A judgment-full zone.

Author: fartbook

How Many Of These Classic Grateful Dead Songs Do You Know?

Everybody loves some Grateful Dead! But are you a true fan? Find out below by tallying your favorite Jerry jams!
Bougainvillea Boulevard
Rocky Mountain Planetarium
Officer Raindrop (Instrumental)
Sage Mechanic
Ridin’ Up The Creek On A Stolen Canoe
Chemtrail St. Joseph
Young Jerry Old Jerry
Merry Prankster Jamboree (feat. Pitbull)
The Spliff’s Apprentice
Is Anybody Watching The Baby?
Reelin’ and Rollin’ and Ramblin’ and Gamblin’
Burnt Sienna Daydream
Humboldt County Sheriff (Instrumental)
Whose Baby Is That
Sweatin’ Down The Ivory Coast
Where Are All Those Bears Marching? Only Jerry Knows
Mexico, Romanticized
[Cousin] Donald
Cosmic Puzzle Sudoku
Do You Smell That? (Of Course I Smell That)
Calligraphy Jones
Tallahassee Rhythm Hitchhiker
United States Of San Francisco 
Is That Jerry’s Baby? Seriously, Tell Us
Rag Time Dime Bag
Seriously Jerry Why Did You Have To Die
She Wore Tie-Dye Feathers In Her Silver Hair And I Didn’t Get Her Number
Pals With Lucifer
That Baby Has Jerry’s Eyes
Rosalie’s Five Finger Discount (Two Finger Version)
Hopscotch Methuselah
Audible Whisper Lullaby
Is There A Doctor On This Plane (Of Existence)
Surly Susie, Patron Saint Of Bad Moods
Tijuana Slang Lullaby
No Thanks, I’m Vegan
Tokin’ On The Corporate Ladder
Cherries Garcia
God Is A Lady And It’s Okay That She Masturbates
Keepin Tabs On My Tabs (Of Acid)
Funky Maine Lobster
Goddamnit, Jerry
Caramel Daisy Doorknob In The Sky
Am I The Only Straight Guy On This Bus Who Thinks Humphrey Bogart Was Hot (I’m Straight)
C-C-Community Service
Rain Is Just Timothy O’Leary Crying From Heaven
Anybody Have Change For A Five?
Vaping In Valhalla
Another Song About Moons
Read The Signs In The Sky, St. Joseph
Oy Vey
The Devil’s Sister, Shannon
Is This Song Appropriate For Children
Blind Cripple Tangerine Jam
Vegan (Round Two)
Daddy Got Struck By Lightning On The Event Horizon
Little Jelly Jam
Are You Deaf, St. Joseph
Bong Water Bongo Baby
The City Boy’s Semester In Utah For A Behavioral Problem
Juke Box Royal Jelly
Looks Like Oregano To Me
San Andreas’s Fault
Smokin’ On The Roof Of Shannon’s House (Not That Shannon, The Other Shannon, The One From Barstow With The Good Acid)
New Cover Band Blues
Broken Down Train Caboose Groove #2
My Baby’s Paintin’ A Fractal Mural On The Side Of The Cantina
Shhh, Telenovela, Shhh
Mourning The Hour Of Morning This Morning
The Moonlight Fisherwoman
Another Song About Boulevards Or The Moon
Don’t Tease Jesus
Why Come Nobody Says “Tokin” Anymore
Adam & Eve, Not Adam & Steve
Meatless Mondays
Righteous Reefer Roto Rooter
Drum Circle On The Moon
Blamin’ and Shamin’ and Gamin’

Fartbook Story Hour: Monkey Jesus Edition

Hello Fartbook!

Did I ever tell you the story about the time my friend Isabel and I got lost in rural Spain and wound up hitchhiking with three male midwives and a pair of Korean schoolgirls to a tiny church on a mountain?

I love me a good Before-And-After photo

I love me a good Before-And-After photo

It was a true redditor’s pilgrimage— a quest borne of artistic curiosity and maybe if we’re being honest a slight desire for upvotes. The plan: visit the church of Santuario de la Misericordia in Borja, Spain to see the botched Jesus fresco. I’d admired his doughy monkey face all over the internet. I loved that Ecce Homo like he was my own potato baby.


The 2-hour ride from Zaragoza to Borja went by in a flash. We made friends with two girls from Seoul who shared our Christly mission. The four of us nearly skipped off the bus. It was the golden hour and the town felt like a storybook. Isabel pointed to a flock of ragged sheep backlit by the waning sun. They looked like saints, silhouettes ringed in radiant gold. We followed the winding streets in a dream state.

