The Blue Man Group threatens to shoot Blue Man Spooge on its audience with a Gray Man Schlong.

Photo by Sherri Larose-Chiglo, Pioneer Press

This post is cursed by Satan, Lord of Darkness himself. This is the six-hundred sixty-sixth post on my blog. I actually have another story from my youth almost ready to go, but I can't let this landmark number go without direct mention. I suppose I could play up the 666 with all sorts of blasphemous references and talk about my favorite sins, but how would that be any different from most of my other posts? Instead I will tell you about tomorrow (well, technically tonight). Alie, Elizabeth, Hedy, Lesley, and my friend Mary, who will be meeting the Blogger Mafia babes (sans Sandra, who has a hot date) for the first time, will all be coming to my humble home to bask in some of the shittiest schlock sharted onto celluloid. The group vote, which until now, has not officially been revealed to the others, added the following movies to our viewing queue:

• Snakes on a Plane
• Gigli
• Evil Dead 2
• Army of Darkness
• Dude, Where's My Car?

I will be making seafood lasagna, and the ladies will be bringing booze (in supplement to my current stock), dessert, and other side dishes. If there is a God in heaven, the evening will end in a drunken, naked whipped cream fight, and we'll all wake up in puddles of sticky something-or-other in the morning. And there's my 666th sinful blog entry.

My title has nothing to do with the subject of this post (nor does the photo to the left), but wouldn't that be cool to yell at a guy before roundhouse kicking him in the throat?

The good news is that I'm rid of the PT Cruiser. I love tapping ass as much as the next guy, but my tail tagging quotient was too high with that thing. I was getting approached so much that I had to repel the chicks by spraying myself with Axe body spray. Because contrary to the commercials, that shit smells like Malathion and Old Spice got mixed together in an old can of turpentine. Then a hobo puked sickly sweet smelling Cisco into it.

The bad news, aside from smelling like bum vomit and bug spray, is that my brakes pads need to be replaced, and they couldn't finish that work today. But now I've got a decent Acura TSX as a loaner for the weekend (I would have preferred the TL, a car I became intimately familiar when I drove one for a month when this same dealership fucked up my car a couple years back).

UPDATE: I failed to mention that between the 60,000 mile service (oil change, various filters replaced, detailed 70-some point inspection), the new brakes pads, removing my winter tires and putting my all seasons back on (they're supposed to be all season but are shit on snow!) this whole shebang's going to run me around $500. Mommy!

Aw yeah, taintlickahs! Check out my sweet ass ride from Enterprise Rental. I took my car in for its 60k service today, and they realized they were out of loaners. So instead of tooling around in a nice Acura TL or similar luxury ride, I got the PT Cruiser from Enterprise Rental down the the road (on the dealership's dime). It handles like a soapbox racer and does 0 to 60 in 20 minutes. Try not to cream your squirrel covers, ladies. I know firsthand how difficult it is. I've gotten laid like 5 times just since I picked this bad boy up. And I lost count of the road head.

Amber, the Blogger Mafia has lost count of how many times you've disappointed us. We summon you for musical bingo, you make promises, and you break them. Then when we mete out punishment, you mock us. "Oh, you didn't make my breastuses big enough. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic! Piss and moan!"

We admit that we went easy on you the last time, but no more. We're skipping expressing our dismay with ribbon dancing, sad ceramic kitties, and poorly stitched leather coin purses. If this wasn't enough to show you the error of your ways...

...then surely this will send the message loud and clear. We know it was you, Amber. You broke our hearts.

Oh man... I ate pad thai with "challenging" spice for lunch and am in the bathroom taking my afternoon poop as I type this on my phone. My poop is now equally challenging in that it is teh burn!ng. Ow.

Hedy just sent over a couple of photos from last night's Blogger Mafia get together. Perhaps having such unusual thumb wrestling matches only creates more questions like this one. And I wasn't even that buzzed.

For the most part, I'm an open book. There's not a whole lot hiding under the surface with me. However, there are certain aspects of my life I wish I could blog about but can't. Some of my absolute best stories would come from my work and dating life, but there are just so many stories I can't tell. Blogging about unintentionally funny things coworkers did or said (as opposed to things they said while cracking wise) is gunning for a dooce. And blogging about certain aspects of my dating life is in poor taste considering most women I've dated in the recent past are still regular readers of my blog. Embarrassing myself is one thing, but there's no call to embarrass others. Unless they deserve it, of course (you know who you are).

