Today was the day that multiple things happened in the Twin Cities. You win some, you lose some. Sunrise, sunset. A flower blooms, a badger is shoved in your tender butthole. Yep, multiple things, I tells ya.

First, CompUSA announced they are closing all 4 of their Twin Cities metro stores. In fact, their website already says they don't have stores in Minnesota. This is part of a restructuring move that will close more than half of its stores nationwide. God damn you, CompUSA! Now where will I buy computer parts, electronics, and cables? You have abandoned me, your loyal customer, who has spent at least $60 in your stores over the last decade. COMPUSAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...

Ok, I think I've made my point. CompUSA just can't compete against the likes of Best Buy, particularly in the Buy's hometown. In fact, one of the local CompUSAs is just down the road from Best Buy's sprawling headquarters. Shitty selection, so-so prices, and non existent customer service do not a consumer electronics powerhouse make. You're dead to me, CompUSA. You hear me? Dead!

The other frivolous Minneapolis news today has an impact much closer to home, as in 10 minutes from my home. The Mall of America signed a deal with Nickelodeon to license its characters like Spongebob Squarepants and Dora the Explorer. The mall's amusement park, tucked within the temperature controlled confines of its cavernous walls, used to be called Camp Snoopy. However, they lost the licensing agreement to use Peanuts characters, and then it became the super lame The Park at MOA. It sounds like a poorly built condominium development next to a man made lake slowly filling with seeping sewage. The Ponds at Sunny Oaks. The Falls at Chumblespuzz. The Jisms at Spooge Caverns. The Ewoks at Endor.

But now the MOA will have all those newer characters that are much hipper and recognizable to today's diaper crapping set than the half century old Snoopy and Charlie Brown. Toward the end of the Peanuts licensing agreement, I'm sure the kids who saw the 6 foot tall foam Charlie Brown were more likely to think he was Kojak or Yul Brynner circa 1973 than to make the Peanuts connection. "Where's my fucking lolly, Kojak?" *kicks him in the shins*

And after having a cascading series of plans for tonight postponed or canceled, I found myself with the opportunity to join the Blogger Mafia for musical bingo at the Chatterbox for the third week in a row. Unfortunately I've been fighting a cold this week, and when I came home from work, I lifted weights then spent nearly an hour shoveling a foot of snow from every square inch of my driveway (just in time for another foot to be dumped on us tomorrow). By the time I came inside and hopped in the shower, I was so exhausted that I decided it was best if I stay home and rest. I don't want to let this cold take a firmer hold than it already has.

As for the nature of these plans, my lips are sealed. It's not really a big secret, but I think it'll be more fun to keep it under my hat somewhat. If it pans out, it'll be something you'll get to see the results of. You'll be the first to know, and I'll point out where to find it.

Alright, I'm tired. I have a feeling my back muscles are going to revolt tomorrow. Hopefully it's not like when I hurt my back lifting weights a few weeks ago. I couldn't sit up when I pooped. I had to fill the tub with warm water and make turtle soup.

My dad was a farmer. My grandfather was a farmer. My great grandfather was a farmer. But I've never been short enough on calcium to eat a farmer's cheese.

For about 6 years years I drove an older rustbucket of a Ford Explorer 4x4. Well, it wasn't that way when I bought it, but for about half that time, every time I slammed the door shut, big chunks of it would fall off. There were several piles of rusty metal and dust in my garage on either side of where I parked it. On rare occasion, I miss it, usually when there is a foot or more of snow on the ground, and the plows are having trouble keeping up. But the thing handled for shit in 2 wheel drive, and you couldn't drive more than 45 in 4 wheel drive. And in reality, 4 wheel drive was 3 wheel drive because one of the hubs wouldn't lock. Then there was the minor issue of extreme difficulty in turning off 4x4. On older 4x4's (and perhaps certain newer models for all I know, though I'd be surprised), when you wanted to go back to 2 wheel drive, in addition to turning it off with a button press or shifter throw, you had to put it in reverse and back up a few dozen feet or so to unlock the hubs. Sometimes my few dozen feet would have to stretch out to a quarter mile or so. Yeah, that's convenient. Wait--I guess I don't miss that piece of shit at all come to think of it.

I know we've had a really mild winter here in Minnesota, particularly around the Twin Cities, but I've had my fill. Perhaps it's being spoiled by the lack of snow and relatively mild weather, but when we had a foot of snow dropped on us over the weekend, I didn't shovel my driveway for shit. Come Monday morning, I opened my garage door, threw my little 2 door RSX into reverse, and gunned it down the driveway as if Nancy Grace were standing at the end of it. Splat! Once I was in the street, I put in in first, steered to the side a little, then blasted my way back up the drive way into the garage, and rocketed my way back to the street again. Up yours, mother nature! I had cleared myself a path both for driving and walking down to get my mail. If anyone wants to visit me and can't park in my driveway or walk up it, they can take a flying assfuck.

Though with another foot supposedly on the way over the next couple of days, I may regret that decision. I have a feeling that tomorrow's workout will consist of shoveling instead of running.

I had forgotten about the Half Assed Morning Show's Would You Rather contest this morning. By the time I tuned in, they had already picked a winner. Some lame-ass one about eating a bowl of meth scabs or taking a bite out of a placenta. Pssshht. That sauce is watered down with store brand vanilla. I surely would have won with mine: Would you rather drink a bloody mary made with menstral blood or beer made with yeast from a vaginal yeast infection?

Evidently the talk around town is whether KARE 11's keychain-sized meteorologist Sven Sundgaard is gay. Or so it would appear to be a topic of gossip since I get about a half dozen visitors or so each day who found my blog by googling "Sven Sundgaard gay." I've only mentioned him once in this post. I saw him at the State Fair and commented about how wee he was in person. I even misspelled his name. So let me set the record straight on whether Sven Sundgaard is one of them there boys who like boys: I don't fucking care. And neither should you. Just give me a halfway accurate weather forecast, Sven. And if you do it with an extra fabulous flair, why that's ok by me.

Oh, and just so you know, Sven, regardless of a meteorologist's sexual preference, I like my extended outlook delivered with jazz hands. Totally up to you, man.

Siencetists today said they can reciporocate cold fushion in the lavatory. I tryed to look at teh articel on cnns web sight but they definately were havin some problems! I keept getting a poop up add for erbal viagra and leveetra and a knew one would open every time I clicked close on it. I totally dont need that stuff. Im all man baby...lol!

I had to jet up to Edina for my final post-LASIK exam over the noon hour today. After declaring my vision and eye condition to be excellent (it took all of 5 minutes), I drove straight back to Lakeville. On the way back, I decided that I was in the mood for a fruit salad for lunch. I've been trying to cut back on my caloric intake in recent weeks, so typically my lunches consist of a bowl of soup, a light salad, or in this case, a fruit salad. There is a McDonald's close to work, and while normally I eschew 95% of their menu, I do like their simple fruit salad consisting of sliced apples, red grapes, low fat yogurt and granola.