It should have been a simple trip. Not short, but straightforward—follow the route on foot to the church, behold the breathtaking depiction of JC in all its lumpy glory. But like, fuck Google Maps if you’re in a tiny town in Spain, yo. The map said Santuario de la Misericordia was a brief 15 minute walk from the bus station. The map was wrong. There was a church at the end of our stroll, but it was abandoned and empty. Before we could reroute, my phone died. So did Isabel’s camera. Out of spite, probably. The dream was officially over.

Afternoon bled into dusk, and I looked out at the black sands and barren fields with despair. What next? There was no comfort in Zaragoza’s oddly lunar landscape. Isabel and I turned to the two Korean girls who had joined our pilgrimage pack. We all had heavy bags. None of us knew what to do.

But we knew we couldn’t give up. We’d come all the way from California for this shit. They’d flown from Seoul. We traced the curving, lone road ahead of us, and saw through the haze of dusk that it led to a small mountain. Spotting a few lights, a hint of life on the hill, we decided to keep going.

our reason for living

We underestimated the distance. After another 30 minutes of trekking, the mountain appeared not an inch closer to us. Weariness, frustration, and disappointment were sinking their claws in when we heard a rumble of a car on the road behind us. I whipped around. There it was! A tiny green thing heading in our direction. For the first time in my life, I stuck out a thumb. The car skidded to a stop. Inside were 3 jolly Spaniards in their early 20s, grinning from ear to ear.



The Ecce Homo fresco! Of course. Turns out that’s all anyone is ever in Borja for.

ME: Oh! Yes! Do you know where it is? We’re lost.


We piled in and began our ascent. The driver of the car was a 22-year-old midwife in training. He proudly showed us pictures of the black twin babies he had delivered that morning. I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. But I was ecstatic.
We made it up the hill and entered the church with our crew: 2 boisterous California girls, 2 quiet Korean students in their uniform skirts (seriously), and a lispy trio of doulas from Zaragoza. And there He was.


TL;DR: A+ would hitchhike to see Jesus again.

Millennial Children’s Poetry

Welcome to the delayed* second installment of Millennial Children’s Poetry, in which the trials and tribulations of the troll generation are written in the style of our favorite childhood authors.

Today’s poem was inspired by the brilliant Kathryn Borel, who earlier this year asked the age-old question, “Can I wear a romper to work?”

shel poem

My Romper
by Shel “Not Shel Silverstein” Silverstein

My romper is covered in pockets,
Each fold hides a secret delight.
It’s got chocolates and Xanax and pennies,
Away from the 5-0’s sight.
You wouldn’t believe what’s inside it!
Houdini himself would be stunned!
Oh, there’s plenty of treats in my romper,
Enough for everyone!
I’ve got local, organic mascara.
I’ve got beeswax and hornets and blow.
Did you know I can hide Pantera
In the zipper behind my elbow?
Oh there’s fun to be had in my playsuit,
Delights I have yet to conceive.
Have you ever concealed a crustacean
In the billow of your sleeve?
But woe reared its head on the weekend,
When I found, to my dismay,
That I hadn’t left room for a condom,
And certainly not a bébé.

fa42a7d77000550e081ea5c4ed670721     il_570xN.502925849_j7fymccall romper

Above, from left to right: various babies in various rompers in various decades.

*I know you’ve all been refreshing the Fartbook homepage since September. Don’t lie to me. You are my best friends. This is a safe space. What happened to us? What have I become? Does anyone have a copy of the Kirk Cameron Christmas movie I can borrow?  No? Okay, I’ll find it on the deep web. Not a big deal. I got this one. My aunt gave me a lot of Bitcoins for hannukah, so like, I guess I gotta use em at some point, right?? Ha. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m great. I’m doing great, thanks for asking.

Sonnets About Sexting

Welcome to the first installment of Poetry for Millennials, in which the trials and tribulations of the Wi-Fi generation are written in the style of our favorite poets, playwrights, and childhood authors.

