This last weekend wasn't exactly restful, but it sure was fun. Certain aspects of the weekend were up in the air until Friday night. Originally I was supposed to either host or attend a party on Saturday night with the guest of honor being a high school friend of mine visiting from San Diego for a few days (she's staying with several other people and leaves town tomorrow). I straightened up my house a bit in preparation, but was actually rather relieved when the news came last week that the party would be hosted at the other person's house. Then Friday I was informed of the decision to cancel the gathering completely due to low attendance. I can't imagine why a rather last minute party scheduled for the Saturday before Halloween, a Saturday when the bars will be open an extra hour due to the switch to daylight standard time, would receive a poor RSVP ratio. I'm stumped.

Now that the party was a no go, my friend from high school, Jenn, and I needed to make alternate arrangements to get together to catch up. She travels quite a bit for work, and I do get to see her every so often when she has a layover in Minneapolis, but it's rare we get to have a leisurely conversation without the pressure of getting her back to MSP to catch a flight. It was looking like Sunday afternoon would be the only day that would work.

Sunday afternoon was a dilemma that will require some back story. The last couple of months, I have been seeing a lot of a lovely woman who I have purposely not mentioned here, as she reads my blog, and I don't want to apply any undue pressure to the situation. So, I will continue to be scant in detail for now. In any case, she is going to be out of town for more than a couple of weeks for work, and early Sunday afternoon we had planned on going hiking in Afton State Park and spending the rest of the day together. I was hesitant to cut into that time, but also wanted to catch up with Jenn. In the end, Jenn pushed up a brunch she'd had planned with another friend of hers so we could meet at noon at the latest. We'd catch up for a couple of hours, and I would be off to my hiking adventure.

As for Saturday night, prior to the cancellation, I had received an invitation from my college buddies Grant and Kelly to road trip to Owatonna Saturday night. One of Grant's coworker's is in a cover band called Noisebox. It was their male lead singer's last night before their new female singer was to take over. It sounded like a fun evening, so I let Grant know that I now could make it.

I headed down to Grant's place in Lakeville around 7 Saturday night and found him grilling burgers in the driveway. Perfect! He had mentioned we might have a few muchies somewhere along the way, though I had a small snack before leaving the house to avoid another incident. But I was still a bit hungry. Kelly showed up a couple minutes later, and another college friend of ours, Ellen, arrived not long thereafter.

After grazing and catching up, we piled our 5 UND computer science geek asses (Grant's wife is a fellow UND CS geek) into the car. Grant and his wife were up front, with Ellen in the back flanked by Kelly and me. I immediately began complaining about faux regrets I had over eating so much taco meat for lunch (really I had eaten a bowl of soup). It was rather cramped back there, but the 45 minute drive from Lakeville went relatively quickly. That is until we drove too far. We had been searching for the bar's name, but didn't see anything. On the second swing through town, I spotted a small banner for Noisebox below a lit neon beer sign. Blam. We had our bar.

I will use this opportunity to inject to incidental thoughts. I should mention that Grant's wife Nichole doesn't drink, so let go of any notions that this story will end in a fiery wreck on top of a daycare roof in Faribault. I also will mention that my declaration the other day of my desire of decreasing my eating and drinking out to save money after scheduling LASIK surgery does not apply here. Drinking in Owatonna and drinking in Minneapolis are two different worlds. We each bought a couple of rounds, usually consisting of 4 beers and 1 or 2 bottles of water. Not including tips, I spent well under $30 that night. And yes, this is the extreme example, but two rounds of four Crack Ho Mojitos at Chino Latino: $104 + tip.

We had a small group debate before meeting that night, as it was the big pre-Halloween party night, and a lot of people, including the band, would be dressing up in costumes. Unfortunately, the party that had been cancelled on me was not a costume party, so I had put no effort toward putting something together. I couldn't even find my standby fuzzy pimp hat and boa in my closet. We were all in the same boat, so we voted thumbs down to costumes. As it turned out, there were several other people at the bar who had not dressed up either, but whatever.

I have to confess that I didn't expect much from the band. I had gone more to hang out with old friends, drink a lot of beers, and have a lot of laughs. And let's face it--we are so spoiled in the Twin Cities area for being able to see quality local bands on any given night of the week. We're no New York City, but we have a pretty kick ass music scene here. So my usual reaction to cover bands is less than stellar. These guys really rocked though. I was impressed at how closely they matched the sound of the original songs without becoming too cheesey in their mimickry. Their set list was very 93x. There was some Nickelback, Green Day, Metallica, AC/DC, Nirvana, and a spattering of tunes to sate the ladies like Bon Jovi and even No Doubt.

