See the trailer for Step Up. The formula is timeless: boy (or girl) from the wrong side of the tracks wants to compete in some sort of fruity activity. Usually it's dancing, be it ballroom, salsa, ballet, or dirty, but sometimes it's gymnastics, singing, or ice skating. No one supports them or believes in them, not their friends, and not even their parents, until they meet a counterpart of the opposite sex. At first, they don't trust each other, but soon they click as partners and as lovers. But then have a falling out over something fucktarded (he/she thinks they were kissing some other girl/guy, he/she makes a promise and circumstances outside their control forces them to break the promise, pissing the other person off, a family member dies, he/she thinks she/he broke into his/her car and stole his/her 311 CD's and his/her pine air freshener, ad nauseum). But they soon realize what fools they have been and reconcile their differences just in time to regroup and win the big danceoff/skateoff/jerkoff.

I suppose somewhat apropos of this posting, this movie looks equally, if not more shitty. But at least it's not The Notebook.

As the world around us tumbles into a spiral of violence and hatred, I wonder what got up their bums. It's too hot to fight, guys. Nothing breaks up the tension of war like a Slip n' Slide race!

Last night I picked up dinner and a few grocery items in the north part of Eagan and decided to take north Eagan Dairy Queen up on its offer to give me a free Blizzard after some unpleasantness, which is explained here and here. This was to be in the form of a certificate left for me behind the counter, which I could claim at at any time at the drive through or by walking up to the counter. This was a fact I did not mention here lest some wiseass read my tale and go to DQ hankerin' a free ice cream treat in my name.

Jeremy imposter: "Uh, yeah, um...my name is...(looks at post-it note)...Jeremy. I have a free Blizzard in my name. Make it a cookie dough Blizzard please." Incidentally, I would never order something as mundane as a cookie dough Blizzard. *rolls eyes*

DQ girl: "Yes, you're the jerk who made a huge stink about getting the wrong item on his order twice in one visit and got us all into trouble!" (turns to make Blizzard)

JI: "Huh? Well, no, I...uh..."

DQG: *SNOOOORRRRT* *SPIT* "Here ya go, jagoff!"

JI: (quietly) "Sweet! It worked. Ha haaaa...poor fucker isn't getting his free Blizzard now!" He then chews away as the snotty wad of spit forms long strands from his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

...days later...

Real Jeremy: "Hello, my name is Jeremy, and I would like my free Blizzard please."

DQG: (digs behind counter) "Sorry, sir. I can't find anything back here. Are you sure your name is Jeremy?"

Real Jeremy: *throws a purse dog at DQ Girl's head*

In actuality, the exchange was smooth, and from what I can tell, adulteration-free. And I was pleasantly surprised to find this "free Blizzard" was actually $10 in DQ gift certificates. So that's a couple free medium Blizzards and an ice cream cone. I ordered a medium chocolate french silk pie blizzard, far and above my favorite item on the menu, and watched as she made what may very well be the most perfect french silk pie Blizzard I have ever had the pleasure of eating. It was swimming in ribbons of chocolate, huge chunks of pie crust, and was topped with what seemed like 6 inches of whipped cream. Perfect for covering your groin and having several birthday strippers lick it away.

I was all set to write a seething response to this posting by maarmie, apparently incensed by my decision to sever our ties and end our short, but tumultuous friendship. This is a move I have never had to make with any other person in my 30 years of life and hopefully will never have to make again. The simplest comment, joke, or aside became a "threat" or "abuse" to her, and I could no longer tolerate the swirling mass of drama she creates for herself and those around her.

Read her blog. Find the pattern in her relationships with others in her own words. Make up your own mind. Narcissists apparently are crawling out of the woodwork at every turn.

I dug up a few photos from the poop crayon archive.

For years, I have struggled to think of a way I can contribute to a more environmentally sound lifestyle for myself and others. I wasted 4 years researching methods to alter human DNA such that the digestive system produces less gas for our bodies to release into the atmosphere. The result was a clone army of freaks that seep a neverending slow, steady hiss of pungent flatus from every pore. Then one day while taking a particularly firm crap, it dawned on me like a new morn--the poop crayon.

With a unique and patent-pending refining technique requiring minimal expense of energy, human feces can be dried and molded into slender cylinders with similar properties to those of wax crayons. Currently my equipment is able to accept bowel movements from thousands of donors and sort and blend them into specific colors like brown, burnt umber, sepia. Particularly bloody stools can be processed into rust, maroon, or even burgundy. I'm also currently working on second generation equipment that can separate the contents of baby diapers from the diapers themselves, adding multiple green and yellow hues to the spectrum. The new machinery will also take care of one minor, but embarrassing flaw in the current system. Let's just say that a crayon full of peanuts or corn kernels does not compete well against Crayola.

An eager baby plays with a second generation poop crayon

Why does this even qualify as news? First and foremost, I don't care if he is gay. I think it's great he felt he was in a good enough place in his life to come out to the world. But this belongs in the National Enquirer and on E! television, not on the front page of CNN.com immediately to the right of the top story, "Bloodied Lebanese flee airstrike." Morever, this is like Dom Deluise announcing to the world that he immensely enjoys delicious cakes and pies or Paris Hilton holding a press conference to disclose that her vagina is a convention center and that it will host the 2008 Consumer Electronics Show. Not only is it not news, even worse, it's OLD non-news.

Seems like just the other night that the lovely Diablo Cody was doing Minnesota proud with her national debut on Letterman. Tonight another national debut for some locals when tapes 'n tapes play Letterman. Swarms of folks 'round Minneapolis go apeshit for these guys, while others are sick to death of listening to the gushes of praise. I confess to being a Johnny-come-lately in that I've been familiar with and enjoyed their music for a while, but haven't seen any of their shows and didn't buy their latest CD until I'd heard about their Letterman appearance. So much for my cool factor. Meanwhile I keep waiting for these guys' shit to finally blow up too.

I'm bored but have little of substance to write about tonight (not that I ever do). I just now read a Boston Globe article about how furnishing stores like Restoration Hardware and Pier 1 are shifting their inventory and sales strategies. Restoration Hardware has dumped all of that retro junk in favor of high end furniture, lighting, and other items. As for Pier 1, they are undergoing "the biggest style shift in Pier 1 history. NO!!!! Jeebus! Where will we get our wicker fix? WHERE?!? Ah, but Pier 1 spokesperson Christiane Robinett calms my fears by adding, "We are still heavily into wicker, but it's serious furniture, not just pieces you would put on a sun porch or first apartment." HOLD UP, Christiane HO'binett!! You did NOT just slip a subtle and catty little slight to wicker! Wicker is timeless and fucking awesome. It's like sitting in the loving arms of a tree--a shitty, lightweight tree that could give under your weight at any moment or tip over if you slam the door too hard. Only in sun porches and first apartments??? Try wicker bucket seats in Corvettes, wicker bicycles, and wicker church pews!