It was about quarter to 1 when I pulled into the McD's parking lot, and my patience level didn't match the length of the line of cars waiting to order. Fuck that. I went inside and waited as the young couple ahead of me ordered burgers for themselves and a Happy Meal for their tyke. They paid cash and stepped aside to await their platter of steaming tallow and soy patties on soggy buns. With their moment in the history of commerce secure, I stepped forward to place my order.

The clerk was a tall, lanky kid who looked to be around 20. His greasy, stringy hair hung couldn't be contained by his burger boy cap and hung like black, rotted vines in front of his sunken, glassy eyes. If his mouth hung open any wider when he breathed, a pelican would find it a suitable place to nest and raise its young. I wondered when MIT was going to mail him his diploma.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence where he just stared at me, I had to break the ice. "Yeah, can I get a fruit and walnut salad, please?"

He struggled to find the button on the register, and finally located and pressed it. "That'll be $1.91."

I shoved a five into his spindly hand and noticed black polish flaking from his nails. He stared so intently at the amount of change due on the register screen that I thought foam was going to come out of his mouth. Calculating how many of each coin you should give with change is hard work, man! He slowly withdrew a nickel and 5 pennies from the till, then went for the dollar bills. His lethargic pace was such that I could practically hear the owl from the Tootsie Pop commercial counting along as he slid each dollar into his hand. "Wuh-uhnnn...tah-hooooo...thah-reeeeeeee." Maybe it could nest in his hollow skull to keep the mouth pelican company. Finally he handed me what wasn't so much a stack of bills, but a crumpled bouquet of cash. Money? For me? You shouldn't have.

Now that the monetary portion of this transaction was complete, all that remained was the delivery of goods that I had purchased. He backed away from the counter, paused a couple of beats, then looked at me as if to say, "What the fuck are you still doing here? We're done. Go." I looked him square in the eye, then looked to the cooler behind him brimming with the prepackaged fruit and walnut salads. Him. Cooler. Him. Cooler. Back and forth. He continued to stare at me. Then he walked away. Before I could so much as mumble, "Motherfucker, where do you think you are going?" he was out of earshot. He wandered around aimlessly by the fryer, walked several circles around his manager, then wandered aimlessly some more.

A full 3 to 4 minutes had passed since he'd given me my change when he saw it fit to return, looked at order the register, and then looked at the cooler. He turned around, reached his hand out toward the cooler, then stopped. He paused, arm outstretched. He was quite obviously confused. He looked at the register again, blinked hard, and quickly spun around toward the cooler. Again, he paused with his arm in the air. It was as if he were trying to figure out how to open the cooler door. Grab and pull, shitlick! What's to fucking analyze here?

Scrunching up his face to force every last one of the half dozen neurons in his head to fire in unison, he grabbed the cooler handle, pulled it open, and pulled out a fruit and walnut salad. He then turned, looked right at me and said, "Did you order the fruit and walnut salad?" Did I order the fruit and walnut salad?!? Who the fuck else have you waited on, talked to, or even looked at in the last 5 minutes? Just me, the only person standing at the counter, you slackjawed buttery toastfucker! At my acknowledgement, he handed me the salad and asked, "Do you need a fork or something with that?" Or something? Like what, the last 5 minutes of my life back? Now that you ask, yes and yes! He handed me a sealed bag with a napkin and plastic utinsil in it, which I only later discovered to be a spoon. Had I been in a fouler mood, I would have sharpened it to a point, driven back, jumped the counter, and dug his eyes out with it. Lucky for him, I'm such an understanding guy.

It's about time we get some toxic requital up in this bitch! Silly Gap for Kids, if I wanted to dress like I was in the fucking Matrix, I'd drill a hole in the back of my head and plug in a USB cable.

I have a Meet Me account on Hot or Not that I'll usually forget about for weeks to months at a time until I get an email saying that someone clicked "Yes" on my profile. More than 99% of the time, it's someone not remotely within my match criteria or someone just plain unattractive. I actually did go on one date a year or two ago with a girl I met on there, but it quickly became clear we were not at all compatible.

Today I received such an email, wasn't interested, and clicked No. But the profile that randomly showed up next caught my eye. Evidently some dolt didn't know how to click "Male seeking Female" when he signed up. Since I have no way to contact this poor guy to warn him that he should correct his profile, and I would hate to deprive the female masses of this big pimpin' playa, I present to you Jake. Now please be nice to him, girls. He obviously has a broken keyboard, as his caps lock is stuck, and the apostrophe key doesn't work. His son probably spilled juice on it. He likes sex, pleasure, women, having fun, and keeping it real. He also says he's funny. He has no idea.

Melted butter is good on everything. But first and foremost on that list is seafood. Last night I had a delicious meal of crab legs, shrimp, and other delicacies hauled from the sea. Five stout sailors died for my meal alone. Also, another 6 or 7 very weak, scrawny sailors died, but whether they died of severe asthma attacks or capturing sea creatures is still in debate.

I will keep mum on the circumstances around this meal, as it involves something I seem to doom, curse, and jinx anytime I mention it on my blog. Then again, I seem to do a good enough job of dooming, cursing, and jinxing certain things on my own, regardless of blogging.

In between darting from work to social event to seemingly straight home to sleep, I managed to do a little writing outside of my nearly daily posts. I am perhaps 25 to 33% done with day 3 of my jury experience. It isn't that it is going to be all that long -- I just procrastinated after struggling with how to approach it. I could finish this week. It could be another month. Who knows?

The Twin Cities are awash with snow at the moment. I was on my way to Apple Valley yesterday afternoon, and a huge crash had shut down Highway 77. Someone was dead or had a hangnail or something because the ambulance zoomed past (well, it crawled past, given the road conditions), and there were state troopers everywhere. I had to exit at Cliff Rd, then get back onto the freeway after Cliff. It made me 5 minutes late. The nerve of some people!

Friday's conversation over lunch...

Coworker #1: "Oh, man. That would totally make me LOL."

Me: "I think it would make me POL."

Coworker #2: "POL?"

Me: "Poop out loud."

All: (actually LOL)

Later we had an email exchange regarding a minor issue my coworker said he could fix...

Me: (Referring to the problem I had highlighted in red) "See below in red. Makes me POL."

Coworker: (fixes the issue) "Check it now… we’ll do the email dance"

Me: "Verified as corrected. Danke, sir!"

Coworker: (referring to our work order logging system) "Good to know… but I’ll be working on it for an hour. Put in a track-it, lol"

Me: "I think you mean pol."

Coworker: "Ooh, true story. ROFP" (rolling on the floor pooping)

Me: "Totally PMAO!" (pooping my ass off)

Coworker: "If we combine them to ROFPMAO I might just pee myself."

God, we're geeks. But I love it.

Fart flavored poop candy or poop flavored fart candy? Think about it.