Throughout the evening, the beer and good times flowed. Until I smelled my fingers. Yes, you read that right. As the night progressed, I kept noticing a distinct cheese odor. I chalked it up to someone eating or spilling some Cheetos or perhaps Doritoes nearby. Finally it got strong enought hat I mentioned it to the others. The agreed. There was cheese afoot. After one of my visits to the men's room, I washed my hands diligently as always, and returned to my beer. There was that fucking cheese smell again. This time I smelled my hands. CHEESE! And not the yummy smell of anticipated cheese, like "Mmm...can't wait for a slice of that pizza!" or "Oh, baby! Kraft Mac and Cheese!!" This was a disgusting I-smell-cheese-where-cheese-has-no-business-being-present smell. My first thought was that something was wrong with their soap in the men's room. That's when one of the other guys smelled his beer bottle. It was the bottles! We all had noticed earlier that the beers tasted a little funny. Obviously this pungent cheese smell was tampering with our taste buds. There must have been some strong cheese-related product in the fridge with the beers. Either that or an unwashed chimp had used his poop throwing hand to rub the bottles on an infected sore on his smelly chimp balls.

I finished my beer (I'm not going to let poopy ball cheese keep me from finishing my beer), and washed my hands thoroughly. When I returned, I had a Captain Coke to "defromage" my system and then switched beer brands. No cheese. They were stored in a different fridge. We were all relieved.

Closing time in Owatonna is 1 am (compared to 2 am in bars in the metro area), so we didn't get the advantage (or detriment?) of the clocks turning back at 2 for that extra hour of drinking time. I was fine with that. I was pleasantly buzzed, had kept hydrated by drinking water all night, and did not feel out of control or sick. It was just right. So we piled into the car once more, made a speedy return to Lakeville, dug into the leftover food at Grant's, and bullshitted for quite some time. Eventually Kelly decided to drive home, and while I had sobered up, I was exhausted and decided to take Grant up on the offer to crash in a spare bedroom.

Somehow, I awoke around 7:30, and was surprised that everyone was already up. I decided it was best I head home and just nap there until it was time to meet up with Jenn for coffee. Though Jenn was running a bit late (she'd had a rather boozey night of her own), we met around 1, parted ways around 2:30, and there was enough time to get in some hiking before the sun set completely.

I should also mention that our hike was followed by a fantastic greasy burger, fries, and chocolate malt at Mickey's Diner in St Paul. I have heard about it for years and it lives up to the hype. Yes, it's kind of grimey, but that's part of the kitsch. And the cook, wait staff, and patrons were priceless. But perhaps that's a story for another time.

I can see!!! After my LASIK procedure yesterday afternoon, I was completely out of commission for posting. My vision is still a little like a hazy dream sequence in a soap opera, but I can see my computer screen and read the time on a clock from across the room. But now I need to head off to work, so hopefully I will have more time to write about the whole crazy experience in the coming days.

Or in my case, burning in the afternoon! You may remember that about a month ago, I made an appointment to get an evaluation exam to see if I'm a candidate for laser vision correction. I expressed concern over the shabby nature of LasikPlus' website, but after doing some research, reading some stories online of other people in the Twin Cities who have used them, and visiting their Edina office, gone were the concerns that this could be some fly-by-night operation operating with stolen surgical equipment in the back of a white, unmarked Ford Econoline kidnap-and-rape-mobile.

After postponing the appointment due to other personal commitments, I drove to Edina bright and early for my 7:45 am appointment yesterday. Though they were undergoing a remodeling, the office was clean, modern, and well-appointed with consumer comforts (a fancy-ass automated coffee, cappuccino, and cocoa machine momentarily confused my computer programmer noggin), and exam equipment. After filling out my medical history, I was shown the procedure room and told that it was on its own generator in case the power went out. Good to know! I don't want to be halfway through the procedure, have the power go out, then surge into overdrive a moment later to bury a scorching light saber through my eye and out the back of my skull.

