Late in 1996, during my junior year as a computer science major at the University of North Dakota, my roommate and I began doing contract web design and programming work for a guy I'll call Jake. Jake lived in East Grand Forks. Like East-Anything, East Grand Forks, Minnesota is Grand Forks, North Dakota's mildly retarded cousin. He is a good guy, doesn't do anyone any harm, but really isn't bringing much in the way of culture or sparkling wit to your cocktail parties.

A lot of our work could be done from home, but we often endured hours-long unpaid evening meetings in the apartment of our employer and his baby momma. These "meetings" usually involved him showing us all of the expensive computer gadgetry he'd purchased and proving that he had utterly no idea how to use it. Being that his home-based computer repair and web design business was in fledgling months, he lived in a rundown apartment complex, and he was kind of a bonehead when it came to computers, my roommate and I puzzled aloud over how he could afford such shiny doodaddery. We chalked it up to some sort of unseen genius business acumen.

But we kept working for him. The work was relatively good experience, and the money was great, a whopping $10 an hour. For a college student in 1996, that wasn't too shabby. We created graphics for his website, worked on an online shopping area with a cart and payment system, and sub-contracted web design work that came in through his business. As the winter wore on, his meetings and phone calls became so frequent, that we dug into our cobweb-filled college boy pockets and ponied up for caller id so we wouldn't have to be stuck talking with him for an hour every day. We also eventually demanded that he pay us for the time we spent in his pointless meetings. After screaming at us for half an hour over how good we had it and how much he was paying us, he relented and agreed.

The winter of 1996/1997 was particuarly brutal in Grand Forks. Snow flew often and piled 10 babies high. Then spring came, and it came suddenly. It seemed like one day it was zero degrees with several feet of snow on the ground, then the next it was sunny and in the 70's. This was not good for the river levels. Before we knew it, the Red River spilled over its banks, and the entire area was evacuated. When I finally was able to get back to my apartment to live full time several weeks later, Jake called me up and excitedly told me how he'd picked up dozens of computers from the curbs in front of businesses and people's homes. Come on over! We're fixing them up! Cash money out the ass like tamales at Christmas! I tried to explain to him that there was no way we'd ever get these computer running, but he was determined. After paying me to scrub in vain on rusty computer parts for several hours, he finally joined me in the clue closet.

That whole summer after the flood, Grand Forks seemed like a city in limbo. Entire neighborhoods had not only been flooded, but entirely wiped away by fast-moving water. Many businesses were closed for good, and the economic future of the city and its denizens were in question. Yet Jake somehow managed to lease a prime piece of retail space in a part of downtown East Grand Forks being revitalized and rebuilt. He now had an honest-to-goodness storefront. A very expensive storefront. Again, we assumed his business must be going like gangbusters and dismissed any questions over how he could afford it.

Once classes started for senior year, my roommate and I decided that we no longer had time to work for Jake. We both worked part time at an on-campus job maintaining a NASA-funded educational website, and frankly we didn't want to deal with Jake's screaming fits or caustic personality anymore. We informed him we would no longer be working for him, which he took surprisingly well, and we moved on.

In the summer of 1998, I moved to Willmar, Minnesota, about 100 miles west of the Twin Cities area, to take my first job out of college. I had dollar signs in my eyes and pudding in my pants. I thought the salad days were finally here! Months into my Willmar stay, my former roommate emailed me a link to an article on the Grand Forks Herald's website. It was about Jake and his store. He had been arrested for using his business as a front to deal weed and coke. And this was not his first time in the drug dealing racket. He'd been busted down south on at least one occasion for dealing cocaine. The expensive computer equipment and store front. The mood swings. The shady people we often saw coming out of his apartment when we'd show up for meetings. His apparent lack of knowledge about computers. It all made sense now. We'd been working for a drug dealer for months on end and didn't even realize it. Pudding in my pants indeed.

Usually my breakfast during the week consists of a single banana. It's packed with nutrients, delicious, easy to transport to work, and is a healthy alternative to muffins or donuts (who was the guy that decided fried doughnuts slathered in frosting and pumped full of gelatinous fruit-flavored goo should be a breakfast item?). Perhaps it was my post-fair guilt-driven 30 minutes of weights and 6+ miles of speed and incline intervals on the treadmill last night kicking my metabolism into overdrive, but this morning the banana didn't cut it. By 9:30, my stomach was rumbling like a pair of mincing gangs in an alley in a broadway musical.

I wasn't going to make it to my Healthy Choice soup at lunch, so in an act of shame and desperation, I plugged a dollar into the vending machine for a package declaring itself to be a Texas-sized cinnamon roll. That's right--a baked good slathered in sugary frosting. But not just any old baked good slathered in frosting, friends! This was the 2005 & 2006 Automatic Merchandiser Readers' Choice Pastry of the Year! Which is confusing. What are they reading? Who's reading it? Are these the merchandisers--sorry, automatic merchandisers--reading this, or are these vending machine patrons reading something? If this was the Pastry of the Year, what did the other processed crap taste like? What constitutes a vending machine pastry? Do those crackers with the red plastic spreading stick that come with peanut butter or a cheese-like substance count as a pastry? Are Twinkies a pastry? Are Twinkies even food? What are the other categories for the Automatic Merchandiser Reader's Choice?
Candy Bar of the Year? Overpriced Breath Mints of the Year? Shitty 25-Cent Toy in a Plastic Bubble of the Year?

Maybe I should see if there is a prize for Vending Machine Customer of the Year. The prize is not having to eat out of a vending machine.

Ok, so I'm engaging in hyperbole as to the steaminess and hotness of this poop, but according to this article, Diablo's movie Juno will start filming in January for release by the end of 2007. They also have actors for the two main characters. I believe it was originally supposed to start filming in May, then later was postponed to "this fall." Now January. We'll see about that. But it looks like Diablo has plenty to keep her busy regardless.

So NOW can I be a breathlessly vacuous commentator for Access Hollywood?

Over the weekend, my friend Katie announced her engagement. First and foremost, congratulations again, Katie! I am truly excited for her, and while I have yet to meet the lucky guy after extending more than one invite to them to various social gatherings at my house and elsewhere (hint, hint, Katie!!), I'm sure he's a keeper from the sounds of it.

As happy as I am for her, her engagement does serve as an ever-so-mildly stinging reminder of my perpetual single status, particularly since she and I dated for a while when we first met. Yet again, life moves forward for those I've dated in the past, while I'm stuck in neutral at age 30, no closer to--well, much of anything than I was 5 years ago.

Not helping matters, my recent spate of dating has left me feeling burned out. I feel like I'm just going through the motions now, not really invested in the repetitive getting-to-know-you conversations, visiting the same bars and restaurants for the same drinks, same meals, same questions, same answers, and same end result--not being interested or being interested but not having that interest returned. I think it's time to shift my full focus on my friends, family, and myself right now.

Finally, a break from shaving my legs and ass for a while!

The only reasons one would endure the heaving throngs of unwashed, sun bleached masses at the Minnesota State Fair would be to eat deep fried crap on a stick and watch the aforementioned wandering mob.