Ah, but I work with the tools I have. Continue to expect stories about epic bowel movements, regularly making an ass of myself, rants about ignorance, ladies' cooters, ignorance about ladies' cooters, and other assorted desperate cries for attention.

Peace in the crease,

-Jeremy

After work yesterday, I stopped at the Sprint store in Eagan to check out phones. Mine is getting a little beat up, and I just found out I'm getting a healthy tax refund (I had put off doing my taxes until Sunday because I thought for sure I was going to have to fork over some moolah this year). Time to go phone shopping! I didn't sleep well Sunday night, which isn't unusual, so I was a little out of sorts when I walked into the store. Intending to ask about a specific model I'd read about online, I instead heard the following words tumble out of my gerundhole: "Hi! Do you sell phones here?" The girl behind the counter dramatically darted her eyes and head back and forth toward the phones displayed on either side of her, and let out a "Uhhhhhhhh" as if to say, "HELLO, dumbass! We're a fucking PHONE store!" I tried to explain myself, but it was too late. I was that guy. As you can see from the photo, my punishment to myself was to get a tattoo of Star Jones Reynolds on my chest. Wanna see her dance?

Yesterday it was a record 81 degrees here in the Twin Cities. The average high for this time of year is around 45, so that means there were more people running and walking around our myriad lakes than aimlessly milling about all of the world's Old Navy stores combined. That factoid sounds suspicious, but I got it from my dog-eared copy of The Asshole's Almanac, so it has to be true.

Reports from my dear mother indicate that it's even been unseasonably mild back home in the topography-free hinterlands of North Dakota. This sounds nothing like the arctic seasons of yore (I know using that word makes me sound like I should be wearing a tunic while playing a lute and singing songs about dragons and stout bridge trolls, but I like it, so piss off). It was not uncommon for school to be canceled due to roads blocked with snow drifts several feet in height, winds that could blow over a Ford Escort, or temperatures that could freeze urine solid while it was still in your bladder.

Our farm was near the start of the hour long school bus route, so we had to be up bright and early every morning to hop on when it pulled up around 6:30. Since we could see it barreling down the road from several miles away, we would wait in the warmth of the house, then bolt outside as soon as stopped just a few dozen feet from the front door. We were particularly thankful for this curbside service when the brutal winds whipped stinging snow across open fields, but getting on the bus so early had its disadvantages. Ignore the obvious factor of having to get up so early, because when you're 7 or 8, you tend to keep more respectable hours. In bed by 8, up before 6, catching early worms, all that jazz. And it's easy to do at that age when you never stay up all night banging a "vulnerable adult" you picked up at a church rummage sale or freebasing a mixture of crystal meth, cumin, and airbag powder from a late model Honda.

Once in a while, if the weather was borderline, the buses were halfway through their route before the superintendent finally decided to shutter the school. So you had to get up obscenely early, clean up (with soap even!), put on 15 layers of clothing, and inhale diesel exhaust on a loud, rattling deathtrap with no seat belts doing 60 down a rutted gravel road, only to have the driver get the call to take everyone back home because they decided to close the school. In other words, they decided that the weather conditions were so dangerous, that it wouldn't be safe for kids in town to walk to school or for vehicles of any sort to be on the road. Thanks for not waking up early enough to make that decision about an hour ago, jaggoff. "Hmm... I should probably get up to ensure the safety of all children in the district, including farm kids, but I need another solid 30. [wipes burned airbag powder residue from cheek and falls back to sleep]"

One abysmal winter day when I was 8, the bus pulled up amidst blinding, swirling, wind-blown snow. We were the third family on the route that winter. My brother went to afternoon kindergarten and didn't ride in the morning, so until the next stop many miles away, it was just me, the mustachioed bus driver, and two morning kindergarteners. The driver powered through one hardened snow drift after another, launching our tiny, seat beltless bodies into the air like shuttlecocks in a badminton match.