*sigh* This is what it's come to...ripping on wicker and Pier 1. Fuck I'm bored.

Here I will not bare my soul, though you may see glimpses of hard truths through my humor. Here I will not publicly shame individuals who have betrayed my friendship, my good will, or my love...at least not by naming them specifically. Here I will simply spew vitriol in the most harmless, entertaining way in which said vitriol can be sprayed. I will bitch about what pisses me off, but won't take on any social causes, responsibilities, or debate. Here I will shower openly in your splattering, viscous downpours of good-natured criticism, but I won't stand for personal jabs. This is my fucking blog. Take off your pants, remove the stick from your ass, and laugh, fuckers. Laugh, damn you.

After a long crappy movie-induced break from my normal moviegoing ways, I saw the new Pirates of the Caribbean flick and Clerks II over the weekend. Thumbs up to both. The biggest complaint I read about the Pirates sequel was that at 2.5 hours, it was just too long. Personally the whole movie flew by for me, and I hardly noticed that all of the blood had completely drained from my ass. Stick around through part of the credits to see a teaser trailer for the third movie, which will be released next summer. Then leave. There is a very brief scene at the very ass tip end of the credits, but it's not worth sticking around for at all.

Clerks II was hilarious. Kevin Smith makes up for Jersey Girl and then some. Patently offensive, yet insightful debates on religion, racism, and ass to mouth play abound. Throw in a random song and dance number and a bestiality--sorry, interspecies erotica--scene, and you've got me laughing just short of tears.

Between movie nights, I attended a coworker's wedding out in Minnestrista. They couldn't have asked for a better day to have an outdoor wedding. Well, I would have fared better at about 10 degrees cooler for temperature and dew point. But considering the nut-blistering heat and humidity we've had the last week or so, it was quite nice. And thanks to the groom for stocking the tubs with Leine's Creamy Dark. That hit the spot.

So there you have it. Donkey sex and dark beer. That's a full weekend.

The personal webpages and MySpace profiles of millions of teens, 20-somethings, and even 30-plus-somethings are littered with animated graphics called glitters. Usually you'll see glitters along the lines of...

After limping around for over three weeks with an ever increasingly infected and swollen toe, last night I took matters into my own hands and removed a small corner of my big toe's nail, including a portion attached to nailbed. Owie. My suspicions were correct--I simply had one bastard of an ingrown toenail. It hurts slightly today, but feels far better than it has in weeks. In fact, I just got done punishing my treadmill with 6 miles of kickass speed intervals (I know I should have run outdoors on a gorgeous night like tonight, but I didn't want to get 2 miles from home and realize my toe felt like it was going to fall off).

Why not go to the doctor? Let's see...pay a $20 copay, waste probably 3 hours of an afternoon, taking time away from work, only to have him...cut off a corner of my toenail to remove the ingrown portion. I know what I'm doing. My track record with this toe is long and sordid, and long ago a doctor removed 2 portions of the nail permanently, scraping the root from the bone (it wasn't painful but fucking unsettling as all hell) to mitigate the risk of further ingrown nails. This is the first such nasty ingrown business I've dealt with in probably 10 or 15 years.

So now I'm footloose, fancy free, and am so upbeat that I could almost smile at a child. But I won't.

Results of an internet survey conducted by the Downtown Minneapolis Neighborhood Association were published in today's Star Tribune. More than 1,200 people answered freeform questions about what sort of behavior should be encouraged or discouraged downtown.

The Star Tribune analyzed the results, breaking the responses into several categories. The top concerns were:

Litter, trash, garbage: 52%
Noise, loudness: 39%
Loitering, harrassment: 38%
Panhandling, begging: 33%
Safety: 25%
Public drunkenness: 10%
Gang activity: 7%
Public spitting: 6%
Public urination: 5%
Foul language: 4%

I love that public spitting beat out public urination. That actually means that a larger number of people who responded to the survey were concerned about someone hocking a snot-filled blob of spit onto the sidewalk than whipping out their dick and peeing on the sidewalk. Theoretically, if you sent one of those 6% on their merry way down Nicollet Mall, and they came across a pair of twin brothers, one firing a globule of spit onto the ground, and the other slovenly spraying his surroundings with warm piss, the pedestrian might be heard to exclaim, "HOLY FUCKING SHIT! That guy just SPIT on the sidewalk! Officer! Officer! Come quick!" They would then pin the poor spitter down to await the police, while his brother shook the dew off the lily, zipped up, and casually strolled away. Then you would have a member of the 4% foul language club, likely an elderly lady in a velour track suit, come up from behind and beat the lot of them senseless with her umbrella.

Nearly four years ago I was milling about the house when the doorbell rang. Usually when my doorbell rings, I am reluctant to answer, as it is almost invariably someone trying to sell me something. But given that it was 11:30 at night, this was certainly not a solicitor (unless hookers had started working door to door like I've requested for years).

I unlocked the deadbolt and slowly pulled the door open a few inches to peek outside. It was one of my neighbors. And I use the term "neighbor"
loosely as this guy lived on the street that connects to my cul-de-sac and down several houses. I had been stopped several times by his overeager desire for conversation while passing by at the beginning or tail end of my evening run.

Typical Jeremy/neighbor interaction:

Me: *run, run, run, pant, pant, pant*

Him: (standing at the end of the driveway, seemingly waiting for the next chump willing to talk with him) "Hey there! Out for a run, huh?"

Me: (politely smiling and waiving, continuing to run thinking it's obvious that I'm in the middle of focusing on breathing and running and not up for a bullshit session) "Yep!"

Him: "Say, do you think you explain the difference between a double integral and an iterated integral?"

Ok, he never actually said anything nearly that intellectual, but was always something that forced me to stop running and fully engage in a conversation just the same.

Me: (under breath) "God dammit."

This was always followed by at LEAST 10 to 15 minutes of inescapable inane conversation. It didn't take long before I simply avoided running in that direction entirely.

Flash forward to him standing on my doorstep at 11:30 pm. This alone was odd enough, but the fact his car was pulled into my driveway struck me as even more peculiar. Why would he drive to my house when he lived just sliver of a mile down the road? Before I could conjure any further scenarios in my head, he spoke haltingly, evidently unsure of how to phrase his purpose. "Hey...um...sorry to disturb you, but I saw your light on and thought I would stop by."