The rule of thumb one must remember when eating at the State Fair is that each deep fried food that you eat will lop a full 3 months off of your expected life span. Choose wisely, and ask yourself if it is worth it. Have you eaten it before? Skip it, unless it is a staple or must-have fair food like cheese curds. Is it new and googaw gee whiz? Is there a long line of slack-jawed, sunburned fat asses waiting to order one? Then slip into line and prepare to sign away 90 days of your tether to the mortal coil.

My usual fair partner is my friend Mary, and while we usually go on or near the last day, this year she will be out of town Labor Day weekend. Before our quest for coronaries, Mary wanted to stop by the new Miracle of Birth barn near the entrance we used. I grew up on a farm, and while we didn't have livestock, I have seen many a calf, foal, piglet, and baby chimp in diapers in my day. But what the hell. It's the fair, and baby animals are cute. Why not? I had never been in the old Miracle of Birth barn, but the new one was quite impressive with its flat panel high def monitors all over the place showing a closed circuit feed of live births, or in our case, we missed the birth, but saw a newborn calf taking its very first tentative and wobbly steps. If it is a typical farm animal (horses, cattle, pigs, chickens, lambs, chimps, etc.), then there was a shit ton of baby versions of those animals in that building.

Speaking of shit, I saw the best hand-written warning sign ever scrawled and taped onto an animal pen. The exact words, "This cow has diarrhea. If her backend is facing you -> back up" Bless you for telling me! You expect to smell some shit in the animal barn, but unless you're manhandling swollen cow teat, you don't expect to walk out covered in splattered animal waste. I paid $1500 for the three-piece suit I wore to the fair (I buy a new one for the fair each year then never wear it again), and I was damned if I was going to have it sprayed down with grain-fed cow crap.

After watching the previously mentioned calf take its first steps and after I licked my chops over some deliciously bun-sized hours-old piglets, we headed to the food building in search of our first conquest, deep fried cream cheese-filled pickle slices with ranch dipping sauce. Let me just tell you that I love pickles. I'll go down on a gas station pickle like a ten dollar whore in a truck stop parking lot. And the thought of deep fried pickles--with cream cheese no less--sounded utterly fantastic. And I was not disappointed. Mary and I split an order of them and later both agreed they were the best thing we ate today.

Mary now wanted to quench her thirst with some root beer at the 1919 Root Beer stand. Now that she mentioned it, a root beer float sounded like it would hit the spot. She ordered a large root beer, I ordered a small float, and we headed over to the craft/creative building. I always roll my eyes a little when she wants to go in there, but I always forget that it never fails to delight me each year with a treasure trove of entries ranging from puzzling and tacky to astonishing in their intricacy and detail. This year, there was an amazing hand-made guitar and for some reason, a bust of a very angry Jesus. I can practically hear the bust screaming, "I see what you do when you're alone at night, and you should be ashamed of yourself. But mostly you should be ashamed when you are under the bleachers at junior high girls volleyball games!" Sorry, Jesus. I know. *hangs head in shame*

After the scolding from angry ceramic Jesus, Mary wanted to try some lingonberry ice cream. I had a bite, and it was delicious, but I was saving room for other things. If I want something lingonberry-ish, I just go to the Ikea 10 minutes from my house. Plus lingonberries sound too much like dingleberries. Dingleberry ice cream does not sound appetizing. I'll bet there would be ass hair in it.

Our next item on the agenda was hot dish on a stick. Let it be known that in North Dakota and Minnesota, what other parts of the country call casserole is often called hot dish here. And hot dish on a stick, a new item at the fair this year, is tater tots, pork, beef, and corn dipped in batter, deep fried, and served with a cream of mushroom dipping sauce. It was actually more flavorful than I thought it would be. However, the cream cheese pickles still get my vote.

On the way to get our oral injection of hot dish, Mary and I spied the deep fried Twinkie stand and briefly debated trying one. This has been at the fair for years, but neither of us has braved one, particularly after the year I downed a deep fried snickers bar (a snickers bar dipped in batter, deep fried, and rolled in powdered sugar), and deemed it to be a delicious, but gut-wrenching experience. Never again. However, we agreed that we would put the Twinkie on the "maybe" list for just before we leave and furthermore we would split it to avoid the gut bomb syndrome.

In the meantime, Mary wanted a crepe, so we backtracked. As she placed her order, I spotted an orange vagina (left). She had a crepe filled with strawberries and topped with thick whipped cream. It looked delicious, but again I abstained. I simply hadn't brought my A game feedbag to the fair today. I had eaten so much crab, shrimp, and other delicacies at the gathering at her coworker's house the day before that I wanted to take it somewhat easy.

By this time, we were both reaching our limit in stomach capacity and and grown tired of having to weave in and out of pasty midwesterners in flip flops, but we knew we had to get the granddaddy of all fair foods, deep fried cheese curds. We split an order, each washing them down with a Diet Coke (the irony was not lost on either of us), and headed back to the bus lot to catch the free shuttle back to the park and ride.

Maybe it's because I grew up in North Dakota, but I still don't see what the gigantic fuss is about the Minnesota State Fair. Sure, it's fun to go try the food, see a few baby animals, and make fun of people who've made wildly inappropriate clothing choices for their body type, but for some Minnesotans, the State Fair is a religion. They go multiple days and stay from early morning until close. Three hours is about all I can handle before I need to get away and reclaim my own shoulder space.

And this will be viewed as blasphemous by many followers of that religion, but I don't understand the fascination with Sweet Martha's Cookies! They're nothing better than what you get out of a tube of Toll House cookie dough! They are chocolate chip cookies. Hot and fresh. Hard to screw that up. Yet this lady is pulling in about a half mil of pure profit each year for the dozen or so days the fair is open. People buy these fucking things literally by the pail to take home!

End rant.

When it's all said and done, I enjoyed my afternoon at the fair. I shortened my life expectancy, spent way too much money, and will have to work out a little extra tomorrow, but it was worth it. And now if you'll excuse me, anyone behind me might want to -> back up because this boy has grease-fueled diarrhea.

ADDENDUM:
I forgot to mention that on our way to leave the fair, we stopped by the KARE 11 building where they were broadcasting the 5 pm news. Evidently they have a several second delay to avoid the possibility of drunken loudmouths uttering the f-bomb on the air. Their new weather munchkin Sven Sungaard interviewed a group of attention whores who'd mimicked his haircut and wore shirts that said "Got Svengaard?" Proof that anyone can appear on television for the mere price of their dignity.

Or to be more accurate, a bushel of crabs. Yesterday I continued on my lifelong theme of eating the meat of once-living beings, and attended a gathering in Bloomington rife with crabs flown in from Baltimore. I've eaten big crab legs (namely Alaskan Snow Crab) before, but these were the smaller kind where they're steamed and served whole. The senior patriarch of this gathering was from the east coast originally (he was an uppity up with the Washington Senators and moved here with the franchise when they became the Minnesota Twins), and the crab fest is an annual tradition for their family. It took me the first crab to get my own smash and grab technique down, but now I feel comfortable manhandling my crabs. Now I want more! Sweet, succulent crabs with their beady little eyes. If I had the ability to feel empathy or sympathy, I'd feel bad about eating you, but *CRUNCH* Mmm...