Let us begin with William Shakespeare, because, I mean, he invented the human. I present to you, O readers of Fartbook.org:

Sonnets About Sexting

Medieval girl texting

Anti-Ode To Mine Imagery Unclothéd

Oh god agh shit ass balls my lord aww fuck
I fear that I have made a grave mistake.
One never should attempt to test their luck
When high ground with one’s exes is at stake.
O how could I have thought it keen or wise
To pull up every contact in my phone?
And scrolling through the roster of hot guys
Think texting them would make me less alone?
If only the reception had been weak,
The mirror pics of my hind-quarters safe
Up in the Cloud, for some hacker to seek
Not sent direct to motherfucking Rafe.
First, god I curse. Next up: AT&T.
What carrier? You never carried me!


 The Textual Drunkard

Ohhh not again, agh shit, I’m such a mess
Bright morn reveals the blemish ’pon my soul.
(No, not the Straw-Ber-Rita® on my dress—
Though that will be a mark the fabric holds.)
O stain more foul than any liquor’s dye
That leaves both heart and gut in turbulence!
Why play on boozy loop before mine eyes,
Reminding me my blunder’s permanence?
As babes, we learn forgiveness doth abound.
Like injured starfish, virtue can re-grow.
But soon such lessons are in vodka drowned,
And sins committed ne’er shall He revoke.
“Twas but a sext!” friends shout. “’Tis only Chad!”
Then silence, reading: Message sent… to Dad.

Stars Who Forgot To Shave

This lovely article over at E online got me thinking… where is the outrage over men’s facial hair??? Here is my response.

Hollywood’s Hirsute Horrors

Fuzz, stubble, 5 o’clock shadow, the devil’s whiskers, Forgetful Thomas’s Tell-Tale Ticklers—whatever you want to call it, we all know that facial hair is disgusting and completely unacceptable. Flashing any trace of the protein filaments that naturally grow out of a man’s follicles is an affront to everything we hold dear in this fragile world. A proper male starlet should be clean-shaven. It even says it in the bible!

I, Jesus, hereby decree that a man’s face must at all times be as smooth as a cherub’s rosy bum. Amen.

-Jonas Brothers 23:14

99% of the time, Hollywood’s hottest men keep their revolting facebeards in check (and an army of aestheticians employed yet woefully underpaid). But we’re all human, sort of, and every once in a blue moon,* a leading man makes it out of his leading man cave without using a wax, cream, or blade to remove every last hair from his chiseled, million-dollar jaw. From Palmdale to Pakistan, Moscow to Mordor, sometimes the stars we cherish and trust simply fuck it up in the face department. Below are a few of the worst offenders.

*Ed note: this post is graciously sponsored by the Blue Moon Brewing Co., moons that are blue, and the classic Rodgers and Hart love song, Blue Moon.


The culturally subversive and like totally nasty photos in this slideshow may cause migraines, uncontrollable vomming, and/or severe anal discomfort. Proceed at your own risk.


Everyone’s favorite Zac Efron was spotted at the Radosław, Poland premiere of <em>High School Musical 8: Back To The High School</em> looking like he rolled his trademark jaw in ash. 
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Get it together, Zackie— you’re not a Chinchilla taking a bath! We can barely see your beautiful black eyes underneath that abhorrent, pube-esque beard situation. Boy-next-door Adrien Brody clearly swapped his shaving kit for a tampon bag on the way to the Liaoning Film Festival in the People’s Republic of China.
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In a hurry, or just trying to distract us from that time he kissed Halle Berry at the Oscars and it totally wasn’t okay and we’ll never forget the violation as long as he is a working actor in Hollywood? Did Robert Pattinson spend a week at Burning Man before making it to the <em>Twilight: The Twilight Years</em> premiere in Diamond Bar, California? I could brush dried mud off my Louboutins with those bristles! 
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Next time try to keep your limited edition <em>Mumford and Sons Bespoke Straight Razor (Like Real Men Used To Use In The Past Times)™</em> as sharp as your fangs, Robbie. Hey, someone tell Ryan Reynolds (seen here at the <em>GQ Prostate Cancer Ball</em> in Buffalo Gap, South Dakota) that this isn’t eighteen fucking seventy five. Or 1975 for that matter. 
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What’s with the full bush, Ry Ry? Waxer on vacation? Razor get rusty? Too busy having marital sex with Blake Lively to clean up like a decent human? More like <em>Good Luck Upchuck.</em> 
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<p style="font-size:70%;">[<em>Ed note</em>: I know that was Dane Cook. Whatever.]</p> Can you say Maroon 5-o-clock-shadow? Looks like Adam Levine forgot a little something on the Video Music Award’s shag carpet—whoops! Red carpet. (Freudian typo!) The free-spirited star may have moves like Jagger, but he clearly doesn’t have a functional shaving implement.
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<p style="font-size:79%;line-height:1.4em;">[<em>Ed note</em>: Hey Adam, if you come by our offices for an interview, we have a 12-pack of disposable <em>Penn Jillette X-treme Magik Blades™</em>* with your name on it!]</p>