"Ohhkay," I responded suspiciously, waiting for him to get to the point.

"So my wife and I are having a few problems right now. Um...not really getting along."

While I was sincerely sorry to hear this, I sensed this was going to lead to some sort of inappropriate plea for help or something equally awkward. "Oh really? I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah...um...since we kind of know each other, I was hoping that I could stay here for a while."

Analysis:

-Never in the history of mankind has "kind of" knowing someone been enough to ask them if you could live in their house.

-Moreover, "Kind of" was an understatement. Prior to his arrival on my doorstep, I had engaged in perhaps a half dozen conversations with this guy. Granted, these conversations totaled approximately 80 to 500 hours in duration, but talking at length about the weather and how well your kid played in his last soccer game does not qualify you to ask me if you can stay at my house.

-The prepositional phrase "for a while" also made me quite nervous. Not "for a couple of days," not "for a week or two," but "for a while," as in "for a period if indeterminate length, possibly the rest of your life.

His unexpected request for shelter left me utterly nonplussed. “You have got to be fucking kidding me” repeated on an endless loop in my head, but I wanted to give a more diplomatic response. After a long, painful silence, I finally stammered, “Uhhhhmmm…yeah, I wouldn’t be comfortable with that at all. I’m a very private person and…well, I just wouldn’t be comfortable with that situation.”

He was determined to convince me. “I know this a little weird, but I usually work late hours, so I probably would only be around during the day. You’d hardly know I was here.”

Stressing that he’d only be in the house when I wasn’t around did little to comfort me. This man was a stranger who would have free run of my home while I wasn’t there. There was perceived risk of him wearing my socks as a jock strap or using my toothbrush to cleanse his colon. Additionally, I was working from home a lot during that time. It wasn’t unusual for me to be home during large portions of the day, either working or sleeping in after working into the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t want to tiptoe around the house while he was trying to sleep or have him clomping around while I was trying to sleep.

“I’m sorry, but I still wouldn’t be very comfortable with that. I actually work from home quite a bit and am here during the day a lot, and—“

“Well, if it’s my kids you’re worried about, they would hardly be over here at all.”

I hadn’t even thought of his kids. He and his wife had at least three that I knew of, one of whom had some sort of learning/spastic/emotional issue that caused him to talk in a constant stream of 120 decibel run-on sentences, broken only by seemingly unprovoked temper tantrums.
A gavel banged in my head. Motion denied, pal.

“I’m very sorry about you and your wife having problems, but I am not at all comfortable with having you staying here. I mean we hardly know each other. I just don’t think it’s appropriate.”

His shoulders slumped, he mumbled something about how he completely understood, and he apologized for bothering me at such a late hour.

At the time, I was simply dumbfounded, but each time I think about that night, I am in disbelief over the utter gall it would take to show up on someone’s door step and ask if you could live with them or even just stay with them for a few days. I also later realized that he didn’t so much as hint at paying any rent to me for the privilege of sleeping under my roof and defiling my bathroom on a daily basis. Balls. Pure balls.

Retelling that story makes me want to install a peephole in my front door.

Here's a funny short film called "Dangerous Proximity" that won Best Film for this year's Minneapolis 48 Hour Film Project. Like all films in the project, it was written, shot, and edited from start to finish in 48 hours. Watch below, or click here to download the higher quality Quicktime 7 version. You might recognize the main spy character as Rich Kronfeld, a local comedic actor who played Wally Hotvedt Let's Bowl, which aired on several local Twin Cities stations in the 90's and on Comedy Central in 2000 and 2001. He also was featured in a portion of the documentary Trekkies for having built a disturbingly accurate and functional replica of some sort of funky motorized chair/robot thingy from the original Star Trek series.

Have I had difficulty finding a long term relationship because I’ve unknowingly worn pisswater-scented cologne for the last decade? Is Amber onto something, ladies? See her posting and my response requesting additional information.

I like kids. Just not yours. They annoy me. They are loud, ill-mannered, inbred little shits. You are so proud of them, yet you let them run rampant, screaming, arms a-flailing, and legs a-kicking. I would smack your child repeatedly downside the head with a bag of musk melon if I wouldn't be arrested or shunned by society for it. And yes, I said downside.

I also don't like other people's kids. That goes for the children of your friends, my friends, coworkers, casual acquaintances, anyone I've ever seen on tv, or farted toward.

Additionally, I wouldn't like my own kids. They would require time and financial resources that I am not willing to commit. I just couldn't be there emotionally for them, either. I'm only capable of loving a hot chick or possibly an adorable kitten. And while I wouldn't like my kids, I would probably feel kind of bad about emotionally scarring them through openly telling them I don't love them, pushing them away when they wanted a hug or "upsies," and refusing to feed them anything more elaborate than a bioengineered vitamin-rich mush that sells in 5 gallon pails at Sam's Club for $3.75. And much like your children, I most definitely would not beat them. But I would want to.

Other than that, I like kids.

Over the years, my friends and family have patiently endured many of my rants regarding conversations in the bathroom or talking to people who are using the bathroom. My stance is clear--don't. Even if it's just a number 1. Unless we're filming a porn scene and you're tickling my balls, I don't want you to talk to me while my dick is in my hand. And if it's a number 2, it is all the more egregious of an offense.

The evacuation of ones bowels or bladder is quiet time. These are sacred and spiritual moments in which we must contemplate our place in the universe and give thanks for the biological mechanics of our bodies. Talking to someone during this time is akin to shushing a child whispering a prayer before drifting off to sleep or defiling holy water with a used tampon. This is the one place in this world where God speaks directly to you, caresses your soul with his benevolent hand, and replenishes your spiritual juice box with cosmic grape juice.

The next time someone tries to talk to you while relieving yourself, just remind them, "I'm filling up my juice box in here!" then fling some poo at them.

If you are reading this post with a blog aggregator, you aren't getting the full effect. Please click here for the original posting.

I'm on one of those energy saving plans with the electric company, the kind where I save $10 a month for letting them cycle my central air conditioner's compressor on and off for a few minutes at a time when energy demand is high. Like now when it's almost 100 degrees outside. It seems like when it's this scorching, it's just enough so the AC has slight trouble keeping up. It is now 74 degrees in my house. SEVENTY FUCKING FOUR!!! Son of a cock sucking trollop! Are we living in the stone ages here? Sure, I know people that literally have NO air conditioning in their residences, be they houses or apartments, but they are not me. They are acclimatized to that sort of discomfort. My life is spent darting in and out of 72 degree homes, cars, office buildings, and retail establishments, and pissing and moaning every millisecond I'm outside of those comfort zones. I'm not used to this. I want it 72 degrees in my house NOW! I'm setting up a memorial fund in loving memory of my comfort. Details on how to donate will be posted later.