I just have a minute here, but I'm still alive. Lot's of crap going on this week, including yet another fun evening with the Blogger Mafia last night. See Hedy and Lesley's blogs for pics.

As promised, here are some pics of my new toy. I could have bought a somewhat reliable used car for the same price, but even though I haven't fiddled with the picture settings, GOD DAMN! No regrets so far. Just watching the 6 pm news on KARE11 in HD was amazing. I felt like the announcers were going to jump out of the tv and bite the tip of my penis (or at least I hoped they would). And it is even bigger than I pictured it. The new (well, used) entertainment center I euphemistically boffed last night couldn't be a more perfect size for this bad boy.

And I had the most strangely coincidental connection to the freight delivery truck driver who dropped off the tv. When he called me at work to let me know he'd be at my house in 30 minutes, he mentioned that he lived not even 5 minutes from my house. After he arrived, I questioned him further about where he lived, and he mentioned the street name. I had mentioned to him that I had put an offer on a house on that street back in 2000, but a couple with kids matched it, and the owner decided to sell it to them since they had a family. His eyes widened, and he said, "It wasn't [house number removed for his privacy], was it?" Yes, that was the house! So I punched him square in the blowhole for taking away my house. Ok, so not really. We both had a surprised laugh at the coincidence, and I think it worked to my advantage, because he helped me carry the tv right into my living room when really the freight delivery method I ordered only obligated him to drop it off on my doorstep and drive merrily away. Essentially, I got "white glove" delivery, which would have cost me an extra $150. Thanks, providence! I owe you a burger.

I just came home to accept delivery on my tv and played with it long enough to get it plugged in and working. I'll have to play with the settings in what little time I'll have tonight. The television even came with a special tv jizz rag to contain the results of my 'lectro chub! I'll explain more and post photos later, but I need to head back into the office.

Yeah! I fucking handled that girl's entertainment center, man. Not only that, but her boyfriend was there too, and we handled that entertainment center at the same time. Upstairs. On the stairs. In the porch. Even in the back of the car while my friend watched! Mmm mmm mmm. We handled that shit Mary Worth style. Tight and outta sight.

And by entertainment center I mean...furniture you put entertainment electronics on. Why, what did you think I meant? Vagina? You sicken me.

Click the image to enlarge and enjoy.

I just thought you'd like to know.

I've found craigslist to be be a delightful treasure trove of poor grammar, terrible spelling, and general stupidity. In searching for a reasonably priced entertainment center or stand of some sort for my new tv today, I read an ad from a lady selling her "Italion leather sectional couch" and someone who simply posted a title of "For sale! Only $100!!!!!!" Uh, dipshit, typically you tell us what you're selling in the title of your post so that we can determine if we want to click on it. If you're selling a copy of the July, 2004 edition of O, The Oprah Magazine for $100, I'm not interested. If you're selling your cheating husband's restored 1966 Shelby GT350 for $100, we'll talk. And doesn't the fact that you posted it in the Furniture For Sale section of craigslist imply that it's "For sale!"?

I also love how people tend to give far too much detail when explaining why they are selling their cherished possessions. For example, the guy selling his fish tank says, "i have no use for it since all my fish died due to moving.." I really could give a flying fuck, dude. What do you have for sale, what condition is it in, and how much are you asking? The end. "I sell this credenza to make money to pay for penis enlarge surgery! pleez help!11!!!"

Not long after I first moved to the Twin Cities area, I briefly dated a woman (it seems like nearly all of my dating verbs are modified by the adverb "briefly") who worked in one of the countless theaters in downtown Minneapolis. Prior to moving here, one of the plays she worked on featured Bonnie Franklin in the lead role. Evidently Ms Franklin had a temper and a surprising case of sailor mouth, completely belied by her (I guess) relatively clean cut character on the long-running sitcom One Day at a Time. Whenever she would forget a line in rehearsal, her polite prompt for assistance always came in the form of bellowing, "Fuckin' line?"

One could only wish that we could all speak as we do in our civilian lives at the office.

"Bitch, you collate those fuckin' TPS reports yet?"

(forgetting an Excel keyboard shortcut and calling the help desk): "Fuckin' macro?"

"Fuckin' performance review?!? Where my fuckin' raise, mothafuckah? I beat that hike out yo' ass."

"I pooped on the conference table. Oh, sorry--I fuckin' pooped on the conference table."

Old Navy's outlet store sure is getting some weird stuff in this year.

The other night I looked behind my mismatched tv stand and realized that now was as good a time as any to get rid of the mass of cluttered wires behind it, have of which weren't even connected to anything. I disconnected my receiver, speakers, soon-to-be-replaced Tivo Series2, cable box, and television, and set them all aside to sort through the mess. I made a pile of trash to be thrown away, a pile of cables I need to use, and a pile of good cables that I don't need now, but would be handy to have around. Two problems resulted. First, my living room is now a cluttered mess. Second, I discovered that my 9 year old tv stand has become quite wobbly in its advanced years, and I do not trust it to hold my new LCD tv, which will be delivered early next week. So now I'm scanning craigslist for used furniture.

Regardless of my lack of entertainment-related furniture, I had to get the new Tivo Series3 configured and ready to go so the cable guy could install the CableCards today. It was the first time he'd ever configured them in a Tivo. He was a little shakey on the menus, and I had to point out to him that he'd installed the first card in the wrong slot (the slot label and the menu screen both clearly said to use the bottom slot first, but he must not have noticed that). He did just fine in the end though, and everything is now up and running smoothly. I can now record my shows in HD, but will have to wait until next week to actually watch them in HD.

Those of you who followed the arm flailing, bloodshot-eyed war against PepsiCo seemingly spearheaded by Bo and myself about a year ago, probably remember that I gave up caffeine entirely in protest in early May. I did relatively well with it for several months, but a couple of months ago, I mindfully (as opposed to compulsively) started drinking what I call the browned sodas, or pops as we often call them in North Dakota and Minnesota. I needed a jump start to get me through these winter doldrums because I suffer from a moderate case of what is probably SAD. And instead of better diet and exercise or a trip to the Bahamas, I figured caffeine from diet soda was my best bet. Boy howdy! Addiction is back in fashion, and I'm sporting it like Kate Moss hoovering up a line of coke the length of a football field.

Before I go, let me leave you with a diagram of the beverage pyramid for your reference and health.

What I did Wednesday night at Chatterbox from Hedy's and Alie's perspectives. Many swears were sworn, and many laughs were had. Just don't fuck with us, or we'll duck into the restroom and grab the gats we taped to the backs of the toilet tanks.

This is creepy. These not so little dolls (they look small, but check out the scale here) encourage you and your children to cut faces out of photos like a bride left at the altar. And get this--you can record your voice in a digital recorder tucked in the fuzzy bum of this monstrosity. (Speaking into the ass) "Carol Anne, listen to me. Do NOT go into the light. Stop where you are. Turn away from it. Don't even look at it."