Over the next several miles, the drifts grew both higher and longer. Eventually even the inertial energy of a 12 ton bus couldn't power us through the packed snow. Wheels spinning and kicking up a white cloud, we slowed to a crawl and soon stopped dead. We were stuck but good. The driver muttered in disgust under his breath and sat quiet for several minutes. He was likely thinking of how he could get out of this jam himself without radioing into the school for a tow, thus exposing how stupid he was for not turning back and reporting the road conditions. In a pure moment of genius and inspiration, he turned to me, the oldest and clearly wisest child on the bus, and asked, "Jeremy, can you drive stick?"

Can I drive a stick? CAN I DRIVE A STICK?!? Motherfucker, I could drive a stick before my feet could reach the clutch. That's how we roll in North Da-cocksucking-kota, fool! That's all he needed to know. "Ok, you put it into reverse, and we'll get out and push on the front of the bus." He was prepared to put some heavy duty muscle into this mission. When you are willing to yank a couple of 5 year old children off of a bus to push on the front of it in the middle of a blizzard, you are not messing around, my friend. "Roll those sleeves up and PUSH, or you only get the 16 pack of Crayolas instead of 64. Heave, you stubby-legged little bastards, HEAVE!!!" So there we were, miles and miles from a single other soul, a skinny, mop-lipped bus driver and a couple kids barely old enough to no longer be categorized as toddlers pushing away, and me gunning the engine like a jet before takeoff.

I learned a lot about myself that day. Despite my tender age of 8, the driver didn't need me to prove that I knew how to drive a stick. He just took me at my word. Sure, for all he knew, I was a boastful little prick who didn't know a clutch from a parking brake, and I could have easily accidentally thrown it into 1st and mowed him and the Kool-Aid gang down like meat-filled candlepins. But he trusted me implicitly and showed me where inner strength comes from. It comes from blindly putting the lives of you and two 5 year old children into the hands of an uncoordinated, overeager third grader. That shit's pure balls and heart, guy. Balls and heart.

Epilogue

It may be difficult to believe, but all of the pushing by all of the kindergarteners in the world couldn't have freed that bus. The driver had to give in and radio in for a tow. When Jeremy giddily reported his bus driving adventure to his parents after school that day, they were super pissed and called the superintendent. The driver was temporarily suspended from his job and had to live down the embarrassment in our tiny community for years afterward.

This driver was just one of many characters to haul the precious children of our town over the years. Let's not forget the guy who got pulled over for a DUI with kids still on the bus, the dude who drove with his legs while playing cards with the kids in the front seat, and the old man who's coveralls quite obviously were never laundered, as they were perpetually covered in stains from snot and spit impressively launched onto his back by a kid sitting in the back row. Some of those drivers are dead now, and most of them should be. God bless them, every one.

How is it that Carson Daly still has his own show on NBC? His pathetic monologues and pitiful attempts at sketch comedy make me weep openly. And here's something I just realized when I got my HDTV last month. Fucker doesn't even warrant high def! Leno's in HD and Conan's in HD, but Carson is in lowly standard definition. It's because NBC knows that if we saw his show in any greater level of detail, we'd realize just how much elephant testicle he sucks, and our heads would explode. At least NBC is responsible enough to keep our heads safe. But can you do something about the spoiled douche leaking from my television?

Posts may be brief and/or fewer than normal the next few days, as I'm climbing up a shit tree with a corn cob rope this week.

In the meantime, please do yourself a favor and read this post by Bo. He fights the good fight, that guy. Oh, and Bo, if biweekly means every two weeks and semiweekly means twice a week, what does being semi-curious mean?

I was in Apple Valley tonight and decided to stop by Super Target on the way home. Walking to the front door from my car, I was momentarily confused when the guy in front of me grabbed a door at the entrance to find it locked. I checked my watch. It was 9:05. Target closes at 9 on Sundays. "Dammit. They're closed," I muttered. Evidently my curse was louder than I realized, as the guy who'd tried the doors turned around, looked at me with an earnestness and pride befitting a puppy who'd just fetched a ball, and said, "No they're not! I think we're just supposed to go in the other doors." He then made a beeline for the exit doors, shouldered his way through an oncoming flood of departing patrons, nearly knocking down a mother carrying a toddler, and disappeared amidst the flock. No, dumbass, I'm pretty sure they were closed.