Some Girl waxes reflective over past relationships on her blog and reminds me of my own past. Thankfully, 99.9% of my breakups have been mutual or at least amicable and respectful, regardless of the initiator. However, years ago there was one woman who broke up with me in an immature, classless, and hurtful manner. But time heals all wounds. I still think of her now and then, and as I crouch in the bushes outside her house, peering through her windows when she arrives home from work, I think, "Shit! I hope I didn't drop my wallet in her bedroom while I was rifling through her underwear drawer."

Sorry to those of you who emailed me and said you might swing by, but the last of my non-RSVP'd friends emailed me today and officially crapped out on tomorrow night. You can't say I didn't try. Next time I'll organize with my friends and THEN announce it here. Now I just feel like an ass.

While I'm still holding out hope, that hope is fading. Not a single one of my friends can make it (or have not bothered to RSVP). Damn you and your coupled up activities! Your weddings and your weekends with the in-laws. I'm young! I'm single! I want to drink and carry on with loose women!

I'll keep you posted.

Whenever one of these things is plopped unceremoniously and unannounced on my desk, I freeze. I like to think of myself as a personable guy (no, seriously!!) with a deep-running creative streak, but it never fails--it doesn't matter whether it's a thank you, birthday, sympathy, get well, or congratulatory card. I never have a fucking clue what to write, so I invariably sign my name sans comment. Usually this means my signature will stand out like a sore thumb as if to say, "I'm the asshole who thinks so little of you that I can't even think of something to say...or refuse to take the time to think of something to say." In all honesty, usually more the latter.

Normally this lack of effort on my part is not at all a commentary on the value of a card. For example, today at work the company held a "picnic" (I put "picnic" in quotes since it was indoors) with burgers, dogs, chips, drinks, desserts, a raffle benefiting local charities, and several contests. It was a nice day, and a nice thing to do for the employees, so somebody passed around several thank you cards for everyone to sign, one for each of the company owners and executives responsible. I don't think it was necessary to pass around a card for that, but I thought it was a nice gesture. But when the folder was tossed onto my desk, that familiar dread rose in my throat like acrid bile. Not one, not two, but three cards. My mind want blank. I considered fighting through the mental darkness for about 5 seconds when I noticed another lone, commentless signature. That settled it. Scribble, scribble, scribble and toss to next hapless victim.

Sometimes I have to question what value I'm adding by signing the card. In college, I literally had just started a job on campus when a card came around for a departing coworker. It was littered with handwritten, sunshiny wishes like "We'll miss you!!" and cryptic in jokes like "Don't run over any kangaroos...ha ha!!" I didn't know this guy. Not only that, he lived in fucking HAWAII. The first contact I would ever have with him was going to be through this greeting card. Initially, I brushed the card aside. "I don't know him. I'm not signing this." Being new to the world of office politics, I thought this a perfectly reasonable response. Little did I know.

A hush and a stillness fell over the room. You would have thought I'd just herded a pig into a mosque and slit its throat during a prayer. A shrill female coworker chastised me. "It doesn't matter. You have to sign the card." Excuse me? I HAVE to? There are two things I have to do in this world: live and breathe. Signing a greeting card doesn't pay my mortgage or buy me bananas at the supermarket. Fuck you and your arbitrarily constructed office social conventions, bitch!

So anyway I signed the card. *cough* But I didn't write a comment. That was my small protest. However, somehow Mr Happy Trails ended up flying to the campus for a going away party. He opened his card at a luncheon in his honor (one I was not allowed to skip if I didn't want Miss Shrilla de Bitch up my ass), and of course, immediately zeroed in on my commentless signature. "Didn't know what to say, huh Jeremy?" Followed by uproarious laughter at the table. HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA. Thanks for making me look like a douche in front of everyone, asswipe.

In a later job, the daughter of an advisor for the company had a baby. In other words, neither she nor him were coworkers, though I had engaged in a 20-second conversation with the man once. Of course, this meant I had to sign a greeting card congratulating him for becoming a grandfather. Huh?

"Congratulations on doing nothing other than allowing your daughter to have sexual relations with a man!"

...or "Congratulations on a man actually being willing to touch your daughter to make an exceptionally ugly baby!"

As usual, I reluctantly caved to office peer pressure and signed the card--no comment. With my mild complaint about signing it, you would think I’d given the Olsen twins a dutch oven. Which doesn’t sound bad (who doesn’t want to give them a dutch oven), but I’m talking circa 1987. Last I checked, giving a pair of twin billionares a dutch oven was hilarious. Giving a pair of twin babies a dutch oven in the height of the Reaganomics era--not so much.

Unfortunately, most people don’t give a flying fuck about the person or the card and sign without thinking about it. Complaining to the apathetic will change nothing. The rest, as small of a percentage as they are, actually care TONS about the person and the sentiment the card is sending. Those people are usually the sweet, matronly older women. And don't let the puffy "World's Best Grandma" sweatshirt fool you--do not complain to them unless you want a stapler sandwich shoved down your throat (and your balls will be the bread). I've learned the hard way that resistance is useless. Just sign the card, pass it to the next guy, and pray for a quick, merciful death.

I just can't shake this bone-shattering cough. Just when I think it's getting better, it gets worse. Today I could barely speak my voice was so hoarse. My coworkers seemed somewhat happy about it.

That's right, you bed wetting jizz monkeys. I'm talking John fucking Davidson. Why talk about him now? Because muthafucka is RELEVANT, bitches! So stifle that shit. John Davidson, whose website I discovered after making a one-off comment about him in a posting from a few days ago, apparently remains a god walking amongst mere mortals. I'll pause here to allow you time to throw your soiled underwear at him, ladies. Ok, now let's--HEY! No goddamn hotel keys! I will pass him your fucking hotel keys. Just throw them in the bowl over there. No! The one next to that one. Yes, the bigger bowl that is full of hotel keys. Not the bowl of Mike and Ikes. Do not sully the Davidson's Mike and Ikes.

