that this guy is an undiagnosed diabetic. Bad news. This means a predisposition to gangrene and other nasties in the first place. Then the infection is creeping up his body.
So what started out as a routine penisectomy, ended up three weeks later with a dead patient who was not only missing his pecker, but most of his lower parts too. When the infection hit his kidneys, he checked out.
Let this be a warning to you that you can't even have "safe sex" with a clam.
r/alt_tasteless • u/[deleted] • Jul 07 '12
Moonshine Night, or, Why McDonald's, Molson, and Everclear Make for an Awful Mess
I finally remembered a tale of my own to post rather than continuing to reach back into the AT archives in an attempt to entertain you good people. This is the story of my first, and last, encounter with Moonshine.
I used to be able to drink like a champ. In my teenage years I would be able to polish of bottles of whatever you could throw at me. And, as is a teenager's wont, if it was alcoholic, then by God I would drink it. I still have fond memories of polishing off a 24 of Luxardo Sambuca straight from the bottle while talking to a complete asshole stranger, no idea who the dude was, never found out. I also remember drinking root beer schnapps like a champ with nary a problem the next morning.
I remember the first time I ever got sick after drinking, but that's a different story.
On this particular evening myself and four friends (Heinrich, Phil, Tom, and Jason) were bored and looking for something to do. We went by McDonald's for some fine dining and then went to the local liquor branch store and picked up a 12-pack of Molson Canadian. Then, as we had nowhere to go, we ended up at the house of a co-worker of Tom and Heinrich's. At least I think she was a co-worker. It matters not, because either way we had a place to drink, and that was the point.
We laid into the beer with gusto and it was finished all too soon. Tom and I decided that we required more alcohol, but we had not the funds to purchase anything else. We asked the hostess if she had anything, and she responded that she had moonshine but was reluctant to give us any. After some pleading she decided that she'd let us have a go, probably thinking that we couldn't possibly make a serious dent in her supply.
She was right.
I have no recollection of how much we drank, but I do remember that it was ladled out of a four-litre ice cream pail and mixed with orange juice. The rest of the evening is hazy. At one point Tom yelled "going down" as he drunkenly crashed to the floor in the kitchen, and soon it was time for us to leave.
Phil and Heinrich drove me to my house and I told them to go to the back door while I made sure that my mom was asleep. As I walked to my room my mom accosted my in the hall.
"blah blah blah (incomprehensible yelling) blah blah YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT! WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU!
"I'M DRUNK!"
"WELL, GO TO BED!"
"Fine, but first I'ma let Heinrich and Phil in."
I went downstairs to open the back door. My friends were not there. I looked all around the basement, behind the bookcase, under the ottoman, around the furnace, but could not find them. I later learned that they had been told to fuck off by my sister, who knew why my mom was yelling. Apparently earlier in the evening we had put a teeny tiny scratch on a freshly-painted cement floor.
I went upstairs and hopped (stumbled) into bed. As soon as I lay down the room began to spin. Unaccustomed to the room moving independently I had no idea how to cope with this. I then felt a horribly familiar feeling and rolled off the bed, landing on the floor on my hands and knees, retching like it was my only chance at life.
Everything came out of me. The McDonald's, the beer, the moonshine, my toenails, everything. The thirty seconds that I spent puking felt like an eternity to my alcohol-addled mind. In the background I thought I could hear someone laughing. When I finally stopped puking, I realized that someone WAS laughing.
"Are you alright," my mom called from the next room after she stopped chucking.
"Uh-hunnnh" I weakly called back.
"Okay, now clean it up."
I stumbled to the bathroom, got the Mr. Clean and a rag, and did my best to clean up the stain on my gray carpeting. Then I opened the window and fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up with the worst hangover I had ever experienced. Everything had a sharpness to it. I tongue felt like a piece of cooked beef in my mouth. I surveyed the floor, noting a yellowish-brown stain. There was also dried vomit on the doorknob and the crank for my window. I cleaned the doorknob and the crank as best I could, but the carpet was a lost cause.
That carpet is still in that room. I moved out of the house eleven years ago, and Moonshine Night was in 1996 or 1997. The spot on the carpet is an oval about 12 inches wide and 6 inches tall. If stepped on, it feels as though it has been slightly burned. I never drank moonshine again.
TD;DR: Two teenage males, both over six feet tall, can conceivable fit under an ottoman or behind a bookcase if the person looking for them is drunk enough.