I'm not a dick-in-my-hand gamer who eats, sleeps, and breathes video games, but sumbitch do I love me some Grand Theft Auto. The combination of open-ended game play, comically exaggerated violence encapsulated in realistic graphics, and challenging missions appeals to the most base of my juvenile endorphin triggers.

I got an email today announcing an upcoming trailer for Grand Theft Auto IV (since III there have actually been two games, Vice City and San Andreas -- four if you count a couple PSP games). I'm sure the fuckers will announce it will come out exclusively for the PS3 or Xbox 360, and I'll have to wait an additional 6 months to a year for the PC release. And I'll wait, because I'm not spending $400 to $600+ on a game console I'll use for a few weeks at a time once or twice a year.

Hmm... when you think about it, a game console would be like my dating life. I'll probably spend $400 to $600 (over the course of a few months instead of up front, which is different -- that's prostitution) taking a woman out for drinks, meals, and other dating activities. Then I get bored with her and abandon her before moving onto another one a few months later. Ok, so in reality she gets bored with me and abandons me. I call her at home, at work, send her teddy bears, chocolates, broken Hummel figurines, hunting knives, and Bratz dolls with the eyes blacked out in Sharpie and cat blood. But she won't take me back. Then it escalates to ejaculating into the door handles on her car and pooping in the change return of the 3rd floor candy machine in a hotel she stayed in once in 1997. What's a guy gotta do to show a girl he cares about her?

P.S. Have you noticed I'm taking Hedy's advice and trying to include more photos? We'll see how long this lasts. I'm not quite as appealing of a photo subject as she is.

I'm not a big believer in destiny. I often say that bad things happen for a reason, but I'm speaking in terms of learning and growing from both our mistakes and life events we have no control over. Not long ago I wrote about the freedom and power gained from accepting that not everyone has to like you. Similar power can be culled from the realization that there is no such thing as fate. There is no destiny. Nothing is written in the stars or summed in the numbers.

Even if you believe in a higher power, assume that you are in full control of your life without the expectation that divine intervention will absolve you of responsibility or make it all better. Pray if you must. It might help, and it certainly won't hurt. But make every decision assuming the worst: if God exists -- and I like to believe he does -- he might choose not to help you. In fact, I know he won't help you because you are an asshole. Sleep on that, jerk.

The Blogger Mafia doesn't like to be disappointed. When the Family summons you, and you don't show, that disappoints us. And what did we just say about being disappointed? You know what we do when we are disappointed. That's right, we express our emotions artistically. Amber, you have disappointed the Family several times now, and until now, you have been let off relatively easily. Well, no more. This hurts us more than it hurts you. Consider yourself lucky. Next time we will do an interpretive dance and read a poem. You've been warned.



This next person is going to get off even easier. Due to the graphic nature of this drawing, I am not going to mention her name, but she didn't show up because she was getting laid. And yes, even though I would skip if I thought I could get two or three dry ones fired off in under an hour at home, that doesn't excuse her. The next time she gets her punishment sculpted in blown glass and tampon applicators.



And Hedy. Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. I was walking from my car to the Kitty Cat Klub last night, put my hands in my pockets, and found this drawing that you must have slipped into my jacket when I wasn't looking. Lesley confirms it is your artwork and handwriting. The chick in this drawing has some serious curves. What is the message you are trying to convey? Something about boobs. Breasts. Motorboating? A little heavy bag work? I'm not sure. But I will treasure it. Thank you.



And on a slightly unrelated note, I mentioned this in the comments on Hedy's blog, but this pic of Alie just does it for me. I'm not joking or being sarcastic in the least. I dunno, Alie. I might have to take you up on those offers of molestation now. You have to wear the hat though. And I get to push down on your head.

Those of you who didn't show for the Chasing Windmills party last night missed an evening filled with the forging of new friendships, old rivalries put aside, highly appropriate touching, and lots of laughter. In addition to the creators, cast, and behind the scenes folks, there were a ton of local bloggers and MNSpeakers. You should have been there (I'm talking to you, Elizabeth, Sandra, Hedy, and Alie... but not you Lesley -- you rock).