Me? Vegetarian or vegan? Ha HAAAA! I laugh aloud at the very thought. I like meat. And cheese. I like meat covered in cheese and cheese covered in meat. For breakfast, I eat a bowl of sliced bananas and MEAT. What sort of meat you ask? It doesn't matter. Cow, pig, deer, elk, horse, donkey, whatever you've got. If it could make a noise and wiggle before it met its end, I'll eat it. Unless it could talk, rollerskate, or do sign language. That's where I draw the line. And even then, it depends largely on how much ketchup you've got on hand.

Anyone out there in the Twin Cities area have a good handyman they would recommend? I have a door frame that's cracked and in need of repair and a glass screen door I'd like to replace. Send yo boo some love.

Last night I made another trek to the nordeast to catch up with my friend Kristina and her new boyfriend. This time I had a Commando from the selection of cold sandwiches at Psycho Suzi's. Fantastic. Ham, cheese, oil, jalepenos, and I believe some oregano and/or basil sprinkled on it. Their sandwiches are far too enormous for even those with a hardy appetite to finish, so I had to get a box. Trust me, if I request a box at a restaurant, either I just finished eating a baby goat before I arrived, or your portions are pretty friggin' huge. I also tried another of their fruity-ass drinks, but again was not impressed. There are a lot of rum-based tropical drinks on their menu, and I'm just not a member of the rum fan club. I'm a beer guy at heart.

After Suzi's, we headed over to Grumpy's for a round of drinks. It didn't seem like anything spectacular other than being another seemingly laid back, non-dumpy neighborhood bar, which I dig. The jukebox selection was impressive. Kristina, who is an even bigger Star Wars nerd than me, pointed out that "Chewbacca" from the original Clerks soundtrack was playing as we walked in. Outstanding.

Kristina seemed to get a big kick out my decision to wear my self-designed "I pooped in your mailbox" t-shirt (remember you can buy one, too!). I finally caved and ordered one for myself, and this was the first I'd worn it in public. No one egged me, so I feel safe. Maybe I'll wear it again Sunday if I head out to the State Fair to eat deep fried crap on a stick.

One of my coworkers just got back from a honeymoon in the Czech Republic and brought us each a box of these curiously tiny matches. So wee! Click the photos below for larger versions. Note the penny in the photos as an indicator of the scale. Also enjoy the photo of E.T. regifting the matches to R2D2. What an ass kisser!

Forbes magazine named Minneapolis the second drunkest city in the nation. SECOND drunkest? G'damn, people! Start drinking more! If everyone out there drinks just two additional beers or a single vodka tonic each day, then we can be the drunkest bunch of drunky drunks who ever drunk a drinky drink. Get drinking, scrote pokers!

Oh, and hello to my young cohorts who I saw at the gas station over lunch today. Thank you for the compliments on my blog, but remember what I said about not acknowledging in public that you know me. My parole depends on it! Legally speaking, a vast number of accumulated court orders dictate that I'm not supposed to come within distances ranging from 300 to 1000 feet from the following individuals or groups of people (but let's keep it our little secret):

-Women under the age of 20
-Boys under the age of 18
-Little people (this one particularly pisses me off--they're so fucking AWESOME!!)
-The waitresses at Hooters in Block E (I still contend that if you don't actually say "HONK!" while squeezing/pinching, that it's not sexual harrassment)
-Any staff working in mobile mammography clinics (it's not my fault they have good peepin' windows in those RV's)
-Ben Affleck
-Mitt Romney
-Tina Yothers
-Diablo Cody
-Scientologists
-Cosmologists
-U of M coeds in tight sweaters (redux on the honk thing)
-Yo momma

E.T. comforts R2D2 after the unpleasantness.

Finally catching up to public opinion from a year ago, Paramount Pictures has severed ties with Tom Cruise's production company, citing his kooky histrionics. Back when the possibility of spin doctoring his couch jumping and placenta eating still seemed within reach, they were awfully eager to come to his defense. However, when money talks, nutjobs walk. Reaction to MI:3 was mediocre at best, and it just didn't slap cash-spewing asses into the seats like Paramount hoped.

What we're finally starting to realize is that Tom Cruise has probably been arm-flailing apeshit for for years. He had a publicist whose full-time job was reigning in his Scientology-fueled insanity. But when that publicist was fired and Tom's sister, also a Scientologist, stepped into the role, that's when the leash broke and Tommy Tom ran into the street straight into the path of a garbage truck.

In Hollywood, stark raving mad and pulling in the Washingtons makes you a genius. Stark raving mad and dribbling in a few tens of millions dollars here and there means you might as well just get it over with and live under an overpass eating expired meat over a trash can full of burning copies of Variety (that no longer containing any mentions of your name).

I was reminded of this as Miss Employed and I exchanged a couple of emails about assorted topics over the weekend. In early 2004, I was dating this this girl (the one with the yippy, piss dribbling dog) who had a rule about sex in a relationship. On any and all holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions, sex was mandatory. No "I'm too tired" or "But my ass still hurts from what you put in there last night." No excuses. Sex. Must. Happen. Period. And by God, that sounds like a good fucking rule to me. I regret that the whole situation with her didn't last long enough for me to have mandatory birthday sex with her. Whose birthday? Who fucking cares.

Further proof I have too much time on my hands (and need a girlfriend).

I was at Cub Foods last night (I sure seem to spend a lot of time there and at Byerly's), when I saw a display with this happy fellow staring back at me. When did the mascot for Handi-Snacks become an anthropomorphized cracker spreading wet, shiny cheese on his balls? He seems to be saying, "Hey, kids! I give a big thumbs up to cheese-slathered genitalia!"

My little Acura RSX, my pride and joy, is over 4 years old. Despite the minor ding it received a few months ago, most people find it difficult to believe it's a 2002 model. I've tried to take good care of it, even keeping the inside as clutter free as possible. However, there have been a lot of asses in and out of that car in 4+ years, a lot of mild Caribou mocha spills in the mornings, and a few ripping good farts dropped by myself and others (ok, mostly me).

It's been a while since I've given the inside a good vacuum and scrubbing, so I've noticed lately that it gets a smidge funky in there after sitting out in the hot summer sun all day while I'm at work. Not a rotting corpse or burning dog turd smell, just a stuffy, ever so mildly offensive hot restroom smell.

While in the laundry aisle at Cub Foods a few days ago, I remembered that an old flame from a few years back once told me about how she once worked at a used car dealership, and they'd put dryer sheets in cars traded in by smokers to cover up the cigarette stench. It seemed worth a shot, and though I had dryer sheets at home, I spied Downy dryer sheets with Febreze in them. Double whammy, bitches!