Over the course of nearly 90 minutes, I was shown a introduction video on laser vision correction, and I went through a battery of tests involving lights shining in my eyes, my pupils being dialated, and my eyeballs being prodded at with a stick. Then for some reason, I was given a rectal exam ("What are you using your whole fist doc?") and a slow, sensual hernia check with a lilac-scented lotion (at no time was I asked to cough though). Afterward, I met with one of the surgeons, and he went over the exam results. Evidently I am an excellent candidate (granted, you wonder how forthcoming they'd be if you weren't a good candidate and were about to walk out the door with your bank account intact). I have very thick corneas, and I have smaller than average pupils (or just "beady" as my friend Kelly corrected), making me a candidate for one of the less complicated procedures. And while the surgeon did not make this claim, some articles I've read indicate that smaller pupil size could be an indicator of reduced risk of "halo vision" where you have difficulty with the blurring of bright objects in darkness (headlights at night, tv in a dark room, etc).

Now my original plan was to wait until after the first of the year to take advantage of the tax advantages of my flex medical spending plan at work, but they were offering a big discount on a procedure and plan that included free "touch ups" for life if additional vision correction were needed down the road. The deal ends October 31st, so I'm getting mine Monday afternoon. I know. Totally whirlwind. But I'm excited to not deal with glasses or contacts anymore. And yes, I'm fully aware of the risks. Trust me, I'm not jumping into this blind (pun intended). I have done a lot of reading the last few weeks, anf talked to several other people who've had similar procedures with various eye centers.

Right this moment, my thought is that I will pay for about a third of my procedure up front and finance the rest. I did the math, and if I put the skids on my Lindsay Lohan-style spending immediately, I can have the rest of it paid off by the spring. So now I must buckle down! I have even canceled my internet access and photo sending feature on my cell phone (no more moblogs or poopblogs for now--sorry!). And no more concerts for a few months. No fancy jet plane rides. Less meals out. Less boozing. Less Caribou. Less hookers, save a desperate discount tranny here and there. And let's not forget less tap dancing in your mom's vagina and more trips to the soup kitchen in my faux hobo rags.

I'm working on another post that I'm almost done with, but I just wanted to publicly congratulate my buddy Marshall and his wife Gail on successfully participating in humanity's longstanding and genetically beneficial tradition of procreation. Welcome, little Henry! And don't forget to save the meconium for the baby book (and some toast points).

I've been fighting a slowly encroaching cold since Friday or Saturday by desperately latching onto whatever products proven medical research or theoretical hippie quackery have hinted might bolster my immune system regardless of how ridiculously overpriced they are. I've jabbed gooey, snotlike Zicam swabs up my nose and into my frontal cortex and have downed multivitamins, wholesome veggie-filled soups, orange juice, bananas, and every variety of Naked smoothie and juice I could find in the cooler in the produce section at Rainbow and Super Target. Between that and my normal prodigious intake of water, how is it that I can be constipated today? There's a billowing cloud pouring from the crap factory smokestack, but there seems to be a backup somewhere in the production line. Perhaps there's a broken conveyer belt or several Poopa Loopas called in sick today.

And yes, as always, I will get the inevitable advice that I should get myself some Spanker Soup from Azia, but remember that I live in fucking Eagan. I can't just pop into Azia as easily as you martini-swilling urban sophisticates. I'm an ostensibly busy man with shit of marginal value to do. I can't be bothered to take an hour or more out of my day to get some soup. Not that I don't appreciate the advice or concern. Fuckers.

Yesterday I realized what an utter tool I am. I've spent much of the last 10 years feeling pretty good about myself and where my life is headed, but yesterday it all came crashing in around me when I was finally exposed for the fraud that I am. I know none of you will ever be able to see me in the same light after this, and I'll understand if you want to quit reading my blog, but I feel this is a sign that I need to tell everyone the truth--prior to today, I didn't own a USB flash drive. NO! Save your patronizing platitudes for the toddler with a skinned knee. He will never know the pain that I know. Flesh ripped from the bone cannot match the pain of a void in one's soul.

It all started yesterday morning when one of my coworkers had kindly brought me a couple episodes he'd downloaded of "Heroes" and that I happened to have missed. The catch--he had them on his flash drive, our company's firewall blocks the software I use to remotely transfer files to my computer at home, and yes, I have no flash drive of my own onto which to put files. When he nonchalantly suggested I put them on MY flash drive to take them home, my cheeks burned, and bile rose into my throat. I had to tell him the truth. I fixed my gaze on the floor and barely whispered my reply. "But I don't have a flash drive." My coworker's jaw fell to the floor, and he fell silent. I could sense he felt ashamed to be near me. I broke into tears and ran to the men's room to cry in embarrassment alone.