I won't name any names since I don't know if it will embarrass them, but the most entertaining conversation I had of then evening went something like this (I'm paraphrasing):

Jeremy: [says something about a woman he once dated or some other thing clearly indicating that he's heterosexual].

A: "Oh, so you ARE straight. We weren't sure."

Jeremy: "You thought I was gay?"

A: "Well, we talked about it. I asked B if Jeremy is gay, but [he/she] didn't know and just kind of..." [makes shoulder shrugging "I don't know" gesture]

Jeremy: [laughs] Well, it's not the first time I've had someone think that.

[conversation continues, B comes over and joins in]

Jeremy: "We were just talking about how you thought I was gay."

B: "Wait... so you're straight???"

Jeremy: "Yep!"

B: "I wasn't sure. I went to your blog a couple of times, and some of the things you wrote made me wonder."

Jeremy: "Ohhhh! Heh... that would explain it. Yes, I do joke about that quite a bit on my blog. I don't care if people think I'm gay. In fact, I'm kind of tickled that you thought that."

More conversation followed, and I eventually told the story about a couple years ago when I transferred to a different division in the company I was working for. Not knowing what to expect for a dress code, I dressed fairly well for the first month or so, then toned it down after I realized half the people there wore t-shirts, jeans with holes, and ratty ball caps on a daily basis. Wandering out of a happy hour gathering a few months later, one of my coworkers, who was fairly well tuned, told me he thought I was gay when I started.

Jeremy: "It's because I was so well-dressed, wasn't it?"

Coworker: "Yes! That's exactly it! Ohhhh yeah. I thought you looovvved the cock!"

That was a rather offensive way of phrasing it, but I took it as a compliment that he thought that I was so well dressed that surely I was gay (I don't dress nearly as well these days unfortunately). And while I do love the cock as a concept, it is specifically my own cock that I love. I'm not at all fond of the cocks of others. And that's one to grow on.

I blatantly stole these from Hedy. For more from another fun-filled evening with the Blogger Mafia, click here and also here.

Right now I'm sitting in the reception area at the eye doctor waiting to have a second doctor examine me. Before I went to bed on Tuesday, I noticed my left eye felt a little irritated. Yesterday I awoke to a very inflamed, watery, and reddish peeping orb staring back at me in the mirror. As the day progressed, it also started to feel warm. My first concern was that it was related to my LASIK procedure that I had in late October. The doctor I just saw assured me it is not related to my LASIK flap. It appears there is some sort of abrasion on my cornea that has become mildly infected. He put some drops in it, and is going to have one of the other doctors take a look. I didn't quite get why a second doctor needs to look and hope that is not a bad sign.

UPDATE: The second doctor used some different eyeball-looking gizmos to examine my eye and reached the same conclusion. I have an abrasion that is infected. They prescribed some antibiotic drops, which I am about to go pick up.

Don't forget to come out to the Kitty Cat Klub after 8 pm tonight!

I have got to get my tired ass in bed, but here's the latest Chasing Windmills with me lurking about. I'm surprised they threw it up so quick! I haven't had a chance to watch the whole thing yet, but I likely spend a good chunk o' the time in the background. Re-gahd-less, ain't I a pretty hunk of man beef? You know you want some.

If you don't get a chance to watch it until later, it's archived here and is titled "Silver Screening".

Even if you don't read or write computer code, you gots to respect the feng in the shui of my test code for the project I'm working on. This is real, functioning code.

turd = SalesOrderItem[nItem];
debug.dump(turd);

Well, it was funny when I typed it. Fuck off.

You probably already noticed the new banner. I grew tired of the icy blue motif pretty quickly. Spring is here, bitches! This shit should be piping hot! So in honor of springtime and young men's thoughts turning to lithe, prancing fillies, I have made a banner worthy of the depravity that is afterglide. You may recognize this as a modified version of the sign on Bourbon St in New Orleans outside of the Unisexx Club that proclaims World Famous Love Acts! I'm digging the banner if I do say so myself, but can't help feeling the rest of my template is a little lackluster now. I'm open to suggestions.