<p style="font-size:60%;margin-top:8px;"><em>*Item has been discontinued everywhere but the US due to x-treme bleeding.</em></p> Now this is just egregious. Noted hippie Daniel Craig looked even more granola than usj at the 2014 Teen Choice Awards in Llanfairpwllgwyngyll, Wales.
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He may be playing Union hero Major Robert Anderson in the upcoming civil war flick <em>Fort Sumter: Sumptin’ Else</em>, but we think he’s better suited for the role of Major Fashion Faux Pas! It appears James Franco decided to go au naturel at <em>Sports Illustrated’s Boobs Boobs Boobs Look! Boobs</em> Gala in Hyderabad, Pakistan last month. 
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Let’s hope he was too stoned to find his trusty Shick <em>Baker’s-Dozen-of-Blades™</em>. Or better yet, the Franc’s just prepping for his (rumored) role in acclaimed directing team Wes Anderson & Michael Bay’s upcoming adaptation of the 1967 romantic thriller <em>The Sasquatch of San Dimas</em>. <div style="font-size:84%;">Oops! It appears Dave Franco forgot to do some croosh personal grooming before hitting <em>Glamour</em>’s annual <em>Charity Fiesta for Victims of Identity Theft</em> at Cleveland fashion week. Looks more like a <em>Charity Fiesta for Victims of Having A Secondhand Merkin Glued To Your Face</em>. 
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I’m not even gonna talk about the way that moldy peach fuzz hides the luscious upper lip that made him a YouTube star in the first place. Don’t forget your roots, Dave. Or your Nair x Opening Ceremony <em>Quik n’ Creamy Reduced Burning Sensation Face-Erase Paste™.</em></div> Haley rarely gets it wrong on the red carpet, but his bristly mug at the Met Gala got a lot of people talking. This year’s theme was “Blue Man Group,” not “Financially Struggling Lumberjack.”
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Guess the fair-haired fella thought he could get away with skipping a shave. You’re not fooling anyone, Haley! Especially if you’re gonna flaunt your toned and taut face in a revealing white button-up. I see hairy people! Infamous party boy Bradley Cooper makes the ultimate party foul in Sin City, flashing a whole lotta shag at the grand opening of Donald Trump’s™ Children’s Hospital on The Las Vegas Strip (not to be confused with the Donald’s adjacent nightclub, <em>Childrenz HO-spital @ Da $trip</em>).
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Bradley, if you can’t explain why there’s a rotting feral raccoon on your sun-kissed mug, we’ll just have to blame it on a Hangover. <div style="line-height:1.0em;">Here’s Liam Hemsworth at the New Hampshire premiere of <em>Hunger Games: Gloria Steinem Edition</em>, looking like a total sack of fucking shit with no regard for personal hygiene or standards of decency.
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Look, I can accept an errant sideburn or (at most) 30 minutes of minor facial hair growth. If you had a waxing accident in Ibiza, you might get a pass. If a swarm of child gypsies stole your Venus <em>Electric Daisy Carnival Electric Razor Carnival™</em> mid-Jeroboam of Vin Santo in Rome’s famed Trastevere district, I could let it slide. But this? This is more than a gaffe, Liam. It’s an embarrassment to our country. I’m done.</div>
Here’s Liam Hemsworth at the New Hampshire premiere of Hunger Games: Gloria Steinem Edition, looking like a total sack of fucking shit with no regard for personal hygiene or standards of decency.
Look, I can accept an errant sideburn or (at most) 30 minutes of minor facial hair growth. If you had a waxing accident in Ibiza, you might get a pass. If a swarm of child gypsies stole your Venus Electric Daisy Carnival Electric Razor Carnival™ mid-Jeroboam of Vin Santo in Rome’s famed Trastevere district, I could let it slide. But this? This is more than a gaffe, Liam. It’s an embarrassment to our country. I’m done.

Emma “J.R.R.” Tolkin, staff writer here at Fartbook.org, has quit after 83 years of blathering snark and leaked nudes of underage celebs. In lieu of flowers, Emma requests your tweets and reblogs during this difficult time.


I’m too excited about FartBook to do anything.


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