I'm picturing children cuddling up with a scowling mugshot of their purse snatching biological father snipped from the local newspaper, rocking back and forth, and cooing, "Daddy finally loves me!" as the doll plays a recording of him cursing about "colored folks comin' intah mah neighborhood..." And why is his right arm a blue-tipped penis?

Happy 28th cakesnackin' birf-day to my favorite (and only) sibling, Troy. Here is a photo from his 4th birthday in 1983. Pictured is our late dad, me hamming it up, and lil' Troy. Click to make it big (rub to make it even bigger).

Hmm...

...so here is one of me lamenting the imminent replacement of my trusty 27" old school tv and one of me overjoyed because I finally got a new styptic pencil. "The new styptic pencil is here! The new styptic pencil is here! I'm SOMEBODY!" The old one was in pretty rough shape. Thankfully I didn't have to use it very often, but that little nub was rough rubbing on my face (insert your own joke here).

And no, it's not a suppository or joint.

Yes! Russian scammers with murky plans for bilking me out of the deed to my house and my fillings are at it again. God bless those potato vodka swilling fuckers and every awkwardly arranged syllable of their malformed syntax. Behold their latest attempt to contact me via Match.com and my tactful response.

Good DAY !!!!

Actually it was NIGHT !!! when your message arrived, but you were probably too busy trying to guess the PIN number for my ATM card to calculate the GMT offset.

I have seen your profile and it became very interesting to me to read about you.

Holy shit! You both saw AND read my profile? Oh, sorry. Let me phrase that in a manner you would understand: You both SAW !!! and READ !!! MY !!! profile? Well, tit sake little scammer--er, I mean little lady, I'm tossin' my jizz rag in the hamper and hoppin' on my Vespa right now!

I see that you want to find your soulmate and I want it as well! I think what to write to you now,
and it is really very difficult to write to a man knowing him only by a picture,
but your information about youself helps me to understand you and what you want.

You want my soulmate, as well? Now listen here, you greedy little bitch! She's MINE! Unless you're like into some threeway action or something. 'Cause I'm down. With doing two chicks at once, that is. And maybe another dude, but he can only watch. Ok, he can videotape us...and put Tobasco in my ass. But no one else! I have a standing in the community to maintain.

By the way, who's Youself? Is that the Turkish guy who sold my brother that '92 Camry? Tell him what's up. We should hang sometime, maybe play some hoops. Oh, and I still have his brother's Mario Kart 64 over here if he wants it back.

I am an educated girl, with a harmonious body; my height is 5 ' 7 ",
My weight is 120 pounds.

Harmonious body? Ok, now we're talking! So what's the frequency, Kenneth? A little C major action? Like a middle C from your asshole and a high E from your vernanner? Maybe a little E minor hummer?

I ask you to write me on this emai: [suspicious Russian email address removed]
I would like to send you some of my pictures and I will be pleased to answer you if you write me back.
Faithfully, Vera

Thanks, Vera, but I think I'll write to you on my computer or a piece of paper, particularly since I don't even know what the cake snacking lardass an emai is. Sounds like some sort of huge flightless Australian land bird. Turgidly, Jeremy.

PS I would like to ask you that you wrote to me on email:[suspicious Russian email address removed]

What the ice cold snatch speculum are you talking about? You would like to ask me that I wrote to--wha?? You sure are pushy with that email address. Just for that, I'm not writing to YOU !!!

I finally took the big plunge. I just plunked down a lot of money and ordered a new LCD HDTV. I'll fill you in on all of the dirty, dirty details when I have more time tonight after work.

UPDATE #1: I added a pic of what's on its way, the Samsung LN-S5296D. 52 inches of LCD flat panel goodness. CNET and other sites have given it great reviews, and it has looked fantastic the several times I've ogled the 46 inch version at Best Buy. I also found a (relatively) kick ass deal on a Tivo Series3 HD video recorder and ordered that. I could build my own high def DVR, but by the time I bought the computer hardware and two HD tuners, it would have cost about as much if not more than the Tivo. Granted, I wouldn't have to pay the monthly service fee to Tivo, but I think I would go into convulsions without their interface.

UPDATE #2: I go into the gory details over at aftergeek if you're interested. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Over the weekend, I threw my old Toshiba e740 Pocket PC (a PDA with wi-fi built in) up onto craigslist to see what I could get. In keeping with my pattern thus far, I also specified that I'd be willing to consider "interesting trades" for the sole purpose of seeing what crazy shit people pull out of their asses. One guy offered me a portable DVD player or a low end MP3/Video player, neither of which I have any interest in, but I considered very good offers. Today I received this one:

Interested in purchasing the PDA. All I have for trade is a 55 gal
tank & stand good condition.

Now what in the flame farting hell would I do with a 55 gallon tank? And while were on the subject, it would be nice if you specify what kind of tank we're talking about. A fuel tank? A fish tank? The first thing that popped into my head was the former, though it's more likely the latter. Either way, I politely declined.

And where are the real crackpots anyway? I was hoping for offers of expired mayonnaise sandwiches and sardine tins full of elephant jizz. Or maybe a jar of pickled baby anuses and a first edition of Horton Hears a Who. Lazy nutjobs staying in the woodwork, the lot of them! I didn't want their spoogey sardine juice anyway. *folds arms and pouts*

I'm giving you your card a little early this year. I made it myself. Hope you like it, lover.

Can you believe that in my 30 (nearly 31!) years on this planet, I have only once had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day? Or even a date on Valentine's Day for that matter? Not that I'm lamenting the fact. I used to get all depressed at the thought of not honking some boob on VD (and you still can't believe I'm single???), but it's just another day. Sure, I enjoyed preparing a nice romantic evening with my girl that one time, but with age comes wisdom and better masturbation techniques. Wednesday will be quite alright.

The shittiest Valentine's Day I ever had was in 2004. I had been dating a superfoxalicious former "dancer" (yes, that kind of dancer), and was quite smitten. I had planned on cooking her a nice meal at my house consisting of curry chicken and pineapple fried rice, along with chocolate cake for dessert. I had ordered a dozen roses to be delivered to my house for me to give to her in person and had purchased the stereotypical gifts of chocolates and also a CD she was creaming over. Friday afternoon, the day before Valentine's day, she called me up and asked if she could stop by on her way home from work. My place was halfway between her work and her house, so I didn't think much of it until she stopped by to inform me she was breaking up with me, and was on her way. Blindsided doesn't begin to describe it. Not that she was cruel or malicious about it. Far from it. She was honest and straight to the point, and that's how I prefer to deal and be dealt with. But c'mon! On the friggin' day before Valentine's Day?

I wallowed for a few hours then realized I shouldn't let all of that preparation go to waste. After I chowed down the candy and threw away the card, I invited a couple of other single friends to come over Saturday night, and I cooked my fabulous meal for them. There was more than enough for the three of us, and since I couldn't remember who I'd ordered the roses from for the life of me in order to cancel the delivery, we had a very expensive centerpiece that night.