"Hey, I wonder what's in the Unisexxx Club. I sure hope it's world famous love acts!"When my then-girlfriend and I were in New Orleans over Halloween weekend in 2004, she remarked that she wanted to go into one of the strip clubs in the French Quarter. Frankly, I wasn't in the mood and preferred continuing to people watch and drink in the street, despite the constant risk of seeing 70 year old grannies flash their saggy leather teat bags. But I looked up, spotted the Unisexxx Club sign, and before I could even raise my pointing finger to a 15 degree angle, she scrunched up her nose and said, "No, that place looks GROSS, Jeremy!" I couldn't help but laugh, because that's exactly the reaction I was going for and exactly the reaction I knew I'd get.

There is a small IT recruiting firm that keeps trying to get our company's business. I wish I could link to their laugh-a-minute website, but since it's a small independent recruiting outfit, even I would feel bad about ripping them to shreds publicly. But my favorite part of their website is this animated image showing various professional looking chaps and ladies hard at work and deep in thought.

Pay attention to all of the images. One of these things is not like the other...



Let's take an inventory, shall we? We have...
-The project manager reviewing some software design documents
-The strapping young IT manager deep in thought
-The CEO making a deal on the go
-The TRUCK DRIVING BURN VICTIM WITH FRESHLY BLEACHED DENTURES!!!! Augh! Where the fuck did he come from?

This was originally posted over at MNSpeak, but the Chasing Windmills crew is throwing a wrap party in honor of the upcoming end of the second season. Thursday at the Kitty Cat Klub in Dinkytown. It's open after 8 pm to whoever wants to show, so stalk meet some of your favorite local bloggers/CW actors. And if I should happen to be amongst those favorites, *bats eyelashes* know that I will be there, too. To paraphrase a quip that Max loosed on Sunday, if the building blows up, it'll be the end of Minneapolis blogging.

That's right! It's time to open up the mailbag and reply to another message sent to my Match.com account from Russian scam artists. Oooh, I can hear them salivating over their keyboards waiting for me to wire them money in a desperate bid to win the love of my star crossed paramour. But the joke's on you, flutternuts. I'm onto your scam, whatever it may be, and will get my revenge in the best way possible, a scathing, bitchy public response! That's much better than tracking you down, and beating the loosened stools out of you. Or at least it's less expensive and time-consuming. There are only so many hours in the day, and these jittery VHS tapes of Hardcastle and McCormick aren't going to watch themselves.

HI!!!
My name is Natalya. I for the first time get acquainted on sites of acquaintences.

HEY!!! Nice to make your acquaintance, Natalya. Thank you so much for taking the time to acquaint myself with your acquaintance on aforementioned site of acquaintances. And may I say, that is a lovely way to describe this dating site. I think Match.com would actually make more money if they changed their name to SiteOfAcquaintances.com. It makes it clear that it is a site, specifically a website, and that it is a place where acquaintances are made. Not just one acquaintance, but multiple acquaintances. As an added bonus, there's a snazzy ring to it reminiscent of Wheel of Fortune or House of Pain. Jump around!

I have seen your profile and my heart knock. You seem to me very interesting.

My goodness, Natalya! You risk making this bashful, cornfed son of a farmer blush. But really your heart should ring the doorbell next time. It's hard for me to hear a knock when I'm on the other side of the house rubbing one out or doing laundry in the basement (or rubbing one out into the laundry in the basement). Do I still seem to you very interesting? I sure hope so. You seem to me very interesting, too! I'll bet you seem to a lot of people very interesting.

I would like to find out you better and to receive more than your photos.

Damn, girl! You just cut through the bullshit, don't you. You're so coy. You'd like to receive more than my photos, huh? Yeaahh... I've got something more than my photos for you right here. *pulls out a daffodil*

I badly understand on the Internet but if you will write to me on my e-mail: [shady email address removed], I with pleasure shall answer you.

I'm confused. So you badly understand on the internet, but want me to email you on the internet. Why not give me your phone or fax number so you can understand me less badly? Or better yet, give you your snail mail address so I can send you this daffodil, a couple of loaves of bread, and a half jar of mayo? Who cares, I'm just waiting for that pleasure you were talking about. *runs his tongue over his upper lip*

How you are named by friends? Mum? How you would like, that I named you?