Tonight before going to pick up my friend Mary to see a movie, I finally got around to putting a few sheets in the car. I decided to go all out, placing one each under the driver and passenger seat, two underneath the back seat, and a couple back in the hatch area. I climbed into the drivers seat and inhaled deeply. Mmmm...flowery and fresh! Not a hint of ass or even yeasty stray vagina! Since it was a sunny and mild evening, I opened the sunroof and both the windows, cranked up the optical victrola, and rolled toward Apple Valley to Mary's house. When she got in the car, I excitedly asked her, "smells good, doesn't it?" She replied that she thought she'd smelled something as she approached the car, and that it smelled like fresh laundry. Upon confirming her olfactory instincts, she suggested that perhaps ONE dryer sheet would have been sufficient to start out with. Now that she had mentioned it, the smell did seem a little strong.

After a bite to eat, we went to see "Accepted" (surprisingly funny, despite the utterly preposterous plot, or lack thereof) and came back out to the car. I threw the door open and was immediately punched in the face with a wall of freshness. Flowery, dew-covered meadows and fresh linen were forced up my nose with the pressure and force of a fire extinguisher. Freshness overload, dude. We got in the car, laughing about the ridiculously strong odor of the dryer sheets. I offered to fart to cover up the smell, but Mary respectfully declined. Though I did let loose an unplanned and flavorful belch mid-sentence during the drive back to Apple Valley. But alas, it was not enough to counter The Freshness.

Prior to the dinner and movie outing, I had a moment this afternoon where I was concerned about my butthole tightness. I'm sure I've mentioned it in passing here a few times, but there is a medical phenomenon colloquially referred to as "pink sock." Essentially the rectal mucous membrane loosens such that it hangs out of your asshole and looks like it's got a pink sock sticking out of it. I'm not sure why, but I've had a recent spate of particularly greasy deuces, causing me to go through roll after roll of toilet paper. Today this left me with the feeling of a protuberance or foreign sensation in my browneye region. My first thought was, "Muthafuckin' PINK SOCK???" Then I realized this was silly. How would a greasy poo pull out a pink sock? Unless I had a particularly loose butthole to begin with I guess. But that shit is virgin back there. Exit only, save a curious pinky or two. Regardless, perhaps it's time to add some cheek squeezes to the old workout routine.

Bad news for the accordion-style plunger I've now decided should be referred to as The Maw. I noticed yesterday that The Maw is now bent such that the handle sits at a rather cockeyed 15 to 20 degree angle. Evidently some poor chap had himself a particularly brutal bowel movement, forcing him to put his whole torso into unplugging the toilet. The Maw is not designed to support half of a fullly grown man's body weight. It probably says so on the label inside the lip of the plunger, but I don't want to get my face close enough to read it.

We always had a dog or two growing up on the farm, but they were outside. They did what dogs should do, running free, chasing animals, and happily rolling around in their own poop (which often dried into their fur in the hot summer sun, forcing my dad to get out the sheep shears to give the poor dog a buzz cut).

Living in the city, I would be hard-pressed to see a good reason to get a dog. A dog large enough to be of any value to society is too large to keep cramped up inside, regardless of whether you have a one-bedroom apartment or a five-bedroom house. Any dog small enough to comfortably live indoors is only good for grinding, seasoning, and filling a corn or flour tortilla. Or at least this is what I would be forced to do to cover up the crime of my snapping the dog's neck the first time it hyperactively yip-yip-yipped when a neighbor child tucked into bed two doors down quietly farted in the wrong direction. Then would come the mysterious Cinqo de Mayo block party hosted by Jeremy on the 7th of October. Eat up, everyone! If you bite down on an aluminum rabies vaccination tag, just spit it out. It's a prize. Like eating a piñata wrapped in tortilla!

I've only dated one woman for an extended length of time who had a dog. This is not a conscious objection to dogs, just happenstance. Almost 3 years ago, for a period of 6 weeks, I dated a woman in St Paul who lived with her wee little yip machine. It was some sort of muttish pomeranian mix with a shrill bark and a weak bladder. Each time she or a guest would arrive at her door, the dog would explode in a flurry of piercingly high-pitched barks, punctuated by dribbles of urine falling from it's furry dog-gina. It also couldn't be more than 4 inches away from her at any given time, and it compulsively licked any exposed skin within reach. Sitting on the couch would result in the dog licking your hand. Standing up would result in the dog licking your feet. Making out on the couch would result in the dog trying to lick both of our necks at once, with alternating licks to the hands, fingers, feet, and toes. And I won't go into detail about our sex life, but suffice it to say that while some men may get a charge out of a dog licking their ass during intercourse, I do not.

Don't get me wrong--the dog would have been a small price to pay for this particular woman. I would never in a million years reject a beautiful, intelligent, funny, and charming woman such as her because of her dog. In time, I would get used to and maybe even grow fond of the little furball (I'm talking about the dog, not the girl). I would, however, reject such a woman if she had more than one dog. One dog is fine, but two dogs is one-and-a-half dogs too many. One cat? Not a big deal. Two cats? Just fine! And while three cats foreshadows an old woman living amongst shit-covered piles of dirty dishes and decades-old newspapers, cats are nothing like dogs in the level of attention they require. They are nonchalant and are perfectly content to do their own thing. Meanwhile, dogs are needy, have to be walked, let outside to crap, and are in need of constant supervision. If you have two of them, you might as well have a toddler running underfoot smearing pudding on your half-finished tax return and ruining your ipod by trying to use it as a Lego.

But I'm making it sound like I don't like dogs. I like dogs, but I don't like how we treat them. Dogs do not want to live inside. They want to live free and roam wide open spaces like the dogs we had on the farm. Those same dogs do not want to be tied to a leash or trapped in a pen in your back yard while during the 9 or 10 hours you are commuting and working each day. They are barking at (and annoying the shit out of) the neighbors and nipping at the mailman because they are bored, ignored, and being kept in conditions that go against every strand of their genetic history. Dogs also do not want to wear sweaters, booties, or reindeer horns on their heads no matter how adorable it might be for your precious photo for the Christmas letter. Dogs do not want to be carried around in purses, forced to fly in a carrier with you each time you travel, or left to rattle around loose in the back end of your pickup as you careen around street corners at 30 miles per hour. Dogs are not people. But they are also not inanimate property to be paid attention to only when it's convenient. They are a responsibility that most busy, self-absorbed Americans probably don't deserve.

In a rare display of self-control, I will spare you the details of my bathroom activities today, but I will tell you that in addition to solid, liquid, and gas, this afternoon I discovered a new state of matter--greasy.

A little over 10 years ago, I signed up for a free account with Yahoo's still-fledgling email service. Since I already had my primary (and very first) email account on the computer science department's system at the University of North Dakota, I saw little need for using Yahoo. However, I created my account thinking, "You never know. What the hell--it's free!" This was indeed fortuitous, as once I graduated and no longer had access to my campus account, Yahoo became my primary mail service.

What clever screen name did I pick? My last name. No numbers, dashes, underscores, tildes, glyphs, stick figures, or obscene gestures, just my last name. It's not unusual for people to be mildly startled when I give them my email address for the first time. Some ask, "How long have you had THAT?" A long time, pal. A long time.
Obviously this make my address spectacularly easy for my friends and family to remember. I never get, "What was your address again? Was it cocktickler2815_hello@yahoo.com or was it cocktickler27202_hi@yahoo.com?"