I only wish he had hired a little more professional help for his website at johndavidson.com. The last thing you want when visiting a website is a long-winded audio intro that loads and plays without asking. Not only that, one that plays in a repeating loop unless you stop it. "Hi, I'm Jeremy. Glad you found my blog. Thanks for stopping by. Here you'll find stories about the splattering of body fluids, anal fistulas, monkeys dry humping toddlers in bib overalls, and the horrors of gingivitis. Before you leave, be sure to leave your info in the guest book so I can spam you with requests to buy the CD I recorded 20 years ago but have only sold three copies of. Hi, I'm Jeremy. Glad you found my blog. Thanks for stopping by..."

Speaking of whatting-the-fucking, do not miss the most curious rendition of "Cat's in the Cradle" ever recorded. He even does a voice for the kid. The song is accompanied by the demo track from a Casio keyboard and a broken Speak n' Spell.

UPDATE: This event has been canceled. Sorry, folks!

Unfortunately, this is still tentative, as I'm finding a lot of my friends are out of town or otherwise previously committed Saturday night (it sucks being one of the last of your single friends). I will try to give a firm yay or nay by Thursday or Friday. This is the first time I've tried something like this, and I'd like at least one or two people I know to come lest I be mortified by NO ONE showing up.

This is me being social and hoping have a few interesting conversations with new people. Don't leave me hanging!. *grin*

Here are the (still tentative) plans:

Place: Brit's Pub on Nicollet Mall in Minneapolis(between 11th and 12th St, across from Orchestra Hall/Peavey Plaza - Directions)
Date/Time: Saturday, July 15th, 8 pm

If the weather cooperates (e.g. isn't unbearably hot and muggy or raining), I will probably be milling about the lawn bowling area. I also plan to wear my brand spanking new afterglide.com t-shirt so you can more easily recognize me.

What is it with all this pirate obsession lately? And this all came well before the release of the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel. Girls on MySpace declaring their adoration for the pirate lifestyle, tv commercials, SNL skits. "Arrgggh, me matey" this and "Shiver me timbers" that. Listen to me now. Stop it. No more pirate crap. It's weird.

I just returned from an entertaining, yet frustrating evening at Myth in Maplewood tonight. The lineup was The Hush Sound, Dresden Dolls, and the headliner was Panic at the Disco (and I'm aware they spell it "Panic!" with the exclamation point, but I'd rather waste more time explaining why I'm not spelling it that way than fuck around actually spelling it that way). As I mentioned earlier, I went primarily for the Dresden Dolls, but also enjoy some of Panic's music. Unfortunately, this was an 18+ show, and a lot of chatty little teen princesses and preppy dipshits love Panic's music far more than I do. The Dolls' fans tend to be a little older or at least with more of an appreciation for angst than what's on sale at Ambercrombie and Fitch

I had never attended a concert at Myth before, as it's a relatively new venue in the Twin Cities area. I believe it's the first major concert venue in suburbia (or at least the first new one in quite some time), far flung from the hallowed halls of First Avenue & 7th St Entry or arenas like the Target Center. It is literally across the street from a shopping mall. My first impression was that it is much larger than I expected. The parking seemed inadequate given the capacity of the facility and the size of the crowd that was lined up around the building, through the parking lot, and down the street that ran past the mall.

As my friend Mary and I stood near the cordoned off area where the tour buses were pulled up to the building, a guy who looked like a skinnier version of Chris Cornell emerged and began asking people in the crowd if they new where the nearest movie theater was. He asked the same question to Mary, and as she explained to him that we didn't know this area very well, it dawned on me that I always drive by the 17 screen theater in White Bear Lake whenever I drive to or from Duluth (usually that's the only time I ever drive to suburbs that far to the north). I mentioned that to him, then Mary remembered the one in Oakdale. He asked if anything was closer, quipping that they couldn't drive the tour bus to the theater. Prior to this, I had it in my head he was a roadie, but after that remark, it dawned on me that he was far too delicate and fancy of a lad to lug around heavy speakers and sound equipment. He must be a performer, but I didn't recognize him.

Mary whipped out her new phone with high-speed internet access (I have internet on my phone, but it's marginally faster than dialup--my shit is so 2005, ya'll) and began searching for nearby theaters. Meanwhile, I made small talk with Chris Cornell's amiable and delicate doppelganger. He asked if I was familiar with all of the bands playing, and I explained how I'd originally bought the ticket for the Dresden Dolls, had heard a few Panic songs and dug them, and was not aware there was a third band. He said that the third band was The Hush Sound, who I'd heard of, but had never actually heard.

It was about this time that a bouncy teen girl behind us giddily suggested that he get her and her friend in backstage since it was her friend's birthday. He smiled, said he couldn't do that, but perhaps he'd try to somehow say hello onstage. At this point I asked him directly which band he was with (I didn't know what anyone from Hush or Panic looked like), and he said he was here with Panic as a dancer and had appeared in one of their videos (I suspect it's this one). Now it all made sense. His wiry build, the fact that he'd be onstage, yet he wasn't being mobbed by adoring fans. Click!

By that time, Mary had found a discount theater just down the road showing slightly older movies like Mission Impossible 3. He seemed quite happy with this since they'd been on the road for quite some time and hadn't had a chance to see some of the movies listed. He thanked us, and thus ended our brush with a guy who isn't a star but does stuff on a stage that stars are on. My postcard to Mom is in the mail.

Finally the doors opened, and we slowly made our way. Inside, Myth reminds me of a larger version of the Quest in Minneapolis. Granted, the Quest does not have semi-private VIP lounges with balconies overlooking the stage, but both a second floor bar area with an excellent view of the stage. The Quest, however, usually limits access to the second floor to 21+, serving booze there while keeping the main floor dry. It undoubtedly makes it far easier to limit underage drinking.

Once past security, we made a beeline upstairs to get away from the throbbing throng. All of the spots along the rail were taken, but we found a pair of very short girls standing nearly dead center to the stage and settled in behind them. Maybe 20 to 30 minutes later, several more of their friends arrived and wedged their way in front of us. I found this annoying (me, annoyed? try to hide your shock), but they were also on the short side so fine, whatever.

The Hush Sound came out first, did about 30 minutes of very catchy, upbeat songs, and skeddadled offstage to make room for the Dresden Dolls. The Dolls opened with the frantic "Moonlight Madness" from their latest CD at which point the girls who had wedged their way in front of us began yakking loudly, quite obviously disinterested in the Dolls. Mary is not a shy person, to say the least, and ordered them to quit their yammering or go somewhere else. They then shifted the conversation to the two ditzs nearest me, at which point I snapped at them to zip it. One made a half-hearted comment under their breaths about "being allowed to talk" but they fell mostly silent...for the time being.