Are you making fun of me? Do my friends call me mum????? What am I some snaggletoothed British matron in sensible shoes and frilly lace? Or a nanny that travels the country in a Mini Cooper introducing discipline into redneck families who eat nothing but canned spaghetti and cotton candy off of asphalt shingles? You can shove your snide, condescending bitchlip into your babushka and breathe Vidal Sassoon fumes, sister!

I hope that I shall receive your letter soon and our acquaintance will bring smiles and happiness to our hearts.
Natalya.

Too late for sunshine and smiles, Natalya. You broke my heart. Hit the bricks, chunnelsnatch.

Broken,

Jeremy

Fuuuuuck!!! Have you ever received a fat, dripping tidbit of gossip and just knew you could never tell anyone because it could put someone else in a really bad position? I'm not the gossiping sort, but man did I receive some dirty juicy juice dirt on someone tonight. And I know I can never say anything to anyone because it would risk getting someone into a lot of trouble socially, legally, and otherwise. God dammit. Oh well, at least I can talk with the source of this dirt about it and have at least some release. Or maybe I could run to the hospital and tell a bunch of people dying of terminal ass scabies just before they draw their last breath through their scabied buttholes.

I just got back a little while ago from about 3 hours of shooting for another episode of Chasing Windmills. Again I'm me in this episode -- I think. The overlapping of people playing fictionalized versions of themselves and completely fictional characters can get a little confusing sometimes. I'm me, but I play a character's boyfriend. I spend most of the time in the background, but the idea that a woman would choose to be in a relationship with me is delightfully droll! So there's your fiction, cake tits.

I wish I could go into more about what we shot, but I fear even saying which character's boyfriend I play would reveal too much in terms of plot. I can tell you that this person is of the female persuasion and that's about it. And don't even think of turning my own words into a gay joke. "Jeremy with a woman... weeeeee heeee heeeeeeeeee. My sides!" You can just go straight to hell, wise ass. I like the pink taco, and you fucking know it. *pees his name onto the linoleum and stabs a baby seal to prove his manhood*

I can tell you that the woman who played my girlfriend in this scene is a riot and really played it to the hilt. She clung to me and pawed at me like a woman possessed, even going as far as lashing out at Amber in a jealous fit when she and I were supposed to be innocently chatting in the background. So I got molested this weekend after all. Jealous much, Alie?

Yesterday was moving day for Alie, so Sandra, Elizabeth, Lesley, Hedy, a neighbor of Alie's, and I answered the call. If her neighbor had a blog, I would link to it, but I don't know if he does, so I'm going to to link to a google search instead.

We literally moved Alie to the apartment right next door, so it didn't take long at all. So we ate some pizza, drank some beer, and shot the shit. Elizabeth and Sandra had to go after a while unfortunately, but after I made another beer run (don't worry -- I was stone sober when I drove to the liquor store), we got our buzz on and told embarrassing stories of bad or just plain funny sexual experiences and losing things in various orifices. Alie kept insisting that the three of them "molest" me, but they never did. I arrived home brokenhearted and unmolested. And that's how we saved St Patrick's Day and raised enough money to keep the youth center from being torn down to build a used car dealership. It was the bestest.

By Jeremy, age 30.

I'm just saying. Up the schwa ratio. You'll thank me.

ə

My acting debut has arrived in the form of Chasing Windmills. Of course, by acting, I mean looking like a pained slab of pummeled beef being controlled with marionette strings by a coked up Andy Dick. And is it just me, or do I look more pissed off than lovestruck when I meet my date? "GRRRRR!! Greetings, hot stuff, I'm angry to meet you!!! ARRRRRRGGGGH!" I guess I need to go back to Juilliard. Regardless, they were ever so kind in inviting me to participate at the risk of me ruining their well-earned reputation, and I had a great time.

Check the video out: Chasing Windmills. It is also archived here. It's the one titled "Props."

A few side notes:

-I wacked my head pretty good for real a couple of times during shooting. I woke up the next day with a huge knot on my forehead. I guess I got a little overeager.

-Yes, I really do walk like that. I can't help it. I'm all ass and shoulders.

-Yes, that is my real, full name in all its glory in the credits. I debated using a stage name (Jeremy Afterglide???), but in the end, I realized I don't care if you know who I really am. Farewell, sweet anonymity! Though I will likely continue to not mention it in postings purely for the sake of reducing my google footprint.