The maddening drawback of having this address is twofold. Some idiots with my last name (hopefully only related in a very distant way) don't seem to know what their own email address is. I regularly get online rental car receipts for Ian, notices of overdue Beneficial loan payments for Michael, and just yesterday I received a confirmation of an Amp'd Mobile order for Ryan (I do happen to have a cousin Ryan, but he lives in North Dakota--this one was in Illinois). The rest are the friends of the dumbasses who either were given the wrong email address or simply assume that everyone's email address is their last name at yahoo.com. I had to block one lady who seemed confused and distressed over my repeated requests to stop sending daily devotionals intended for Elizabeth and had to wag a finger at an employer sending very personal information intended for Monica.

I've grown tired of fighting with banks, mobile phone carriers, college professors, and pious elderly convalescents over whether I know my own email address. So that is why today I am changing it to the absolute last email address available on any free service (sorry for taking it everyone, but you snooze, you lose): pinktacolvr_201œ-for_jesus@hello.what.rubber.telco.fudgecovered.
cakefuckers.microsoft.fartypants-fingerbang.us.net.hello.
mn.christiansingles.halfchubgroup.bananaflavoredprinceœalbert—n.tits

Ok I actually didn't plug it, but there was a plumbing issue while I was there. I forgot to tell a key moment of my afternoon yesterday! The mocha I'd purchased from Caribou loosened and softened my stools, and I found myself with a powerful urge to drop a long-stemmed griddle cake while I was at Miss E's. I asked if I could use her bathroom, and she smiled and asked if I was going to drop a deuce. I told her that I was afraid so. She also indicated that she thought there was a plunger in there if I needed one. She politely turned on the stereo to cover any potential grunting or cheek squeaks.

The situation was a tad greasy, and my bowel movement was over in about 5 seconds. However, that also meant I had a lot of cleanup paperwork to do. I wiped once, and flushed to test the bowl capacity. It went down perfectly. I then settled in to go elbow deep to smear the rest of the oil-slick of a mess off my ass. I wiped a couple more times and was going to flush again when I realized that the bowl was not filling! I jiggled the handle vigorously. Nothing! Dammit! I searched under her sink for the plunger she had promised and came up empty.

Oh, and this reminds me, Miss Employed, I owe you a new toilet brush! I forgot about this in the mildly panicked chaos, but at one point I tried to break up the mass of paper with the toilet brush in the holder on the floor next to the john. Rookie mistake by a seasoned expert. Of course, the paper stuck to the bristles. EWWWWW!! I should have known better than to try that. So after dinner, Miss E, we'll stop at a Wal-Mart or supermarket to replace your brush covered with my fecally contaminated paper. Sorry about that!!

Having failed and having obliterated her brush with poopy toilet paper, I said to hell with it, finished wiping, and then cracked the door to ask her somewhat sheepishly if she ever had issues with her toilet bowl not filling. Yes, she replied, sometimes it filled very slowly. I explained the messy situation, and she ran to fetch a plunger from a neighbor. Excellent! Really this wasn't going to solve the water flow issue, but I could at least break up the paper to make sure it didn't gum up the works once the bowl filled. I closed the door, left the fan running, and then continued working on her computer. I checked in on the mess later, and the bowl had filled. I flushed. Poopy paper goes away. Jeremy's relieved, and Miss Employed is amused.

I actually wasn't going to say anything about it here since I didn't know how comfortable she'd be (and frankly how comfortable I would be) with that information being public, but I just noticed that Miss Employed has broken the ice...

Since we started reading and commenting on each other's blogs the last couple of months, Miss Employed and I have developed what I would call an online friendship. Privately we've commiserated over single life in Minneapolis, and I've answered some questions regarding computer problems she's experienced. Eventually I offered to fix some issues she's been having with her internet connection and hard drive. We both made it clear that this was not to be an exchange of "services." In addition, I refused her repeated offers to pay me for my time, as I would never charge one of my friends for helping them with a computer problem. I told her I just wanted to hear some good stories in return for my time. She agreed, adding that I had to at least let her take me out to dinner sometime. That seemed more than fair.

I am not going to go into much detail about her, her neighborhood, or her home in order to protect her identity. I can tell you that from reading her blog, I had pictured a tall brunette with somewhat low, sultry voice and a bad-ass look about her. However, once I talked on the phone with her and heard her voice, that mental image vanished. She sounded like a very sweet, all-American girl who one minute was talking about how "super" something was and the next minute talked about ramming a client up the ass with a strap-on. It took me about a quarter of the conversation to reconcile her voice with her kinky online persona and the delightfully entertaining filth spewing from her mouth. I can tell you that she is slender and cute (she describes herself as "plain" but I would disagree). In any case, I can almost guarantee that whatever picture you have of her in your head is as wrong as mine was.

Google Maps led me to her address, and once I parked, I called her to let her know I'd arrived. She greeted me at the door, showed me in, and graciously offered to split the muffin she'd just bought at the coffee shop. I had not eaten breakfast and gladly accepted. We sat on the couch, each eating our half-muffin. We chatted about a date I had been on over the weekend, about her job (her real, tax-paying job), the guy she's been dating, and other topics. Through our phone and face-to-face conversations, I learned more about how it was she got into the call girl world, but she assures me she is going to write a long and detailed post telling the whole story. I don't want to steal her thunder or reveal anything more than she's willing to disclose herself so I will let her regale you with tale on her blog when she's ready.

As much as I wanted to ignore the computer and grill her more about her interesting life, I had gone over there for a reason, and we only had a little over 2 hours before she had to leave for her real job. But I know you don't care it all about the technical details of her computer issue. Suffice it to say that due to the cramped innards of her computer being a challenge, I didn't have quite enough time to finish installing her new hard drive. Though I did manage to fix her internet connection problem that had been plaguing her. By that time, she had to leave for work. She gave me a couple of big thank you hugs as we made our way to the door and promised to take me out to dinner some night when both of us were free.

Now I'm sure there are those of you who think I went over there in a pathetic attempt to get a free piece of ass. Simply put, that is not the case. I made it clear to her up front that is not what would happen, and I sincerely doubt she would have entertained that thought regardless. Before you judge me for helping her or judge Miss Employed for doing what she does, I can only tell you that she is an astoundingly normal, nice, and funny girl who incidentally fuck guys for money (and I reiterate that I am not one of those guys). Of course, especially now that I know her personally, her profession does concern me for the sake of her health and safety (case in point, take what happened to her today). But she is a grown woman who went into this with no small amount of research and planning.

So there you have it. I have a new blog friend. And an interesting one at that. But I probably should have asked her if she wets her bed as a full-grown adult or has paranoid delusions that she is surrounded by narcissists. She may go off on me at any moment!

I'd heard of a certain free online dating website before, but within the last couple of weeks, I finally decided to post my profile on it. I began getting responses the next day. Yet for some reason, most seem to be from women in their mid-30's trying to argue with me over my unwillingness to date women with children. Why the fuck are you arguing with me? I don't argue with you over your preferences for smokers vs nonsmokers or come by where you work to tap on the booth window and startle you into dropping the vibrator out of your cooch.