Today I was compelled to finally buy one. It was $25, and I've already used it to bring some music home with me. But it's too little, too late. My public humiliation could have been prevented, but I was too reckless, too proud, and too cavalier. Now I know the type of social isolation that touches every generation. In the 70's, there were probably kids whose parents doggedly refused to give up their black and white television for a color model. In the 80's, it was the outcasts without Member's Only jackets (the very name alone screamed exclusion). In the 90's, it was kids without computers, and now in the 21st century, it's people who don't have iPods or flash drives.

Now I must ask that you please stop looking at me. You've never looked at me that way before, and I never want you to again.

I was thinking about this post earlier today and started to ponder the origins of some of the phrases we use to describe defecation or things centering around the rectum. For example, why is a bowel movement taking a shit? You'd think it would be giving a shit? Yet when you don't care about something, you don't give a shit. So giving a shit means you care? Giving a shit should just mean you're shitting. That change in language would mean taking a shit would now imply the theft of shit, making a person who takes a shit a turd burglar, a derogatory name for gay men.

Which leads me to another question--leaving the offensive nature of these phrases behind for a moment, why do some people call gay guys turd burglars? This conjures up an image of the Hamburglar rummaging around in unflushed public toilets for solid masses of feces. Worst case, the Hamburglar reaches right up someone's ass to get the treasure of brown gold. Then what does he do with it? Put it on an Egg McMuffin and eat it? Smear it on a neighbor's front door and ring his bell? I'm confused!

I find it hard to believe, but this show may very well have surpassed my all time favorite concerts--The White Stripes at the Orpheum in 2005 and the Raconteurs at First Ave a couple months ago. My $20 bought more entertainment than it could buy at a Smitten Kitten butt plug and lube blowout. Artists, dancers, acrobats, musicians (check out The Red Paintings), and a circus composer for the fuck sake!!! I was up front, dead center, and loved every moment of it. But now I'm tired and must sleep to work my straight gig on the morrow (as if I had a crooked one). More will come...if I feel like it. p0wn, p'zone, and breadstick you later, my cherubic spooge stockings. (Why am I talking like this lately??)

UPDATE: I posted a couple of blurry photos from my mobshitcam. I also forgot to mention last night that while my friend held our place (at the very front of the line no less--she was first inside and I was second once the doors opened), I crossed the street to Block E to piss and grab my friend a latte from Starfucks. On the way back, who should I meet rushing down the sidewalk but Amanda Palmer from the Dresden Dolls herself. I didn't say anything. Now I regret it. I should have asked her to kidney punch me or sign my balls or something.

Today was a power lunch. Science met industry, and industry met science. Or more accurately, my hands met electricity and cold steel, and my feet met wet pavement. I usually eat a simple, healthy lunch of soup each day, but once or twice a week, I like to join my coworkers in their daily noontime outing for laughs and grub. I was all set for lowly chicken and dumpling soup today, but problems vexing me in the project I'm working on had me frustrated and in need of getting away from my desk for a while. I hitched my wagon to the lunch star and never looked back.

The meal itself was uneventful. We had pizza at our usual spot in Lakeville. I had a personal-sized pie with garlic chicken, smoked bacon, and red onions. Fab shit. But after we got up to leave, one of the guys refilled his root beer, and the fountain went apesnap on him. He took his finger off the root beer button, and the flow of soft drink goodness would...not...stop. The spill tray on the fountain quickly was in danger of overflowing with a foamy mess of sticky root beer, so one of the guys rushed to get an employee from behind the counter. Meanwhile, the syrup canister had emptied, and the machine was now spewing pure soda water. It was like a dream I occasionally have where I have to pee like a mutha. I clench and clench and finally make it to a bathroom where I piss so hard I practically slice the toilet in half. But the piss won't stop. It just keeps on spraying until nothing but high-pressure air is coming out. It burns like a bitch, but I can't stop. Then I wake up with urine and popcorn texturing dripping from the ceiling all over my silk duvet cover. But I digress.