Actually I think this year could shape up to be the most fun though. I'm getting together with Alie, Hedy, and a couple other people to collectively flip off Valentine's day. Just promise me no roofies, ladies. Pretty please? I don't want to wake up naked in the back room of a smoke shop covered in tobacco spit again. Stupid Veterans of Foreign Wars.

You bitched. I listened. I'm going to do a trial run at turning off comment moderation. If anonymous trolls and/or spammers come out of the woodwork, I'll probably just try turning off anonymous commenting before I go back to turning moderation on. I hope you know that I do this because I love you like breakfast sausage and the reverse cowgirl.

While I'm on a cocksnogging bitch-roll, where in your car's manual does it say that your hazard lights make it legal for you to park wherever the fuck you want? Now I can kind of see the hazards being flipped on if you're double parked. Yes, you are still a douchetackler and are blocking traffic for your selfish convenience, but you are reducing the odds of your ride being plowed into by an ice cream truck. So actually I would prefer you turn your hazards off. I would laugh with unbridled delight at the sight of your minivan scattered in pieces across a half block and your insurance rates going through the roof.

But how does turning on your hazards make it legal to park in a handicapped spot? I have yet to hear of a traffic cop pulling out his ticket pad only to exclaim, "Oh! They have their hazards blinking, sufficiently warning us that they only plan to be inside briefly to purchase a scratch-off lottery ticket. Surely this means that they have the ability to predict that their trip inside will not interfere with the needs of a disabled person in a van who needs that space to exit their vehicle with a chair lift. Well, let me just flip my ticket pad closed with a flourish, dust my hands thusly, and walk away, satisfied and lulled into complacency by the reassuring constant blinking of their hazard lights."

But the most common place you see this is in front of the supermarket, Wal-Mart, Target, or other stores with a fire zone out front explicitly marked "Fire Lane. No Parking. No Waiting." Evidently dumbasses seem to think if they flip their hazards on while they leave their car at the curb to grab a gallon of milk, that magically legalizes and legitimizes what they've done. No, ass plug. You are now parked illegally, are blocking emergency access for fire trucks and ambulances, and have lights flashing on your vehicle drawing further attention to that fact. You are not only an oozing asscrack potentially endangering people's lives for your convenience, you are an idiot.

You know what I hate? When I want to do something, but a raw, blistered taintload of other people want to do the same thing, and get there before me. This is typically called a line, a queue, or depending on the level of control, a crowd. I hate lines. I hate crowds. And I particularly hate the people in them.

A reality of driving in Minnesota is that when it snows, you will get a white film of nasty, corrosive road salt and other chemicals on your car multiple times over the course of the winter. On the beginning and tail end of the season, typically you let the roads dry out a few days, then head to the car wash to rinse the the crust off. Unless you drive a beater shitmobile, in which case, you are thrilled because the your car is held together with rust, and further corrosion will actually increase the structural integrity.

Unfortunately, in the dead of winter, typically January and February, we get cold snaps where the temperature hovers at or well below zero for days, even weeks at a time. Most automatic car washes tend to close when the temps hit zero. Throw in a big snow storm and the subsequent dumping of salt, and until the temperatures goes up, you're pretty much driving a glazed Dunkin Donut around town. And once the temps rise, and the car washes open, everyone and their fucking grandma will want their cars washed, including me.

As I headed home around 5:30 on Friday, the radio guy announced that it was 6 degrees. I thought I'd check out the car wash just off the freeway about a mile and a half from my house. There were three cars waiting in line outside. "Fuck that!" I thought to myself, "I'm not waiting in line behind THREE other cars!" I now regret not jumping on that opportunity because today it is a bright, sunny 20-some degrees outside. I thought I'd run out for some lazy Sunday Caribou action and get my ride polished (which is not a euphemism for having something done to my penis for money...yet). I drove by the same car wash by the freeway, and there was a line of no less than a dozen fucking cars. God dammit!! I drove farther to another car wash. Ten cars. I drove up to the Super America on Cliff Rd. Ten cars. FUUUCK!!!

I was getting ready to abandon my plan when I remembered there was a car wash farther down Cliff that was not very visible from the main road. I drove up, and there were a mere three cars in line. Ok, compared to a dozen, I'll settle for it. I went inside the gas station, paid for my wash, got my code, and came out to find 3 or 4 more cars, and the line was now out into the street. Where did these fuckers come from??? As the car wash doors opened for the next car in line, one of the drivers farther back in line, dutifully pulled forward a car length, got out of her car, and went inside, presumably to purchase her code. Now why didn't I think of that? Regardless, I thought that was kind of a dick move. Whatever. I'd entertain myself by checking my email and playing games on my phone.

Throughout all of this, I couldn't get a finger on what the hell the guy in the pickup directly in front of me was doing. Every single time the line pulled forward, he turned off his ignition, got out of his pickup, locked the door, and went inside the gas station on the other side of the parking lot. The first time I assumed he was getting his code asshole-manchu style, but a second time? A third time? A fourth time?? What the fuck dude? Maybe he had diarrhea or needed to jerk off in the restroom. Or maybe both. The last time he left, he took forever, and the final car in front of him in line entered the wash. I was just hoping this asshole didn't come back because I was going to drive right the fuck around him and go. I wasn't waiting a single extra minute behind his masturbating, toilet paper-chapped ass. But he showed up a couple minutes before the car wash door flew open once again, and got his turn. Damn.

Several years ago I worked for a boss who was pretty laid back about hours (not that my current boss is a hard ass, but it's easier to do this job if I'm in the office during business hours). I worked from home frequently, often into the wee hours of the morning, sleeping until late in the day. If I wanted to get my car washed in the middle of the afternoon, I'd do it. If I needed groceries, I'd go after midnight during the week when no one was there.

Being able to avoid lines for most day to day tasks was a pleasure, but eventually I found that working at home by myself for days on end, meandering through empty supermarkets and stores, and letting my work and home life bleed into a single entity with little differentiation between the two, led to a very lonely existence. Plus I thrive on having something to piss and moan about. If it weren't for lines, clueless drivers, rude assholes, diaper wearing astronauts, and feces chucking bigots, I would have nothing to talk about, and depression would swallow me whole. But still. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY, PEOPLE! Now I feel much better.

I saw this quote on some chick's MySpace profile today: "Animals are my friends, and I don't eat my friends!"

So that means you wouldn't date a guy who would eat your pussy?

I just made a cool $20. I sold my old scanner. Guess where! That's right--craigslist. None of you pantloads wanted my scanner, and now I'm addicted to craigslist. This scanner sat on my desk for 2 or 3 years absorbing my awesomeness into its plastic body. That means that the person who bought it will enjoy a warm bath of Jeremy's life juice! Um...wait, that didn't come out right.