Here is one such response I received the other day. Not surprisingly, she was 35 and divorced with children.

Okay- cutie pie you have spoke you words. But just one question- how in world do you plan of findind a women with no kids at our age. Most are divorced with children.

Something to thing about. Have a wonderful night!:)

Your words could not be wiser (or more misspelled). Wait, are we both living in the same century? I'm not exactly searching high and low to find single, childless women to date. Walk down any street, and they tumble out of the trees like crabapples and acorns in the fall. Women who have put off finding long term relationships and marriage to focus on their education and careers are not at all uncommon.

Now if only I could find the RIGHT single (either divorced or never-married), childless woman. But I'm working on it.

You read my blog day in, day out, and offer me nothing of value in return. Oh sure, some of you email me or post a comment saying you enjoy my blog or post a quippy and hilarious retort to my thoughts on poo or butt plugs, and consequently I have a moment almost daily where I feel appreciated. But what else have you done for me? Jack and SHIT, that's what you've done. Where are the bakery fresh pies, complementary backstage concert passes, and free lawn care service? Hoarded up in the dirty folds around your tight sphincters for yourselves and your friends, that's where. You all need to be like the reader who offered to set me up on a date with one of her friends. So the rest of you get off your lazy asses and do something for ME. ME ME MEEEEEEEE!!! Fucking pantloads.

Yesterday police in the UK arrested nearly 2 dozen men involved in a massive plot to blow up multiple US-bound airliners with liquid-based explosives disguised in sports drinks and personal hygiene products. Security was tightened in airports around the world, including those in the United States, where all liquids and gels have been banned from carry-on luggage.

At Reagan National Airport in Washington, DC, a 42 year old woman who would only identify herself as Francine, complained that her painful, oozing cold sores would have to go unsalved for nearly 4 hours. "These things hurt like hell!" complained Francine. "If I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have gone down on all those guys in exchange for popularity and artificially inflated self-esteem back in high school."

Equally irate was 60 year old Martin Finschbauer from Woodridge, IL, a retired school teacher flying from Reagan National to Salt Lake City. "I forgot my ass donut at home. I rely on Freedhem, the only one application hemmorhoidal cream, to soothe my butt grapes--I call hemorrhoids butt grapes. Now that I had to chuck my hole grease, I might as well be sitting my bare ass on a pile of splintered Lincoln Logs and Fisher-Price Little People for the next 3 hours!"

Other travelers, like 24 year old graduate student Jacob Halcolmb, who had just arrived in Atlanta from Minneapolis-St Paul, were less troubled. "I had to throw out my tub of Vaseline. Usually I like to take care of my own business in the lavatory mid-flight, but if it's a matter of our safety, I'm willing to settle for firing off a dry one today."

It is unknown at this time how long these new increased security measures will be in place, or if they are the new permanent reality of airline travel. For the time being, the flying public will have to settle into a routine of balmlessness, salvelessness, and in-flight self-pleasure free of lubrication and joy.

An email thread from yesterday...coworker #1 sends out an email to the group asking who's game for going out to lunch.

My email: "Gonna have to crap out today boys. I need to run home quick. And if there's doin's tomorrow, I'll be out as well since I'm dropping a friend off at the airport over lunch."

Coworker #2's email 5 seconds later: "‘dropping a friend off at the airport’? Is that a euphemism for poo?"

I guess you had to be there.

So the Live concert went until about midnight, so I just got home not long ago. I'm not a huge fan, but I enjoyed their radio hits, and was surprised as all hell that they rocked my socks off. I mean literally right the fuck off. Nowhere to be found. Maybe the girl in the upper level just above us who flashed her tits knows where they are. My only complaint is the lead singer got a bit yappy a few times and wanted us to send our positive thoughts and waves of love to the Middle East. Just shut the fuck up and sing. I'm not here for you to meditate and blow the scent of patchouli up my unpuckered asshole. Sing. Ask us how we're feeling a few times. Are we doing alright, having fun yet, this song is called blank, hello Minneapolis, etc.

I feel I must also apologize, as I haven't been particularly bloggery this week. Yes, there have been some posts, but the quality has been subpar. I'm just busy is all. I mean I even resorted to blogging while taking a dump yesterday. Time is money, people. And time can't suck my dick like money can. I don't know what that means. I'm tired. I should go to bed. But to tide you over, here are a couple of fine pieces of artwork I created 6 or 7 years ago and recently rediscovered. I call them Before and After.

Maybe tickets aren't selling too quickly for this concert, and they wanted to fill up the venue, but the evil Ticketmaster is offering free tickets (but you still have to pay their stupid convenience fees) to see Live at Myth in Maplewood tomorrow night. Doors at 7, show at 9. Click on the link and enter the word HEAVEN into the Enter Special Offer Code box under the Complimentary ticket offer section

Ok, I promise this is my last DQ bashing post for a while (unless they really piss me off again). But I was reading this article [google cache] about the Caramel Chip Cheesequake Blizzard when this part jumped out at me: "The average price of the Caramel Chip CheeseQuake Blizzard is $2.59 for 12 ounces, $3 for 16 ounces and $3.50 for 21 ounces."

I then googled for average Blizzard prices and found this press release from earlier this year. Another quote: "The average retail price of the Hawaiian Blizzard is $2.39 for the 12 oz., $2.79 for the 16 oz. and $3.19 for the 21 oz."

Hold the fucking phone! It's been a couple of years since I've paid anything anything less than 4 bucks and change for a medium (16 oz) Blizzard. So we in the fucking HOMETOWN of Dairy Queen's corporate HQ are paying over a dollar more than the average retail price? What the cock sucking whore is up with that? I wonder how much control the individual franchise owners have over the price and how much is dictated by IDQ. Either way, I'm driving over to Edina tomorrow and taking a shit in the freezer full of free Dilly Bars they keep in their lobby for visitors. Right after I take several out for myself, of course. If you show up after me, dig for one from the bottom, 'cuz that ain't a melted brownie earthquake in there, pard.

I wrote a song about my penis a couple years back and recently some random chain of thoughts led me to recall the song's glory. I looked for the lyrics that I'd scrawled on the back of something or other, but fuck if I can't find it. It pisses me off because this song was hilarious if I do say so myself. I couldn't sing the whole thing without stopping myself with laughter. It was the best song about a penis ever written, and I fear it is lost to the ages. It's analogous to Adam Sandler losing the sheet music for "Piece of Shit Car" or The Hoff losing his watch that lets him call KITT to take him to the ER after he slices a tendon while shaving. It was that good.

Since moving to the Twin Cities area over 7 years ago, I have been on literally dozens upon dozens of dates. Now when I say "date" I don't mean to imply that I have slept with dozens of women. Most of these were what I would call one-off dates. We meet, we go out, we have a nice time, but don't really click, and that's the end of it. In some cases, a second or third date results, and in a small handful of cases, we date for an extended period of time, weeks, even months, and with one, we entered into an actual honest-to-God relationship.