The pizza guy removed the cover for the root beer nozzle and desperately tried yanked at the power cable, but it was firmly connected to the pump. As he unwisely wrestled with the electrical wire near spilling liquid, I noticed a snap-in power connector above the pump and politely suggested he try disconnecting that instead. Either he didn't hear me or chose to ignore me, as he continued to savagely attempt to rip the electrical wire from the pump. He finally gave in and stepped back. Without a word, I moved in, fiddled with the snap-in connector (with a small amount of worry that his tugfest may have exposed a wire enough to shock me), and within 10 seconds had the power to the pump disconnected, stopping the relentless torrent of bubbly water. I got a pat on the back and a profuse thank you and jokingly chalked it up to my degree in "fountainology".

With my work done, we saddled up, climbed into my coworker's GMC Jimmy, he turned the key, and it would...not...start. Ahhh-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka... Ahh-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka... [repeat ad nauseum] Shit. Normally I wouldn't be terribly worried, but I was supposed to be back at the office by 1 pm for a sexual harrassment training session (surprisingly, this wasn't due to any words or actions on my part--it's just mandatory for all employees, and I haven't taken it yet). As the four of us limply postulated and pontificated on the possible cause of this failure to launch, it got to be about 10 minutes to 1, so I called work and left a voicemail for the woman teaching my course to inform that I would likely be late or wouldn't make it at all.

Since there was a repair shop accessible through the parking lot without having to hit a major road, we decided we'd push the Jimmy. And push we did. At times, we rolled downhill and jogged to keep up with the vehicle and at others, we grunted and struggled up hills and around sharp turns. My calves burned, as they were already sore from a workout of running up and down stairs a couple nights prior. Otherwise, aside from breathing hard for a bit, I was no worse for the wear. And while I'm no physical specimen, evidently my near-daily cardio paid off because the other guys were dying. A couple of them were literally on the verge of spewing cheese, sauce, crust, and fresh made-to-order toppings all over the parking lot. But you try chowing down on greasy pizza then immediately pushing a ton of steel on wheels over a quarter-mile and see how you do.

For the record, it turns out it was the Jimmy's fuel pump. Replacing the pump and filter will cost him a cool grand. Ouch. At least he didn't have to pay for a tow.

It wasn't long before another of our coworkers drove up to give us a ride back to work. By this time, I'd missed a good portion of the sexual harrassment class, so I decided to wait for next month's session. This means I am free to sexually harrass and profess ignorance until early November. Honk, honk, pinch, my precious chip chips!

Back in the day, when I had even more time on my hands than I often have now, I fancied myself to be quite the artist. Unfortunately at this time, I obviously did not know how to properly draw a goddamn monkey. Fuck's up with that? Well now I know better, but please enjoy this old school pre-monkey-skillz animation. Oh, I no longer own the HugePoop.com domain. It now appears to be an adult website search engine, so be warned. That shit is NSFW!

So North Korea did it for really reals, huh? Evidently tests of air samples taken last week have now confirmed that North Korea did indeed set off a nuke. But 1 megaton? Not to be proud of it, but the first atomic bomb dropped on Japan weighed in at about 15 megatons. Why so small?

I can picture them wheeling the li'l feller into the test chamber in a stroller, all wrapped in swaddling blankets like a wee radioactive baby Jesus. They turn the keys. They push the button. Baby goes boom and leaves a crater the size of a Vespa missing a wheel. It's too precious!

Perhaps they went small not out of lack of available uranium or scientific knowledge, but to make a point analogous to their tiny, tiny penises. It's not the size that matters--it's the 'splosion in the ocean.

No, I'm not talking about LiveJournal, I'm talking about my usual Friday lumberjack breakfast. Today I decided to mix it up a bit by trying Caribou's new Pumpkin Spice Coffee Steamer. Basically it's their answer to Starbucks' Pumpkin Spice Latte. At first taste, I was pleased with my Caribou Pumpkin thingy, but after downing most of it, I have to say it's too jam packed with spice. The flavor is a bit overwhelming. I hate to say it, but I think Starbucks has your number in the Pumpkin Spice department, Caribou. May I suggest trying a tie-in deal with another company? Like Jimmy John's Big John Latte, or a Chipotle Carnitas Burrito Latte? Hoo boy! There's a trip to the bathroom that'll wake the neighbors!