I've bought a couple of things off of craigslist, but never sold anything there before today. On a bit of a lark today, I dashed off a quick ad for my old treadmill asking $110/OBO or even trade for interesting items and services (I specifically suggested a piano tuning so as to avoid being awkwardly propositioned for hairy, lubeless man-on-man butt sex). I was brutally honest, mentioning the crack in the frame and other far more minor wear and tear. I also stipulated that I'd only accept cash for monetary payment. Damned if literally 5 minutes later, I received an email from someone offering $100 for it and asking if they could pick it up tonight. She just dropped by to pay for it and will come back with her husband, a dolly, and a van to pick it up Saturday. Kizz-ash money tickles my ball sack and low rides my trousers like spicy mayo, fuck monkeys. I wonder what else I can sell, aside from my soul. I sold that for half a Shasta in '86.

Colchis - Atalanta, the world's first and only female Argonaut, was arrested Monday in the country of Georgia after a bizarre series of events leading to a confrontation with a romantic rival. Despite rumored misgivings of Jason, leader of the Argonauts, over allowing a woman on his ship, Atalanta joined his crew under the pretense of helping find the Golden Fleece. In reality, police say, she harbored romantic feelings for Jason and joined his crew both to be closer to him and confront a transexual prostitute he had been regularly visiting in Colchis.

According to police, Atalanta arrived at the Colchis shipyard, tracked down the prostitute known as Manny the Ladyboy, and followed him/her on horseback to a public market. Atalanta caught up with Manny, tugged on his/her reins, and claimed to need a ride to the smithy. Manny ignored her request, and was met with a stream of piping hot vinegar in the eye. He yelled for police, who chased Atalanta for several blocks down cobbled paths and through twisting, narrow alleys. Prior to the arrest, police spotted her tossing a satchel into a rubbish bin. The satchel that was recovered contained a heavy iron mallet, 12 feet of hemp rope, a Doug Henning magic special on VHS tape, a piccolo, and a handwritten list titled "Ways to Kill Manny the Ladyboy (for serious, I'm going to kill that bitch)."

At the time of her capture, Atalanta was found to be wearing an adult diaper made of cotton and hemp. Police are still puzzled over this detail, as waste buckets and chamber pots were provided on the ship for its crew. "When we found her, her diaper was sopping wet and filled with a good 20 or 30 kilograms [approximately 44 to 66 pounds] of feces. Keep in mind they'd been on this ship for weeks and weeks. You think she would have changed or washed the diaper a few times, but that shit was stank, ya'll." Police displayed the diaper in an enormous plastic evidence bag swimming in a murky brine of feces and urine. Remnants of several fish heads and what appeared to be a partially digested animal cracker floated on the surface.

Atalanta is free on bail and is scheduled to appear in court in early April.

This guy is enjoying this product far too much for my comfort. It should be called the iMasturbate. And is it just me, or does dude look a lot like Mike Pomeranz from KARE 11?

To the lady who walked by our table Sunday night at Hooters and caught wind of the beer and hot wing-fueled fart I accidentally allowed to silently seep from my crack, I sincerely apologize. While I don't make a habit of public farting even when drunk, my muscles were far too relaxed by the alcohol to sufficiently maintain proper sphincter pressure, and...well, you smelled the horrid result. Although I have to admit that your shriek of horror quelled my guilt significantly. In fact, I struggled not to laugh as you frantically waved your hands in front of your scrunched up face. I was this close to bursting out in guffaws, but I kept my silence in the hope of ducking blame. For that same reason, I must also sincerely apologize to the morbidly obese guy sitting behind me, as I believe she thought you did it. This assumption was based on society's unflattering stereotypes of fat guys drinking beer and eating wings at Hooters. In fact, I'm willing to bet he thought he did it, too.

A little while ago, I dropped my mom off at the airport. She flew here from Devils Lake, ND. Yes, they actually have flights out of Devils Lake. I've taken the flight myself a handful of times but I usually drive home. Mom, on the other hand, is too timid of a driver and does not care to drive in "the big city" or even just outside of it. My brother and I have offered several times to meet her up in Monticello, one of us driving her down, and the other driving her car down, but she doesn't seem too keen on that idea, either. So she usually flies down a couple of times a year. She seems content to make the flight, despite the cost, and we are happy to drive to the airport (I live maybe 15 minutes from there) to pick her up.

On Friday, her flight got in around 4 pm, and my brother fetched her since I knew I would need to stick around work until 5 to wrap a few things up (unfortunately a minor work-related emergency needed my attention throughout the day Friday, so I never got to wrap those few things up anyway). We had a nice dinner at Axel's Bonfire in Savage, watched Garden State on DVD with my brother and his wife at their house, and Mom stayed there that night.

Saturday we decided to finally take Mom to Psycho Suzi's Motor Lounge for a late afternoon lunch after a failed attempt to take her there for dinner a couple years ago. I had not been there prior to last summer (a tragic mistake I shall remedy by going there time and time again until my credit card and liver are sore), so I was not familiar with the route. I printed the directions, grabbed a page off the printer, then halfway there realized I had grabbed directions to something else, perhaps the destination of where to meet an erstwhile date. We ended up getting lost, collectively saying fuck it, and went to Brit's Pub for dinner and a few beers. It ended up being memorable for its own reasons, namely me eating a huge ass serving of pot roast with a Guinness, then betting my sister-in-law another round if I couldn't down a second Guinness in under 10 seconds (fast Man Show style beer drinking is a not-so-hidden talent I possess). I won the bet, but slammed the glass down, and immediately groaned, "Ohhhh, I didn't think that one through!" I made a beeline to the restroom where I hardily vomited pot roast and Guinness. My vomit could only have been more brown and murky if someone had switched my intake and outtake pipes. Mom was surely proud of her older boy that night.

But back to Saturday. This time--this time!!--I had been to Suzi's several times, and knew exactly how to get there by heart. Now keep in mind that Saturday was cold, as in below zero. Pick your trite expression to convey the arctic nature of this cold. Colder than a witch's titty in a brass bra. Colder than a witch's titty in a wind storm. Or some other saying indicating that witches must have very poor circulation in their titties. As we drove into the tiny parking lot at Suzi's, we noticed perhaps a couple of dozen bicycles parked outside the front door. What I was seeing didn't even register until some mustachioed fucker in his spandex arctic ball huggers came prancing out the front door, hopped onto his bike, and pedaled away, clouds of breath billowing behind him. Let me repeat so that it may sink in. He rode away on a bicycle. It was about 5 degrees below zero. And did I mention I'm measuring this in degrees Fahrenheit? So not only did Nose Mop Attenborough ride his double-breasted unicycle to Suzi's, many others has well. Perhaps there is a club for folks who like to have the sweat between their ass cheeks freeze them together, only to thaw with a sudden THHHHHWOP! when they enter a warm building. Luckily we apparently were arriving as the Tour de Prance was breaking up, meaning the joint would not be packed to the gills with shrink wrapped ball sacks and camel toes. We had a nice meal, conversed for a while, and hit the road.