Today I was thumbing through City Pages while being driven back home by my friend Mary who'd picked me up to go see Talledega Nights and grab a late lunch at Pepito's in Minneapolis. I was eagerly trying to find the "adult" personals to read them aloud so we could chuckle at the freaks looking for fat chicks to pee on them and transexuals seeking elderly pharmacists with trained raccoons to twist and torture their balls, when I spotted a familiar face in an ad for massage therapists. "Oh my God, I've been on a date with this girl!" I exclaimed to my friend. Next to her photo was her business name, "Massage by Jennica" (I've changed her name) and a description of the types of massage she performs. Tacked onto the end was the amusingly finger-wagging caveat, "Non-Sexual." This didn't surprise me since the reason the date with "Jennica" didn't lead to a second one was that she could talk about nothing but Jesus and being born again. Meanwhile, I consider myself to be a believing but detached Christian with little patience for the organized aspects of religion.

Jennica was about the cutest ray of sunshine I'd ever seen bound into a room, but after 2 hours of trying in vain to steer the conversation to topics other than Jesus, I realized there was little chemistry between us. Her her 110% bubbly and up-with-people personality would never mesh with my sarcastic and darkly off-color sense of humor.

This is not the first time I've recognized a former date in such circumstances. I was walking with this same friend into a benefit concert at a club in Minneapolis when I spotted a poster for a local band that prominently featured their superhot keyboardist. "Hey, remember that really hot girl from that band that I went out with a couple times a few months ago. That's her!" I proudly pointed toward the poster as if to say, "I know--I can't believe a girl that hot would ever go out with me, either!" Mary humored me by muttering a half-hearted acknowledgement of my obnoxious assertion of the girl's hotness, and we proceeded into the club.

The saddest such reminder of a past date came recently when I recognized a photo of a former months-long flame on a website with baby announcements (I was looking for the announcement of a former college classmate's baby). It turns out that she met a guy a few months after we broke up, married him a couple years later, and their first child was stillborn a few months ago. I felt terrible for them. I briefly considered getting in touch with her to extend my sympathies but blanched at the thought as it would be highly inappropriate, particularly given how things ended between us. She had enough to deal with without scratching her head over the reappearance of some random guy she dated years ago.

Every single time I have one of these coincidental and impersonal brushes with a former date or flame, it's another reminder of that many months, even years later, I still don't feel like I'm anywhere near finding the right woman to settle down. In the meantime, so many of these women I've dated are married, have kids, or are otherwise firmly and long since entrenched in a serious relationship. Sometimes I wonder if I'm trying too hard, not looking in the right places, or not trying hard enough.

I wonder if Miss Employed is still taking on new clients. I'll bet she'd give me the total GFE! Eh...I could never see hiring "professional help" (no offense, Miss E). Besides, I need to spend my money on paying off the loan I took out to put new windows in my house. I'll just have to stick to opening the drapes and masturbating in view of the neighborhood MILFs.

I promise this one will be far more appetizing than my previous post. Last night I went on a very enjoyable excursion. I was introduced to the wonders (and dangers) of northeast Minneapolis (aka nordeast). Our evening included some fucking amazing pizza (and shitty drinks neither one of us could finish) at Psycho Suzi's Motor Lounge, Greenies at Tony Jaro's, beer and polka at Gastof's, a glimpse of jiggling funbags at 22nd Avenue Station (SHE was the one that led us in there, unaware that it was a titty bar), and a few darts in and out of assorted other establishments throughout the evening.

Yes, you urban hipsters are probably shaking your heads and clucking your tongues, wondering how I possibly could have lived in the Twin Cities area for 7 years and NEVER have been to any of these places. I can only plead the ignorance of a firmly entrenched suburbanite and say that I wish I'd known sooner. I'm sorry, everyone. Please forgive me. I love you. Call me sometime.

Ginger had not been in the area for a while, but the last time she had visited the nordeast, a group of guys in an SUV shouted something obscene at another male friend of hers as they drove past. Her friend responded with an equally insulting and obscene suggestion, and the SUV stopped. Oh shit. Out poured three very burly guys who proceeded to pound the bloody piss out of her friend. Another male friend with them, who has a conceal and carry permit (welcome to Minnesota, aka North Texas!) pulled out his gun, and warned the three thugs to leave, or he would shoot them. Instead of leaving, they advanced on him, and he shot one of them in the shoulder. Everybody involved piled into their respective vehicles and sped the fuck out of Dodge. The next day, the shooter went to the police, told them what happened, and he was detained briefly while they sorted things out. A few hours later, he was free to go. A couple of days later, the guy who was shot finally turned up in an emergency room (when you don't go to an emergency room IMMEDIATELY after getting shot, odds are good you're probably involved in some no-good shit on a regular basis), but he refused to give any personal information and paid for his bill in cash. No charges were ever pressed, and life apparently moved forward.

On the way home, I decided to make a wee hours stop at Byerly's for some bananas and milk. While there, I had a whim to buy some ground beef, swiss cheese, a fresh cored pineapple, and hamburger buns. So my dinner tonight was a pair of burgers marinated with teryaki sauce and topped with grilled pineapple smothered in melted swiss cheese. So I had burgers AND I ate fruit! Fuck you, Richard Simmons!

A certain toilet I frequently use is flanked by one of those crazy, high-falutin' accordion-style plungers. Unfortunately this particular toilet, as attested by many of its other regular users, is not capable of flushing down much more than a chickpea or grain of rice without becoming plugged.

On numerous occasions, I've had to bust out old 'cordy and plunge away at a mass of feces and toilet paper. The horrifying drawback of this type of plunger is that with each schloop, schloop, schloop, it sucks up the toilet water, turds and all, into its cavernous maw. The design is such that it does not let go of its poopy prize willingly and requires vigorously jiggling to send its contents back to the bowl with a sickening splash.

Even with all that rattling around, the plunger still refuses to completely relenquish its contents, and setting on the floor spawns an expanding puddle of shit water that soon reaches it's way to the front of the toilet for the next person to splash around in. I personally have taken to setting the plunger directly on the floor drain so the chunky chocolate water situation stays relatively contained.

Not long ago, as I practiced the old familiar schloop and jiggle routine, old 'cordy thought it would have a good laugh by tossing out a chunk of crap onto the floor. You may find this difficult to believe, but I thought I was going to vomit. What the fuck do I do? I thought about just turning tail and sneaking away as if nothing had happened, but a recent conversation about assholes who fuck up shared restrooms and then just walk away was as fresh in my head as the lump of shit the size of a Keebler Soft Batch cookie that sat moist and glistening on the tile floor.

I had to clean it up. I gagged at the thought, but I was damned if I was going to be the douchebag who left a hunk of steaming long-stemmed griddle cake on the floor. I unrolled and wadded up about a quarter of a roll of toilet paper. I figured I needed at least a good 2 inches of paper between my fingers and the poop. I halfway closed my eyes as I knelt down, scooped up the shit, and threw the whole papery, shitty wad into the commode. I narrowly avoided shedding tears as I wadded up more paper, tentatively dabbed at the turd's former place of glory on the floor. I then preemptively plunged the whole mass to break up the paper before flushing the whole thing down. I grabbed a can of Lysol from the counter, sprayed the floor down, and vigorously washed my hands, scalding the skin clean off. That was fine. I didn't want that skin anymore anyway.