Yesterday's post about my uncharacteristic stash of guns reminded me of how my brother and I ended up with them. Our dad died a little over a decade ago, and we inherited his collection of rifles and shotguns, along with a semi-automatic pistol and a revolver. While I went through a hunter's safety course as a kid (with Dad as one of the instructors), I never had any interest in hunting and had only a fleeting interest in target shooting of any sort. My brother, however, seemed to enjoy hunting with his friends growing up, but as an adult with a busy career, he rarely had time for it.

So there the guns sat. First in the farm house. Then in the tiny little house Mom rented in town when she realized she could no longer live in the house in which she watched our dad pass away. Then in the basement of a different farm house she shared with her new husband after she remarried. Having no interest in these guns, I quickly forgot about them. Then Mom started bugging us about them. "Next time you guys come home, take your guns with you." Her husband had been quietly maintaining them for years, making sure they were cleaned and oiled on a regular basis, and Mom rightly felt he shouldn't have to mess around maintaining guns that didn't belong to him.

Months passed, as did opportunites to take the guns with us. We had a car full Christmas gifts and luggage and didn't have room. In one case, I had flown from Minneapolis and wasn't about to attempt to smuggle an arsenal onto the puddle jumper (maybe I could have keistered the pistol, but that would have made for a very uncomfortable flight). In other cases, everyone simply forgot about the guns yet again.

Finally during a visit to the farm in the spring, everyone remembered the guns. I then realized I had no clue about the legalities of transporting these guns in our car. We had no gun cases for them, and I couldn't find much information on the internet in what little time we had before hitting the road. So we shoveled them into the trunk and crossed our fingers that we wouldn't get pulled over and if we were, that the trooper would have utterly no reason to peek in the trunk. Aside from finding a rotting corpse in a car, I'm sure nothing makes a cop more suspicious than popping someone's trunk to find it brimming with no less than 14 guns--6 rifles, 6 shotguns, the pistol, and the revolver.

In the end, it was fine. It turns out it was legal anyway since we were the rightful owners and had them in the trunk out of reach. We reached Bloomington, where my brother lived at the time, and I let him have his pick of the litter. I offered to let him take them all, but he understandably didn't want to keep such a relatively large stash in the one-bedroom apartment he shared with his girlfriend. So I loaded them up into my vehicle and stashed them in a closet where they have sat ever since, save occasional cleanings. Every once in a while, someone who has known me for years seemed startled to learn that I own a mini-shitload of firearms. I can never tell if it's because they don't think I seem like the type of guy who is into guns, or if they are worried that a guy like me has easy access to guns. In either case, it's all good. I only use them to get cats out of trees and threaten neighbors (sometimes it's vice-versa).

Hmm...if Diablo can use her blog to shill a lease on her house, then I can use my blog to sell guns! Get your guns here, muthafuckas! *fires a shotgun into the air* Guns, guns, and more guns!!! But seriously. I have a shitload of guns I inherited years ago. Shotguns and rifles out the ass over here. While I have no moral or political opposition to guns or hunting, I myself don't hunt or do any sort of target practice. So buy them now before I get fed up and just leave them loaded with the safeties off at the end of the driveway for the neighborhood toddlers to discover. Oh shutup. It's called Darwinism, you hemp-wearing jackaninnies. The rest of you, drop me an email or comment for more info. I mean think about it--do you really want ME having guns readily available?

The bowl of a certain toilet I use on a regular basis is almost invariably coated with streaks from greasy bowel movements or full on high velocity ass spatter. At first, I thought pehaps the cleaning cycle on this particular restroom was not daily and that I was seeing the same shit and porcelain Jackson Pollock painting day after day. But I duked twice today and noticed the second time that the shit spatter was a now different shade of brown and had higher coverage. If my years of watching CSI have served me, this means the first spatter was delivered by a series of solid, but extremely greasy turd impacts, while the second was the result of an explosion of near-liquid feces propelled by copious amounts of acrid and gurgling flatulence. The first one likely sounded like jiggling masses of jello dropped onto a hot sidewalk on a sweltering summer day, while the second one probably sounded like cooked oatmeal being thrown into the angrily whirling fan of a small-block engine. If these bowel movements sound familiar, or if you have any other information helpful in identifying the shitter(s) responsible for this daily coating of gale force feces, please contact me. I would like to hire a nutritionist for the person or persons or at least give them some Kaopectate to blot some of the grease from that nasty cake batter hole.