After the first tune, the Dolls launched into probably their most well-known song, "Coin-Operated Boy," delighting the crowd with their usual on-stage replacement of the line, "I can even take him in the bath" with "I can even fuck him in the ass." Then waves of irony pulsed from the stage as the singer from Panic came out and helped them do a cover of (I can't make this up) Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time." Evidently this is not the first time they've covered that song (portions of the linked video are NOT work safe).

This was followed by a cover of an obscure European songwriter from the 60's and an ill-advised Leonard Cohen cover that really started to lose the crowd. It was at this point that one of the airheads I'd previously barked at began yelling a conversation to her friend about 6 feet away from her. I gave them about a minute before saying something to the effect of, "Excuse me, but would you shut up??" Six-feet-away girl then loudly says to one of her friends, "Is this guy serious? He just told me to shutup!"

Blonde ditz girl struggles with a response for several moments, then turns to me and says, "I don't know what your problem is, but you have to accept that this is a social function and people are going to have conversations." A SOCIAL FUNCTION? Let's see. Looking at my ticket stub, it distinctly reads "Concert." Not a box social, ice cream social, or mixer. A concert. Where people come to listen to artists performing music on stage. Yes, concerts are loud, and people will be making comments to each other or yelling at a late-arriving friend to guide them over. But this conversation had narrative, characters, a climax and if I didn't stop the train in time, there would even be a denouement. Fuck if I was going to let there be a denouement!

"We're just talking!!!"

"Then go fucking talk somewhere else! I paid to hear the music, not you yelling 6 inches from my ear."

Then she thought she'd get personal, assuming Mary and I were "together" and said, "I'm sorry if you're having a shitty date, but don't take it out on us." I'm not even sure what that was supposed to mean.

"Who said I was on a date?"

She glared at me, intending to stare me down.

Side note and word to the wise, attempting to stare me down is like trying to stop a 747 with a Lincoln Log and a Coke can. I have a cold, dead stare that will drill a hole to the back of your skull. You will watch care and emotion drain from my visage and wonder if I have a soul, then realize that indeed I do--yours.

At a loss for further argument, she turned around and neither she nor her friends said anything above a whisper for the rest of the set.

Thankfully, this confrontation concluded before the end of the meandering Cohen cover, and I didn't feel I had really missed out on anything. But now we've had three cover songs, two of which no one has ever heard. Can we get back to YOUR stuff please? Hearing my telepathic request, they announced they would play "Half Jack," one of my favorites. They started with an improvised drum-heavy intro that must have gone on for 5, maybe even 10 minutes. Brian, the drummer, banged away so frantically that he broke 3 sticks. Impressive and fun to watch for a while, but they milked the intro to the point you could imagine the crowd collectively checking their watches. Finally, they moved forward, nailed it, and left the stage. I was disappointed they didn't play more of their own stuff, but happy with those they did play.

By this time, Mary and I were so hot, sweaty, and tired of being surrounded by the N'Sync teenybopper set that we decided to bolt. I seriously contemplated staying for the first two Panic songs and yammering with Mary about Home Depot and Bed Bath and Beyond as close as possible to the girls in front of us, but decided it wasn't worth standing there while they set the stage up. We stopped by Taco Bell for a quick bite on the way home, but I kept my order pretty small. I'd already feasted on the soul of a chatty blonde and was coming down with oral diarrhea. I knew I was going to be up all night with that shit.

Yet another successful and fun weekend was had with the old college buddies up in Duluth. Hiking (farther north), poker, beer, pizza, and yes, much farting and laughing about it. That's what guys do, even in their 30's. Come and get it, ladies.

Thankfully I was able to nap in the car on the ride home as I have been fighting a summer cold. Last night I had a hacking spell that literally caused me to nearly black out. To the virus that has infected me, you may have had temporary control of my body, but I intend to flush you out of my system by drinking an ice cream pail full of boiling hot orange juice. Scalding vitamin C up your ass, bitch!

But I must rush off, as I'm heading up to the Myth to see the Dresden Dolls and Panic at the Disco. Though the Dolls were my personal draw to this show. I finally got their first song book in the mail yesterday and already spent some time tickling the ivories picking out a few of the tunes in the book. And there are photos of Amanda Palmer nude in there, a discovery about which I'm thus far ambivalent.

P.S. Check out my latest shirt addition to the afterglide store. Buy your I pooped in your mailbox tee today!

In addition to the apology and free Blizzard from DQ, my buddy's boss ended up relenting and letting him head back to Duluth from his business trip. So let the road tripping, beer swilling, and fart lighting begin! I promise not to drink beer in the car but reserve the right to light farts in the car.

Tomorrow will there will be some hiking. I'm thankful we've decided to start making these somewhat active weekends since my caloric intake usually increases threefold on these outings between beer, pizza, snacking, gnoshing, gnawing, tickling, and snuggling. Wait...um....ignore the tickling and snuggling part.

I swear I'm going to fix the backspace on this fucking keyboard someday.

...or "How north Eagan Dairy Queen makes nice with Jeremy"

You may remember my post from a few days ago tearing the north Eagan Dairy Queen a new one for the extremely poor service I received on Monday night. As has usually been the case in the handful of instances where I've written complaint letters to corporate entities, today I received a response offering to rectify the situation. Early this morning, I received an email from Dairy Queen's corporate office indicating that they had passed my concerns along to the franchise owner.

A little before 10 am, the email was followed by a phone call from a gentleman named Dennis. I am hazy on the first part of the conversation (I'm running on about 4+ hours of sleep today), so I don't recall if he identified himself as the owner of the franchise, the manager, or both. Dennis apologized for the incident and explained the obvious, that this was a result of sloppy, hurried work by his teenage employees, and that he planned to use this incident as an example to them of why the details in customer service are so important. He offered me a certificate for a free Blizzard, which I accepted, of course.

As I said to Dennis on the phone, his apology was appreciated, and really this was all I was after from the beginning. In the closing portion of my complaint message to DQ, I explained that I understood that mistakes happen and that not every customer exchange can be perfect. A simple and clear apology from the start could have avoided 90% of my hard feelings about this mistake. Though I may still have complained in some fashion after the second mistake with my order.

This goes to show that if you have a poor customer service experience, it pays to air your grievance with the company. If they don't respond to your individual complaint, then they most certainly will respond when multiple complaints of similar problems roll in from other customers. In fact, yours may just be the one that tips the scales.