Our original plan for Saturday evening was to head out to Harriet Island to check out the ice sculptures and other St Paul Winter Carnival attractions, but re-dickless deep freeze put the stink finger on that idea and then waggled it around under our cold noses. Instead, we decided to see Babel at the Regal in Eagan along with my friend Mary. I think everyone else's opinion of it was far less favorable than mine, but I thought it was just ok. I understood the message, and the theme, but it was just too long and meandering. Though it would have been more enjoyable had the 350 lb man behind me, breathing wet and wheezily with what sounded like thick gazpacho in his lungs, hadn't apparently fallen asleep through a huge swath of the move, only to awake to play 20 questions with his wife to catch up? "Who's that guy?" "Where did they go? Are they in Mexico?" "Did that lady die yet?" Then when his wife finally stitched it together to his satisfaction, he put on his professor cap and brilliantly summed up the plot amidst crackling mucousy coughs, "Ohhhhh! So it's a movie about how hard it is to communicate when people don't speak the same language--HAAAAACCK HORK COUGGGHHHHH! SNOORRRRK!!!" His wife then started in with her own assessment, but Mary had had even more of her fill of this than I had and whipped her head around to give them the evil eye. They seemed to get the hint and shut their yaps for the rest of the film. After the movie, we headed back to my brother's place, watched the news, and some SNL, and I drove home to hit the hay.

Sunday was even more bitterly cold. To make matters worse, the wind was whipping fiercely, driving down the wind chill into the negative 20's. This means that if you couldn't make it to the bathroom and had to pull over to the side of the road to urinate, the wind would blow your urine up into your face, the cold would freeze the arc solid, and the coroner would have a handy little icey pee handle to carry you by after a polar bear found your frozen corpse on the side of the road 3 minutes later. Mom, my brother, and his wife were out looking at open houses in ritzier neighborhoods just for fun, which held little interest to me, so I worked out and ran a few errands before having lunch with them back at their house in Savage.

For reasons of which I understand the logic, but still wrestle with the resulting decision, my sister-in-law decided we should go to Hooters in Burnsville to watch the Super Bowl. Basically the reasoning, which I am not questioning in the least, was this--Hooters would not be as packed to the gills hours in advance of the game as a sports bar like Joe Senser's. I would have preferred to just watch the game at home, but if we were to go out, then I far preferred an environment that wouldn't be shoulder to shoulder with apeshit fans. And if I get a little boob jigglage with my beer and wings, am I going to complain? Hells naw, slim!

Or so I thought. We arrived about 30 minutes or so before kickoff to find the place hopping, but certainly not anywhere near full. Most of the traffic came from people getting huge takeout orders of wings. I was first surprised, especially given that this Hooters location is maybe 2 or 3 years old, that all of the televisions were small, old school jobs. Not a single big screen plasma or lcd to be found. I wasn't bothered by this, but I just found it rather odd. Whatever. We'll have some beer, gnaw some spicy chicken wings down to the bone, and chill.

Then it happened. A jarring screech of feedback over the speaker system followed by a loud, distorted female voice that sounded like it was being amplified by a microphone lodged so far down her throat that the end was poking out of her asshole. "[SCREEEEE] HEEEYYY SUPER BOWL FANS. WELCOME TO HOOTERS! WE'RE GOING TO HAVE GREAT TIME TODAY. WE'RE GOING TO HAVE SOME TRIVIA, GAMES, AND LOTS [CRACKLE] OF PRIZES [ZZTTZZZTZT]." All of us at the table looked at each other with a look of pain that said both, "Ow, my ears!" and "What the fuck was that???" Danielle, my sister-in-law, actually asked them to turn the PA system down, which they kindly did. Then the game started, they turned the speakers up louder, and it wasn't long before Hooty McEmcee busted in during the first commercial break with, "WOOOOO! LET'S HAVE ANOTHER TRIVIA QUESTION [SPZZZTTTT]..." It was then that we decided we would leave after the first half was over. We were Tivoing the game, so we weren't going to miss anything.

Throughout the first half, Hooty McEmcee's timing on her trivia questions and eating contests grew increasingly disruptive to the viewing of the actual game itself. I thought destroying our ability to enjoy the Super Bowl commercials was enough, but the contests spilled further and further into actual game play time. At one point, she crackled in with "HEEYYYY! IS EVERYBODY READY FOR MORE SUPER BOWL TRRRIVIAAAAA!!!!" About a half dozen people, including myself (I had a little over a pitcher of beer in my system by this point), responded with a loud, clear, and admittedly rude "NO!!!!" It fell on deaf ears. TRRRIVIAAAAA would happen with or without my approval.

At last, half time arrived, and Hooty seemed to have clamped it for the time being, so we decided to stay long enough to catch Prince's half time show. How often do we get to see a Minneapolis boy play to that huge of an audience in such a cultural mainstay? I am not a rabid Prince fan, but the guy as got some unquestionable talent, and definitely was in full control on that stage. He hammered out a few classics, and just as he was handed his glyph guitar, the PA cut in again, so they could break in with--I shit you not--the fucking hamster dance song! The Hooters girls did some sort of mesmerizing, jumpy, jiggly dance to it, and then the half time show, and the dance were both over. We piled into the car and went back to Savage.

Since Troy and Danielle both had to work today, and I had taken the day off, Mom stayed with me in Eagan last night. We spent the morning lazily sipping coffee, chatting, reading, watching tv, and all around enjoying the day without too much pressure to get much of anything accomplished. Though I did want to run to Ikea to get some wooden venetian blinds for my bathroom and kitchen and look for some new heavy duty winter gloves at the Mall of America, just across the street from Ikea. So we had a late lunch at Jimmy John's (I discovered one a dangerously close 2.5 miles from my house), wandered in the rat maze that is Ikea, and went over to the MOA. Mom bought some charms for her charm bracelet, and I found a great pair of winter gloves on clearance for 4 measly bucks at Marshall's.

Before heading back to the car to go back to gather Mom's stuff and meet Troy and Danielle for dinner, we decided to stop at Caribou for a coffeelicious treat. Caribou typically has a trivia question posted, which if answered correctly, will get you ten cents off your total. At this location, someone evidently decided to be promotional about it, and the question was, "What is the name of one of the flavors of our new Northern Lights sugar free syrups?" I correctly gave an answer of Kahlua. The Penn Gillette wannabe behind the counter snorted and asked incredulously, "Is that seriously the trivia question?" I pointed to the board behind him. Upon verifying I was not pulling this out of my ass, he snorted again, shook his head, and replied, "Man, that is a STUPID trivia question. Morning shift picks the dumbest questions. I'm changing it!" This guy's snotty attitude was starting to irritate me. I rattled off my usual order of a large skim no whip mocha, and mom, not as familiar with the nuances of cappuccinos and lattes, asked me for some suggestions, wondering what was in cappuccino. "Basically that's just strong coffee," I said, not knowing the precise answer. "What about your mocha? Is that a cappuccino?" she asked. "No, that is a latte." Mini Penn Gillette snorted even more loudly, and snarked, "Noooooo...a mocha is a MOCHA!" His tone could have just as well appended "fucktard" to the end of it. I glared at him, appending my own fucktard with my eyes, knowing his dumb ass was as wrong as Scientology (a mocha at Caribou IS a latte, but with chocolate syrup and chocolate shavings added). I held my tongue, as I really don't care to get into an argument when someone is about to prepare food or a beverage for my consumption. I prefer my treats to be spit and semen free.