Last night before running to pick up a friend at the airport, I had a bite to eat then stopped for a much-craved slice of pumpkin pie at Baker's Square. Now here's a little-known fact about Baker's Square--they have a drive through for pie! Well, at least the one I go to has a drive through. It's a nice alternative to a DQ Blizzard run when my lard ass is in the mood to have fattening sweets shoveled into its gaping comestible hole. I've only done the drive by pie thing three or four times in as many years, so I don't have the broad base of customer service experiences to work with like I do with DQ, but last night was just a bit odd.

After driving up to the outdoor menu and waiting a few moments, I heard a young woman's voice crackle over the speaker box. She spoke with a slow, sultry purr. At first pass, her words were ostensibly charged with sexuality. Her simple greeting of "Welcome to Baker's Square! What can I get for you?" could just as well have been, "Welcome to Baker's Square, sugar cock! Drive up to the window and GIVE IT TO ME HARD, big boy!"

I paused for a moment, slightly taken aback by her porn star voiceover approach to greeting a customer, but I had important pie-related business to attend to and couldn't be dissuaded from my mission. "Uh, yeah. Do you have the pumpkin pie with whipped cream on it?" The speaker began oozing spermicide and gurgled to life with aural sex. "MMMM HMmmmmmmm. We have BOTH kinds of pumpkin tonight. Both with and without WHIPPED crrrrrreeeaaam." Just as I started to imagine her fingering herself behind the counter as she moaned, "crrrrrreeeaaam," things clicked. This girl wasn't being slow and sultry. She was just...well, slow. Or at least she seemed to speak in an oddly drawn out, yet syncopated fashion.

"Oh...well, I will go with the one with whipped cream then."

"Oooooh....that sounds WONDERFUL. Mmm....is there anything else I can DO for YOU?"

"Um...no, that should be good."

"Okay! PULL UP!!!!" (which despite my earlier realization, still sounded a lot like a breathily orgasmic command for me to "PULL OUT!!!!")

The situation became even more uncomfortable when I drove up to the window and was greeted by a girl who appeared to be no more than 15 or 16, braces and all. She gave me my total, I handed her a $5 bill, and she disappeared back into the kitchen. I fiddled with the radio, trying not to curiously look through the window to see what she was doing so as not to appear like a leering pervert (even though I am one). After a couple of minutes, she returned and practically thrust her head and half her torso through my window to hand me the pie-laden bag. She then repeated how much change she owed me, and sloowwwwwwllllly brushed the dollar bill against my open palm before dropping in the remaining coins. That did it. I was officially creeped out. Which didn't stop me from going home, eating the pie, then firing one off thinking about the sultry, mildly retarded underage pie girl.

New York, NY (AP) - NASA workers inspecting space shuttle Atlantis this week discovered a stray bullet had punched a hole in a radiator panel during the shuttle's recent mission, but officials said the incident never endangered the crew.

The bullet struck a panel that extends from payload bay doors on the shuttle. It wasn't clear exactly what the object was, but it did not hit the sensitive tiles or thermal panels that help protect the shuttle when it returns to Earth.

The bullet, which appears to have been a .22 or other small-caliber round, left a hole about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, NASA reported Thursday on its Web site.

The damage "didn't endanger the spacecraft or the crew, nor did it affect mission operations," NASA said. The radiators were brought inside the bay before the shuttle's landing last month, so the damaged area did not encounter searing heat during re-entry through Earth's atmosphere.

NASA officials surmise the shuttle was caught in the crossfire of an ongoing turf battle between the Nebulonz of Delta Prime and the Gangsta Greenie Big Boyz of Alpha Centauri. The SETI Institute is investigating the shooting.

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Appleton, Wisconsin - For the third time in less than a week, a thief dubbed "The Turd Burglar" has absconded with several tons of solid human waste from a local sewage treatment facility. While no one from the Appleton Police Department would comment officially, an officer speaking on condition of anonymity said that the thief appears to be a coprophiliac, also known as a fecophiliac. "In all three cases, we arrived to find what appeared to be "feces angels" on the ground. Like someone was rolling around in the stuff. We also found copious amounts of semen and pubic hair the last couple of times."