And for the record, usually actually telling a company they can suck your balls doesn't have much effect. There was no mention of the sucking of testicles in my very even-keeled letter to DQ. That's best left for blogging about your experience or retelling the story during a eulogy.

Inspired by Amber over at Amber Colored Life, I've decided to take another crack at the shirt business. I'm pleased to introduce a shirt just for the ladies. Tell the world you're excited about this year's new scents with your The new summer douches are in! tee.

A friend of mine was going to host our annual get together in Duluth this weekend, an event involving at least a half dozen guys drinking, farting, and playing poker, but now the trip is in jeopardy because a stupid VP in his company might make him stay on a business trip out of town to work over the weekend. I described what he should tell his boss and also drew this picture to illustrate more clearly. His name has been blurred to protect his anonymity and job (like anyone he works with ever reads this blog anyway). Note the oddly short middle finger he is giving and the doe-eyed look of shock on the VP's face. Plus I didn't know if it was a man or woman VP, so I made the character as asexual as possible. Is that a hint of a sagging bosom or ripped pecs? Moderately short female hairstyle or luscious John Davidson style locks? You be the judge. P.S. I quite honestly can draw MUCH better than this. This is a quickly scrawled scratching where time was limited. I had to get him this drawing ASAP for comic timing. You understand. Whatever. You can fuck off, too.

According to an Associated Press article I read today, there is a group of twits called the Simplified Spelling Board trying to push standardization of phonetic spelling for American English. For example, "My doughnut is a brown color just like raccoon poop" might be spelled, "Mie dohnut iz a brown cuhler just liek rakoon poop."

They are dead serious about this.

Gone would be the nuances of "say," "hey," and "sleigh". Or "womb" not sounding like "bomb." Say, hey, slay, woom, and bahm would replace them.

Allow me to step into the long line of folks queued up to smack these people upside the head with a sock full of blistering hot clue. Just because you are too stupid to learn how to spell doesn't mean you need to lower everyone else's standards.

What about homophones? Words like "way" and "weigh" would no longer have visual differentiation. Normally context would distinguish these words, e.g. "The way too keep trak uhv your hehlth iz too way yorself dayly." But what about "Santa's slaying dissappoynts millyuhns uhv chilldrehn." Either the children are sad because Santa was murdered or he just used his "slay" to bring them really crappy gifts this year.

What about kids who've already gone through years of schooling to teach them to spell one way? Won't this screw up their development trying to rewire this crap into their brains?

Here's the kicker--a change like this wouldn't be free. Computer spell check software would have to be updated (or at least turned off or not used), book editors would be out of work, and millions of English majors would find their degrees COMPLETELY useless as opposed to mostly useless.

To make matters worse, there would STILL be morons who couldn't spell their way out of a sack of wet toilet paper. Particularly those who say things like "liberry" instead of "library" or "hunnerd" instead of "hundred." You'd end up with sentences like, "I duhn wents tah thuh liebarry cuz ahd chekt out purtneer a hunnurd books and thay wuz ahl ohverdoo."

Let me tell you right now that if such an initiative ever took hold (as it most certainly won't), if I weren't allowed to savagely murder the people who spelled words this way, then I most surely would hang myself from the nearest tall tree. My ability to spell is one more thing to hold over the heads of the stupid and unclean. Taking that away would crush one of the cornerstones of my existence--feeling good about myself because other people are idiots.

Instead of enjoying our gorgeous evening, my lame ass just spent a few hours working on my blog template. You'll notice that the posting text and title colors have changed to match the afterglide logo. I've also redone the logo to brighten it up and have added a faint watermark-like background image that runs along the right side (it's basically a very large afterglide logo rotated 90 degrees clockwise).

The biggest change, one that I'm not sure I'm completely sold on yet, is that the first letter of each posting is now shown as a letter matching the afterglide logo font (what would you call this--a drop letter?). This is done with some rather nifty javascript I wrote (if I do say so myself) and the painstaking process of creating an individual image file for each letter of the alphabet. I've tested it in Internet Explorer 6 and Firefox 1.5. If you are getting error messages, something looks screwy, or you plain don't like it, feel free to drop me an email or comment.

I just finished sending a complaint message on Dairy Queen's website about the experience I had at the north Eagan Dairy Queen off of Denmark Ave. As much as I like to piss and moan, it takes a REALLY horrible lack of customer service for me to write a complaint letter to whatever corporate entity hovers above the business that jacked me around. Tonight was such a night.

After picking up a few groceries and deciding I wanted to try one of their new Caramel Chip Cheesequake Blizzards, I rolled up to the drive through a little after 9 pm. Usually, the staff at this location greet you with "Welcome to north Eagan Dairy Queen, what can I get for you?" Tonight I got a brisk "Whaddya want?"

"Yeah, I'll have a medium Caramel Chip--"

"Ok. You're total comes to [unintelligible speaker squawk]."

"Umm...ok. Thanks."

I thought it a tad rude that he cut me off like that, but I had stumbled on the word "Cheesequake" momentarily and figured he knew what I meant. It is their big promotional item right now after all.

I pulled up to the window, and my first indicator that something was amiss was when he announced my total as being $3.69. Usually a medium Blizzard is 4 bucks and change. But I thought maybe they were on sale and didn't worry about it. He handed me a covered cup, a spoon, and napkins, and I pulled ahead, only to stop when I realized the cup he had handed me was at least twice the size of a normal medium Blizzard. I popped the cover, and sure enough, it appeared to be a vanilla shake. Son of a bitch!

I pulled around into a parking spot, grabbed my aborted excuse of an ice cream treat, and marched to the front door of the Dairy Queen, leaving a trail of muttered curse words behind me. Of course, on a gorgeous and clear summer evening, the eve of a major summer holiday no less, the Dairy Queen was packed with borderline obese children who don't have enough money to pay for what they want (everything), doddering retirees who pay for their orders in change, and me, an easily riled 30-something who just wanted a fucking delicious ice cream treat to shovel into his slobbering wordhole.

Periodically reminding myself that everybody makes mistakes, I impatiently waited my turn and narrowly averted bursting several capillaries in my eyes. When it came my turn, I was relieved to find that I was speaking with an older gentleman in a polo shirt who appeared to be the manager. Keeping my annoyance in check, I calmly explained the mixup to him, though I probably was a smidge sarcastic when I punctuated it with "...and instead got what appears to be a gargantuan cup of plain soft serve." He turned around, and asked his pimply crew of minions, "Hey, who screwed this order up? He ordered a Caramel Chip Cheesequake Blizzard and got a vanilla shake." One particularly pimply lad, his DQ cap cocked askew, snottily snapped, "No, that's a caramel shake!"

