Thirty Days of Deep Fried Dumb

April 14, 2010

If it’s April, it’s Confederate History Month.  Or at least it is in states like Mississippi, Georgia, and once again Virginia (sorry, Sledpress).  It’s the magical time of year when we remember that Robert E. Lee killed more Americans than Osama bin Laden, and for some reason that fact makes a large segment the population of our southern states feel really proud.

We’ve made fun of Treason-in-Defense-of-Slavery month for three years running on Renal Failure, but this year we’d like to approach this atrocity from a different angle and create something good out such a retarded concept.  And what we’ve come up with is this…

Fucking Idiotic History Pride Month

For the remainder of April, take some time to think back to when you did something really fucking stupid and wrong.  In fact, do that right now.  Are you there?  Good.  Let’s begin…

Now take all the shame and regret and resolve to never do that stupid and wrong thing again, discard it, and replace it with the pathological reasoning that whatever you did was actually the most righteous thing you’ve ever done and that you’re so proud of it nothing will dissuade you from this position because to do so would make your fantasy world (and that of your ancestors) utterly collapse, sending you into a tailspin of despair that you have not the faculties to pull yourself out of.

So that time you banged that twitchy hooker with the track marks and glass eye without a rubber?  Best decision ever!  So what if you got herpes and syphilis and hepatitis C and it broke up your engagement to your girlfriend at the time?  The STD’s and ruined relationship are just a small part of a grander tale of you standing up for what you believed in, which in this case was paying thirty bucks for sex with a one-eyed heroin addict prostitute in a back alley.

That time you lost your life-savings because you fell for that Nigerian banker email scam?  Totally awesome!  You’re so proud that happened to you that you’ve got a bumper sticker on your car telling the world you fell for a scam that could have been easily sniffed out in ten seconds with a Google search.   You’re not a victim.  How can you be when the cause was so noble and just in your little mind?

That time you tongue-kissed your brother when you were 11?  Move that file from the “never speak of it again” drawer to the “let’s have a parade for it” bin!  March down that street with your head held high and let everyone know that the only thing you did wrong was not letting him fingerbang you.  Oh sure, people want to focus on the incest part, but that’s because they don’t know the whole story.  They don’t want to have a frank discussion about freedom and liberty and the tyranny of noted socialist Abe Lincoln.  Stand tall and declare you’d do it again in a heartbeat, if only your brother wasn’t in jail because he got caught on that To Catch a Predator show soliciting grade schoolers for sex.  But did he cry to Chris Hansen and say he’d never do this sort of thing again?  Hell no!  He puffed out his chest and told that Yankee son of a bitch that yes he was indeed CrotchStallion76 and yes he was there to do all those nasty things he said he would in those chatlogs involving a wiffle ball bat, a set of bungee cords, and a jar of Branston pickle.   And when people talk to you about that incident, you gladly tell them that you were proud and honored to see your brother arrested on national television, sent to prison, and forever branded as a sex offender.  That’s your heritage on that Megan’s Law list!  No strike up the band!

So Renal Readers, what are you proud of this Fucking Idiotic History Pride Month of 2010?  Those drunk driving arrests?  Your years selling Amway?  That “furry” phase?



  1. CrotchStallion76 is in jail?!?! Damn! so that’s why he hasn’t written back

  2. Nailing my blind roommate’s male friend, while she was sleeping, remains my most proud moment! I was entitled to that lousy D&D limp-dick fuckfest!

  3. What ever is Branston Pickle:

    You know, I had been ignoring this as hard as I could but I realize it must have eben behind the fervency with which I posted recently on Man of Roma:

    As to the American South and its religious identity. It is a f&^#ing scary thing. No matter how beckoning that culture may look on any occasion, like some siren of legend, when you see it run, run like HELL in the other direction.

    It is a culture that has somehow devolved from a praiseworthy emulation of much of the best in English tradition (classical education, a sort of noblesse oblige) to a modern-day exaltation of ignorance and banality. Enshrined in the middle of this is a reverence for a bathetically portrayed sentimentally suffering God named JEEzus before whom you’re supposed to be abjectly ashamed of yourself, which doesn’t stop you from existing in a fusty, snickering atmosphere of crude humor, bad beer, metabolic syndrome, broken down cars and thinly veiled racism.

    I had a first cousin who used to get dramatic about Sherman’s March Through Georgia, weep if asked to reprise the saccharine Baptist hymn he played (another church organist) at my grandmother’s funeral (I wawn’t there), and then immediately swing into an embarrassing parody of “Moon River” that started out “Black N***er.” The last time he came to DC on a visit he threw up on top of the Washington Monument. Not that I accuse him of doing it deliberately.

    As soon as I had the freedom to avoid those people completely I had nothing more to do with them. Ever.

  4. Balls. Pardon the bloopers. Posted that comment without correcting, and before I was finished.

    Which was just to say that this post was the thing that most sustained my will to live today.

  5. Ahhhh, Branston Pickle, the delicacy I once referred to as brown sludge that resembles a hybrid of sweet pickle relish, chunky salsa and week old ratatouille.

    It makes me nostalgic.

  6. First of all, there ain’t nuthin wrong with brotherlovin. Legal, ain’t it? Ima grown woman an’ I kin make my own decishins. An I don’t wanna let you on or nuthin, but post readin this here blog, ‘sides from my brother I ain’t never wanna tongue-kiss a man ‘sept you.

    – Allie Mae

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