Mom offered to pay, and I gratefully accepted. She handed Penn the exact amount of the total to the penny. I don't know if she did that because she isn't used to coffee shops with baristas where it's customary to tip, or if she had caught a few of the waves of attitude off this guy, or what. Normally I might have quietly nudged her about the tip or waited for her to walk away and discreetly tossed a dollar into the cup outside of her view, but I didn't like this prick. I'd piss blood in his cup before I'd put a tip in it.

By this time, it was getting late, so we decided hoof it and use our steaming drinks to warm our cores in the frigid parking ramp. We made the quick drive back to my place to gather her suitcase, threw it into the car, had dinner with Troy and Danielle, and I dropped her at the airport with a few parting hugs and kisses. All in all, it was yet another fun and relaxing weekend with dear Mom. I look forward to getting back to visit them out at the farm, hopefully in early to mid-spring.

Oh, and I already put up the blinds for the bathroom. I'll have to do the kitchen later in the week when I have more time. Here's a before and after pic. The Roman shade thing I had up before probably looks semi-ok in this photo, but it never closed quite right. I just didn't like how plain it looked either. The crank for the window messes up the bottom a little, but the new blinds class my shit sauna up a couple notches, no?

Before:


After:

I have a shitload of beer in my system and a rising Super Bowl buzz. And for the record...ASS FUCKING WHORE is Hooters in Burnsville a cocksucking annoying place to watch the game. Some chubby emcee chick keeps barking trivia questions and eating contest rules over the game and the commercials. Shut. The. Fuck. Up!!!

It is -9 out there. My testicles have ascended into my chest cavity.

UPDATE: My mom, who is here visiting for the weekend, talked to her husband last night. He indicated that the high temperature at their house outside of Devils Lake, ND was -13. I repeat. The high temperature.

Last night, we did the thing where you nuke a cup of water, open up the door, toss it into the frigid cold air, and it instantly freezes in midair in a white, puffy cloud that drifts away. But if you put too much water in the cup, some of it splashes all over your brother's sidewalk, making it treacherously slick. I think I'll try it with hot split pea soup tonight.

My mom is coming to visit today and is here through Monday night, so I doubt I'll be posting much until late Monday or Tuesday. But there's always the moblog option if something wicked jizzah happens like we see a lion humping a wicker chair or a clown eating a baby dipped in Heinz 57 sauce.

In other news, I surpassed my 550th post this week. The 666th post isn't far off at this rate. I'll need to think of something deliciously evil for it. Like a baby humping a clown sitting in a wicker chair while eating a lion with a bottle of Heinz 57 shoved up its ass.

Also, I'm still working on day 3 of my jury duty story, but I don't have but maybe 5 to 10% of it done. I've been busy and keep getting distracted by other ideas. I'm ADHD like that.

Due to the rash of identity thefts over the last several years, the United States government is issuing new social security numbers to every citizen. As you know very well, the current social security number follows the format of 3 digits, a dash, 2 digits, a dash, and 4 digits. The new social security number will follow the new format of 216 digits, a dash, 17 hexadecimal characters, a dash, 2 digits, a dash, a question mark, an ampersand, a tilde, 5 alphanumeric characters, a blueberry muffin, 4 digits representing the subject's year of birth, a question mark, 4 digits representing the year the subject will die, a chicken pot pie, 91 digits, 52 hexadecimal characters, 15 binary digits, and a celeb side boob shot.

Here is a sample social security number:

143265072483718719102536574147654608048587877873659869839337
154526746426623877480022726441308236875672180565861470116234
019554301540692502223554104394468000044750444086623359898120
148832323924412008164042402781611852-AE12F0C7DD19B200F-92?&~
A02JK1952?2025748578857934899485997554332049503975928662294025496780
0443131163278459484939755356204059284792A38B73D837DF92301019
8CE28F82EBA8273794D872B73EAF9F0010100100010010

Guys, if your girlfriend or wife bitches at you every time you nonchalantly fart in front of her, stop doing it, you disgusting clod! Instead, quietly get up, leave the room, and just as you let slip the winds of Dover, loudly announce your triumphant passing of gas by bellowing the actual word "FAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRT!" The first time you do this while her mother is visiting, I guarantee she'll settle for a good old fashioned SBD any day.

Last night I shared a childhood story with someone who had no brothers growing up. She she seemed dubious of the overall theme, which was that young boys try to make other boys drink their pee or otherwise defile things with pee. At least this was my experience in growing up in Buttfuck, North Dakota.

Case in point, a common junior high activity, one which I did not personally participate in, was to pee in some kid's shampoo bottle before he showered after gym class. He would then wander the halls the rest of the day with his hair all matted with pissy shampoo while the other guys whispered and laughed about Pisshead McGee stinking up the joint. Finally after hours of wondering what the funk was, someone would inform him of the urine-filled shampoo gag, and either a fight or tears would break out.

Even more common amongst my classmates was for someone to pee in another guy's unattended Mountain Dew bottle. This joke was less subtle, but gained a more intense and immediate reaction, as the subject of the prank would return to take a swig from his beverage, then pucker up and spit out Dew as if he'd just found out his sister had been knocked up by his step-dad. Then the pee aggressor would own up, laughing hysterically at the schmuck who just taste tested his waste water. But as my dad once said, "If I could fit my dick in a Mountain Dew bottle, I wouldn't go around braggin' about it."

When I was about 11 years old, and my brother Troy was 8, I filled a plastic drinking glass to the brim with warm piss straight from the tap. I marched it directly to Troy with a shit-eating grin on my face. Struggling not to laugh, I asked him if he wanted a glass of lemonade. His face lit up, and he enthusiastically accepted my offer. But my juvenile plan had a fundamental flaw. The moment his fingers touched the glass his eyes narrowed suspiciously, his mouth wrinkled, and he exclaimed in a tone of incredulity beyond his years that I will never forget as long as I live, "Hey, wait a minute! This is WARM!" His "Hey, wait a minute" had a tone and cadence that I couldn't possibly do justice in writing. It was as if he were a mobster in a 1930's crime flick who had just been shorted on his share of a bank heist. "Hey, wait a minute, buddy boy! Whaddya tryin' to pull here! I ain't no dummy, see!"

If there was a moral to this story, it would be to add ice next time. Oh, and that I probably should have thrown that glass away instead of just putting it in the sink with the other dirty dishes. Everyone in the house probably drank out of my peed-in glass dozens of times in the ensuing years.