The manager turned to me, said, "He must have misheard you." He asked me again what it was I'd originally ordered (didn't he just ask specifically who screwed up the Caramel Chip Cheesequake Blizzard?). I repeated that I wanted a medium Caramel Chip Cheesequake Blizzard, a phrase that emasculated men everywhere each time it passed my lips. He then proceeded to make one for me with all the haste of a constipated tortoise. He turned around and handed it to me unceremoniously with a "Here you go."

Wait. No "Sorry about the mixup, sir" or even "Sorry 'bout that." Just "Here you go." Are you kidding me? No apology whatsoever? I was perturbed to say the least.

With familiar sense of indignance growing in my chest, I drove home, put my groceries away, and plopped down on the couch to devour my chilled conquest. Even the first sweet taste of chocolate and caramel-laced soft serve could not completely quell my annoyance. After about three bites, however, my sense of injustice turned a fresh edge as I realized there was not one fucking bit of cheesecake in my Blizzard. Another frozen abortion in a cup!

The steam rolling from my ears quickly melted the remaining ice cream into a soupy reminder of how I'd been screwed yet again. I grabbed my laptop, pulled up Dairy Queen's website, and submitted a scathing (but less profanity-laced) account of my experience, adding that this had been the single most disappointing experience I'd had at a Dairy Queen franchise in my nearly 30 years as a customer (ok, never mind I just turned 30, but I'm sure I was snuck a bite or two of DQ soft serve as barely postnatal pup).

And that, my friends, is why north Eagan Dairy Queen can suck my balls!

On July 15th, afterglide will be one year old. Do you care? I doubt it. But let's get drunk anyway.

I'm just gauging interest at this point, but anyone interested in ganging up on a few drinky drinks in downtown Minneapolis on the night of Saturday, July 15th? Email me, or comment on this posting. If we can get a good crowd, I'll post details here. Ideas for location are welcome.

This is subject to response. If it doesn't seem like too many people are interested, I'll probably scrap the idea. So stop lurking, and start drinking!

What time are we going to Owatonna on Tuesday again? Is your wife's pregnancy still going well? Are you excited to be a new dad? How did that job interview go? When do you think you'll move back down to the cities? Still doing well with the chemotherapy? Is your friend still having trouble with her husband? Are you excited to move to Denver? When were you thinking of planning the Vegas trip? Do you still find yourself thinking about reverting back to your old bad eating habits ever? When you look in the mirror, do you see the same beautiful woman as everyone else? Are you still mad at me? Are things going well with your new boyfriend? Do you still feel guilty about talking to me? Is your sister's baby doing ok? What about her marriage? What's the deal with you posting a personals ad every once in a while? Can I see the photos from your vacation to Europe? Why did you stop talking to me? Did you really have cancer, or were you lying to me to get rid of me? What weekends would work for us to come home? What's his address so I can send him a sympathy card? Any plans for the 4th? Where are you working these days? When can I see you again? Are you still a pothead? Why don't you just go back to school instead of working in that crappy place? When are you finally going to come to visit? Are you over that guy yet? Have you moved on with your life?

CIA intelligence officials today confirmed the man appearing in a pair of videos posted on a known al-Quaeda website is indeed Osama bin Laden. These are the third and fourth public contacts from bin Laden in as many days, preceded by two recent audio messages posted on similar websites. It appears, however, that bin Laden did not intend for one of these tapes to be made public.

The first video is nearly 13 minute long and begins with bin Laden completely nude, apparently being shaven from the waist down by several muscular, yet delicate men. One of the men performing the shaving appears to fellate bin Laden for approximately 30 seconds, after which bin Laden is unable to maintain his erection, becomes enraged, and beats the man about the head, chest, and genitals with the butt of an AK-47 and a Ben Wa double dong.

The video then cuts out momentarily, and the time stamp skips ahead approximately 2 hours. Bin Laden is now masturbating with his entire body slathered in crude oil and body glitter, surrounded by softly flickering candles with Peaches and Herb's "Reunited" playing in the background. Off camera, a man's voice is heard to express concern over the open flames of the candles near bin Laden's shaven and crude oil-slicked body. Again, bin Laden loses his erection and becomes enraged, this time leaving the frame. The sounds of shouting and a physical altercation are heard, punctuated by a single gunshot.

Bin Laden returns to the frame and resumes masturbating, struggling to maintain any semblence of arousal. With much effort, he finally brings himself to orgasm, with only the tiniest, most pathetic dribble of semen visible. Bin Laden is then heard to utter what can loosely be translated into "Well that was $50 worth of effort for a nickel's worth of shit." The video then ends.

In the second video, released several hours later, a red-faced bin Laden, eyes rapidly blinking, attempts to cover up his embarrassing video boner. "Yeah, America! That's what you get! For every decade your crusader forces occupy sacred holy lands, I will release another scornful piece of performance art...um...like the one with me...[coughs] masturbating with the whole shaving thing. So that shit was totally planned...and...uh...shit. So there, fuckers!"

In a press conference in the White House Rose Garden, a clearly confused President George Bush responded with a "performance piece" of his own, filling his trousers full of petroleum jelly and a bear pancreas while farting the theme from Punky Brewster and eating a Payday candy bar. The video was sent via FedEx same day shipping to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, MN, where it is already on permanent display.

One of my favorite Saturday Night Live fake commercials is for the bank who was so slow on the draw in coming into the internet age, that the only web address left for it was www.clownpenis.fart. The entire commercial is very serious in tone, touting the conveniences of your one-stop financial management tool, www.clownpenis.fart. This is why I had to chuckle tonight when I randomly decided to type www.ihavetopoop.com into my browser and up popped a site full of links to financial info for loans, credit cards and even links to help book travel. "START HERE" screams the banner at the top, as a woman's hand earnestly points to information they've found ostensibly here at www.ihavetopoop.com. Looking for information on childcare? It's at www.ihavetopoop.com! Trying to find gay midget porn? It's at www.ihavetopoop.com! It's a community gathering place online.

Actually this is fairly common practice. Shady outfits will register internet domains for every feasible word and phrase you can think of that someone might type or mistype in their browser. Then they fill it full of banner ads, sponsored links, popups, and all around trash of no value to anyone. I'm sure many of them end up trying to install spyware on your computer too. But not www.ihavetopoop.com. I've got a feeling these guys are different. They have to poop. And when you have to poop, you're too busy to swindle people. Have faith, America.