Here in Minnesota, you often hear references to an attitude known as "Minnesota Nice." Earnest believers in Minnesota Nice will tell you it's our friendly, cheerful willingness to go out of our way to help out a friend or stranger and make them feel welcome. This could be something like stopping to help a stranger change a flat tire along a busy road or jiggling his balls while he pees on your dining room table. More cynical folks will tell you that Minnesota Nice is actually Minnesota Passive Aggressive. This can range from laying on a guilt trip from behind a smile to bully someone into volunteering to help you move or callously convince them to stop being Jewish.

Personally, I think Minnesota Nice is somewhere in between earnest helpfulness and passive aggressive bullying. It's more about wanting people to like you, even if you don't like them and don't like what they're doing. And let me tell you right now that one of the most freeing realizations I've had in my adult life was quite simple -- you don't have to be liked by everyone. Close your eyes. Think about it. Understand it. Bathe in it. Not every person you meet has to like you or even have much of an opinion about you one way or the other. Now open your eyes. You are seeing the world for the first time, my child.

This newfound freedom of yours does not give you license to be a jerk, condescending, rude, or completely self-absorbed. You are still part of our society, and we can still ostracize your inconsiderate ass. It also doesn't mean you shouldn't do nice things for people for no reason. It's still ok to open the door for a lady, regardless of her age or hotness (but you can open the door extra wide if she's got huge knockers). It's still ok to smile and say hello to a stranger even if they scowl at you suspiciously and respond with silence. But you aren't required to do those things, either.

Why is it not important that everyone think you're a blessing from above? Pandering to everyone's mercurial tastes to garner their admiration is asinine. Hiding or diluting your true personality is more work than it's worth and ultimately makes you an unhappy person. It all comes down to telling the truth. Certainly you've suffered in guilty silence with a horrible secret and felt relieved when you told the truth to someone. Your true self shouldn't be a burdensome secret. Let your freak flag fly! Just know that I will openly make fun of you because that's who I am. And I don't like you.

I'm sure my raging headache didn't help matters yesterday, but a couple of times I found myself having issues with the mouse on my work computer. After typing several lines of code, I grabbed the mouse and for a millisecond, I wondered why my cursor wasn't moving on the screen. Apparently the toy car I keep on my desk is a dead ringer for a black mouse when spotted out of the corner of my eye. Way to be, dumbass.

I feel like Megadeth has been playing a 24 hour concert in my head with the amps cranked to the point of distortion. Is my cranium distended right now? I don't want to look in the mirror. Be honest. You can tell me. I swear I won't freak out. Now let's have a kiss. No, lower. Lower. LOW-ER! There you go. Now have an Altoid and get the fuck out.

I'm going to attempt a brief nap and swear I will make a concerted effort to attend musical bingo at the Chatterbox tonight. However, I fear my legs may be swept out from under me earlier than usual.

πoday we celebrate that wacky irrational, transcendental number pi, also known in extremely abbreviated form as 3.14 (and so on) or its ubiquitous symbol π. Pi is the pregnant woman of the number world, constantly craving dill pickles covered in maple syrup and crying when the cat meows too quietly.

Fun facts about π:

-The circumference of a circle is its diameter multiplied by π.

-The area of a circle is π multiplied by its radius squared.

-Computers have calculated π out to more than 1 trillion digits

-My favorite flavors of π are pumpkin and french silk. Ooh! Apple π and blueberry π are awesome, too!

-I've proposed to many literary and mathematical councils that we start using π to replace any occurrence of "pi" in the written language. This will result in a 0.0027% increase in productivity in the world workforce, reducing poverty levels by 0.00091% over a span of 350 years. For example: "Fancy Shasta can! Who πssed in the kitchen sink?" or "Captain πcard could totally kick Kirk's ass in a πano playing contest, but I'll bet Kirk could eat twice as much πzza." These proposals have been consistently rejected.

Usually when I see something like this I fire off a witty one-liner then congratulate myself for being ever so clever (often very loudly to drown out the sound of crickets chirping in the background).

Say the name of this tomato breed out loud and tell me it sounds appetizing. Ladies, I'm looking in your direction.

"An incredibly full bodied, intense, creamy tomato flavor"

Fo shizz.