Quite obviously that was the last straw with that plunger. I've taken to using an alternative bathroom and am strongly considering buying my own plunger to replace this monsterous belcher of feces. God save us all.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again--Jack White is fucking god amongst men. He is a living, breathing, writhing full body guitar orgasm, and I count myself blessed to have stood just a few feet from him for over an hour tonight. In other words, The Raconteurs rocked First Ave. I am quite sure I suffered permanent hearing loss, and it was worth it if the last thing I heard was that show. But I gush.

It was a fun night. It started by me leaving work early (with the boss man's approval) about 4 pm. By the time I drove all the way from work in Lakeville to downtown Minneapolis, parked, and hoofed it to First Avenue, it was 4:40. I thought for sure the line would be longer that it was, but there were only a couple of dozen people lined up at that point. Perfect!

After a friend canceled on coming to the concert with me due to an unexpected business trip, and my brother crapped out because he forgot he was going to We Fest (how do you forget that you're about to spend three days drunkening yourself with spiritous beverages to drown out the pain of having to listen to country music????). I could have probably found a semi-random date or dragged along one of my other friends, but I kind of wanted that ticket to go to someone who would really be into the music. In stepped my coworker Phil, who himself plays the guitar, has recorded a CD and is a big White Stripes and Raconteurs fan. He likes the rock n' roll, that Phil.

The plan was that I'd take off early to snag a place in line, and Phil would work until 5 and join me later. Though I'd worked late a couple of days earlier in the week to make up for leaving early today, but there was no sense in two of us being gone in case something needed attention at the office. As I waited the hour-plus for his arrival, I was entertained by the rambunctious teenagers immediately in front of me in line. One wore a orange camo Ted Nugent t-shirt, and one, mentioned in my previous post, had very technicolor pants. And yes, I really did congratulate him for being able to pull off his pants, and yes, he really did misunderstand me in the worst way possible. Boy-hungry man perv alert! Back away, kids!

Actually and fortunately, they had a good sense of humor. At one point, their conversation (completely uninfluenced by me, by the way) turned to what makes an orgy? You have threesomes, and foursomes, but is a foursome an orgy? Or is just two sets of people doing it? One suggested that 5 is the minimum number to start an orgy. My only contribution to the discussion was asking them to please call it "group lovemaking" because "orgy" is such a charged word. There's just too much sex in this world already! Don't fuck. Make love. In the ass. With 5 people at once.

What did I say about man perv again? Anyway...

Phil arrived with time to spare, and once the doors opened, we made a beeline to be upfront and (off) center. The front rail was already filled up, but we staked out a spot just behind that row of people.

You're waiting for the part where I was annoyed by someone, so I'll just get that out of the way. Two people--one, the girl who was exactly as tall as I am (a little over 6 feet) who was standing next to me, then went to the bathroom, came back, and squeezed directly in front of me, and just stopped there. But the fault wasn't hers. Her friends were evidently just too drunk to save her spot. Incidentally, she was rather cute and had funky glasses. I swoon for cute girls with funky glasses. I missed my chance when she excused herself again and never returned. Not that I would have had the guts for a cold approach anyway.

Two--and speaking of drunk! The girl who was at varying points in the show behind me, beside me, and in front of me. She was so drunk she could barely stand upright and kept teetering back and forth into my back, side, or front, depending on where she stood--er, wobbled. Then when she started vigorously flailing one of her arms about, she thwapped me in the face. Apology. Wobble, wobble, scream, flail, thwap. Apology. Wobble, wobble, scream, flail, thwap. The last time I said something to the effect of, "you need to watch that hand." It made no difference since she soon took to hitting on what appeared to be a 12 year old boy and somehow wedged herself and her wild pitching arm about two people down. Thank God for her liquor-fueled pedophilia.

Opening up the show was Kelley Stoltz, who played upbeat, sometimes meandering hippy dippy music with a funky twist. It took a couple of songs, but the crowd really warmed up to him and his band. Then the crowd went apeshit when the Raconteurs finally came out. They played most, if not all of the songs from their album, including Intimate Secretary and Steady as She Goes. The also threw in a few covers, including a rollicking, shrieking rendition of Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down).

After the show, it occurred to me that Jack White may be the only man on this planet whiter that I am. I slather on sunscreen like pit sauce on brisket. What do you say? Is it time to get a spray on tan?

Today's question--what is your Monkey Tolerance Quotient (MTQ)? If you are not familiar with MTQ, it's really quite simple. Your MTQ is the number of monkeys you could tolerate being trapped with in a 16' x 16' room for a period of 15 minutes.

Some of you are thinking, "HELL YEAH!! Monkeys are hilarious and fun!! Put me in a room with like 50 monkeys, dude!!" But before you give yourself an MTQ of 50, these are not trained monkeys. These are not monkeys that appeared in early episodes of "Friends" then retired to a life of appearances at PetCo grand openings around the country. These are not monkeys wearing diapers or little sailor outfits. These monkeys were snatched straight from their serene lives in a lush tropical rainforest and are none too happy to see you. They are far more inclined to throw their feces at you or masturbate onto your pantleg than ride a unicycle or rollerskate around the room for your entertainment. These monkeys are not fucking around.

Conversely, you may have an irrational fear of monkeys, perhaps even a full blown phobia. If you think it's not fair that your MTQ is 0 due to your phobia, I'm sorry, but no exceptions can be made. The Monkey Tolerance Quotient is not only a measurement of your ability to handle stress of an unfamiliar environment and chaotic circumstances completely outside of your control, but it is also a measurement of how you handle innate fear.

Others may be thinking, "Well, shit! I'd just cheat by killing all of the monkeys in the room." No dice, pal. There is no cheating the MTQ. Any monkeys killed and/or disabled by your doing will be deducted from your MTQ. If you feel the need to kill all of the monkeys, then your MTQ will be 0. In the event that one or more monkeys die or are incapacitated due to circumstances outside of your control (disease, starvation, monkey knife fights, etc), the test will be canceled, and a new MTQ test must be scheduled one week or more from that date. This is to "reset" the circumstances and allow your monkey-related stress (MRS) levels to fall back to a normal reading.

While I can easily ignore certain types of noise and visual stimuli, given my low tolerance for children and hyperactive animals, I would put my MTQ between 2 and perhaps as high as 5.

Most of you who periodically read this blog probably won't have much interest in this unless you're a computer geek, but I've started a separate blog called aftergeek. From here on out, all computer shop talk, gadget reviews, and assorted geekery will be posted to that blog. If something is borderline between the two--say a humorous rant on putting a cell phone in your butthole for instance--I'll probably be more inclined to post it here at afterglide. If your interests cross both sites, I will play around and try to put a ticker or banner scrolling through the most recent aftergeek headlines somewhere here (or you can just subscribe directly to its RSS feed).

Incidentally, don't put a cell phone in your butthole. You still have to put it near your face and talk into it afterward. Then your phone smells like icky butthole poo.