Aside from the identity of the burglar, the biggest mystery is how he is transporting 3 to 5 tons of solid feces from the treatment plant without drawing unwanted attention. Given the firmness of the feces on the Bristol Stool Scale (it varies from Type 2 to Type 5 according to the anonymous police officer), one might conclude he is driving a large dump truck or perhaps making several hundred trips to his lair with a poo-laden wheelbarrow.

Schinder's Deluxe Ringed Chocolates and Bridgeman Nut Packing have posted a $500 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of The Turd Burglar. If you have information regarding these crimes, please contact the Appleton Police Department. Do not approach or attempt to detain the suspect yourself, as he is probably sticky with yucky poop and is all super gross.

I've already done this bit here, but sometimes real news is just too funny to resist. Comment away with your childish and easy jokes! C'mon. It'll be fun. I'll get us started.

First dark spot discovered on Uranus

"First dark spot? Obviously they've never bothered to look after I've eaten at Chi Chi's."

"Second and third dark spots later seen on urcheeks."

"Phenomena leads to discovery of first known 'brown hole.'"

Shamed former Florida congressman Mark Foley checked himself into an alcohol rehabilitation clinic yesterday. In a statement released to the media, Foley said "I strongly believe that I am an alcoholic and have accepted the need for immediate treatment for alcoholism and related behavioral problems...I deeply regret and accept full responsibility for the harm I have caused." How very brave and noble that you should choose to fight your alcoholism now just days after being outed as a boy-hungry pervert and online predator. But these supposed "related behaviorial problems" seem to be code for "Shit! I'm caught! Gotta distract the media and blame this on someone or something other than myself. Got it! ALCOHOLISM! It's a disease! People feel sorry for people with diseases. People forgive people with diseases! I'm off the hook, suckers!" Nice try, Foley the Floridian Pervert. Next time try blaming colon cancer, gangrene of the balls, or the trauma of the repeated dry ass rapings you'll get when you surely go to prison.

As you may have noticed if you've stopped by regularly the last few days, I've been slightly more bloggery. Usually I post something almost every day, save one or two days a week, but as I've mentioned a couple of times, the last 3 or 4 weeks were jam packed from stir to snore. And frankly, I have no one to blame but myself. Usually I'm very guarded of my personal time, but in September, I was very generous with it. Perhaps too generous. Late night (and often somewhat boozey) outings many nights a week left me short on sleep. Add to that working my butt off to try to get a long-suffering project out the door at work, and you've probably got a one-way express ticket to burnout. But it didn't happen. Perhaps being older and somewhat wiser, I knew when to step back and slow down. So now I'm somewhere between dapper socialite and slovenly couch potato with his ass full of thumb.

Adding further complication to this period of reduced blogging was the fact that my laptop suddenly decided to stop recognizing its hard drive about 2 or 3 weeks ago. I have a rather beefy desktop computer where I play high resolution games and view pornography that requires multiple processers to compute (I illegally siphon processor time for my titty vids from a couple of projects trying to calculate cures for cancer and AIDS). But I enjoy being able to blog wirelessly while watching tv in my living room and yes, in all seriousness, while I'm pooping in the toilet (because that's where poop belongs when you're through using it).

So you might think to yourself, "Well, Jeremy's got it covered! After all, he's a computer guy!!" That's all well and good, but I'm a guy who makes his living sitting on his ass in front of a computer 8 hours a day. What do you think is the last thing I want to do when I come home, particularly during a period where time at home is a rare and precious commodity? Especially when this particular laptop is 5 or 6 years old and worth less than a discount handjob from an amputee with case of stump rot.

So there my laptop sat, all lonely and useless. But late tonight, I decided I would try to download a CD-bootable operating system as a stop gap measure to be able to use my laptop. I flipped it on to check the BIOS version, and the fucking thing booted up like a champ. I tried several times over several days to boot the damn thing up with no luck. I guess it just needed some rest and a healthy coating of dust to come back to life. So the next time you call tech support and they tell you to just try turning off your computer and leaving it sit for three weeks then turning it back on, well boy howdy, you better believe it, buster! So now I can chill out on the couch, surf the web, watch tv, blog, and keep the dust off my thumb all at the same time! I'm back, baby!!!

On my Monday morning mocha run, I saw this little froggy crawling on the outside of the window at Caribou in Lakeville. Maybe he just wanted to show off his frog junk to the customers sipping their lattes.