The Blue Man Poop

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

666: Mark of the Feast

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.

Motherfucker, I'm gonna kick you in the cake stain!

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!

Poon Tang Cruiser

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.

"...can I get some of that sweet face cheese?"

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.

Grrroaann

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.

Speaking of peace in the crease...

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.

Your chocolate, it is sexual

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

For a moment, I was that guy

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?

Wheel man

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.

Carson Daly: he exists

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?

Are you curious?

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?

Smart people keep out (all others welcome)

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.

Spooooooooooooge!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

Fate-based initiative

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.

"You were getting plowed like an emergency snow route"

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.

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

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.

Deez MY bitches, foo!

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

Eye-aight (updated)

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!

Chasing (running out of clever things to chase)

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".

Britney Spears' bush is apparently a small dog

Tee hee...

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.

World Famous Love Acts

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.

We make recruit good!

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?

Wrap it up

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.

From Russia when doves cry

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

The dirty dirt

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.

Chasing... Tail?

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?

Scrubbing green beer stains out of my white Easter pantsuit

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.

Your words need more schwa

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

ə

Chasing Jeremy (updated)

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.

You don't like me? I don't like you either! [hug]

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.

"An unrecoverable error has occurred between the keyboard and chair"

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.

Symphony of destruction

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.

3/14 is pi day

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.

I want a tomato with some spunk

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.

Tricky butter brickle dick trickle with bubblegum and pralines

Either this is an incredibly long, winding ramp up to an elaborate April Fools gag, or we are about to be treated to a delicious, albeit strangely marketed Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor. Stephen Colbert’s AmeriCone Dream™ goes on sale next month. Vanilla ice cream, chunks of chocolate covered waffle cone, and caramel swirl. Mmm... I don't care if they call it something as unappetizing as Michael Richards' Chocolate Free Vanilla Dream, with ingredients like that, I'd try a bite.

I sure could go for some dry boys right about now

Every family and group of close friends has its share of inside jokes and unique phrases that developed over the course of years. They're part of the bonding process in that they are a constant reminder of a shared and fondly remembered experience. For example, when my brother and I were in grade school, I spotted him chowing down a bowl of cereal and asked him what he had. His mouth overflowed with Cheerios and milk as he garbled a response that sounded to me like "dry boys." From that day forward, Cheerios were Dry Boys. Aside from sounding just plain goofy, the concept of eating Dry Boys and the phrase itself hinted at something dangerously dirty without setting off alarm bells with any adults in the room. I even made a fake television commercial for Dry Boys cereal for a group project in high school many years later. "Dry Boys cereal tastes great with cheese!"

Then there is the phrase that has driven my brother and I insane all the way into our adult lives because we can't trace its origins. The scenario: one of us is dropping a deuce behind closed doors in the bathroom (as opposed to the potted plant in the living room, I guess), then from outside comes the knock on the door and the query, "Are you cooking some pie in there? Can I have some?" The wording has to be, "Are you COOKING some pie..." because apparently "baking" the pie in the bathroom would not be feasible. There also must not be a the slightest pause between the first and second question such that it is ostensibly a single question. "Are you cooking some pie in therecan I have some?"

Neither one of us can remember where in the fresh hell the pie bit came from. There are vague memories from both of us of a similar line in a movie or television show, but no brainstorming session or google search has ever born closure. Are we quoting something verbatim? Was there a movie where a guy was taking a dump and his buddy asked him if he was cooking pie and willing to share? Or is this just something one or both of us concocted from atmospheric vapors? I fear both of us will be dead in the grave without ever knowing the truth. But if you'll excuse me, I need to go cook some pie now.

Scenes from a meat raffle (updated)

I was invited up to Otsego (well, technically nearby Dayton) to witness and participate in a curious phenomenon known as a meat raffle. Yes, that's right. I said a meat raffle.

I have heard of them before, but not before I moved to Minnesota, and I have never seen one firsthand before today. Apparently this occurs in many bars in Minnesota, particularly in small towns, though some bars in the Twin Cities areas have them. Batches of 25 to 30 numbered raffle tickets are sold , usually for $1 each, for chances at winning a single package of meat. The winning number for each round is selected by a spinning wheel. These raffles are completely above board and are regulated by the Minnesota Gambling Control Board, as evidenced by their website designed by a color blind kindergartener with finger paints and a cherry bomb. Even the spinning wheel itself is issued by the board.

I was invited to this weekly raffle by Tarra, whose blog I would link to, assuming she had a blog, the address of which I know, but seeing how she will not confirm said blog is her blog, I will not link to the blog as such. In any case, we decided if we were going to a meat raffle in a smoke-filled small town bar, we had better dress the part. She threw on her best camo pants, and I pulled out an old 2XL flannel shirt that used to belong to my dad and that I often wore when hauling grain and driving tractors and combines on the farm back in North Dakota. Top it off with a Glory Hole Sports cap purchased during my last trip to California, and you've got yourself an ensemble fit for a good ol' boy. Except I couldn't find my damned Red Dog Saloon shirt, so I had to make due by throwing on a black afterglide logo shirt. Not exactly a shirt normally found in a small town bar blaring painful country music, but it was either that or choose from a selection of shirts with various geeky computer programmer sayings, sci-fi characters, or software company logos.

I put in about $6 or $7 total over the course of three rounds and didn't win dick (I sure could have gone for some T bones!). But seeing the fresh, but unfrozen meat sitting out on an unrefrigerated table for several hours quelled my raw meat boner fairly quickly. And what the fuck was I going to do with it if I won? Leave it sit on the bar for a few more hours? Toss it out in my car on a balmy 50+ degree March day? I suppose the smart ones come prepared with a cooler and ice. Or just aren't big pussies about it like me.

Read more about meat raffles here and here.












And a random shot of me drinking coffee in my underwear while scratching my ass and looking out the front door.

Ass over ankles

It would seem that both Alie had and I had ice related problems today. While she came out with a bruised leg, I came away with only a bruised ego. I was on my way home from my friend Mary's place a little before midnight and realized that since I'm driving up to Otsego in the morning I best fill up with gas tonight. I pulled into the gas station, which was quite busy, opened the car door, and threw all of my weight onto one of my disturbingly massive and gnarled clodhoppers.

Our warm snap of late has melted several inches of the shit ton of snow dumped on us recently. Unfortunately, it is still falling below freezing at night. This removed all friction from the pavement in the gas station lot, and my gargantuan man ski hurtled forward like a Jamaican bobsled. The inertia snatched my entire body out of the car. Both feet slid toward the front of the vehicle, and my torso spun into a free fall destined for the pavement. But somehow, I caught the top of my car door with one hand and clamped on for dear life. With my grip on the door creating a pivot point, once my forward momentum ran out, the pendulum swung the other way, and my legs came back, then slid into the side of the car.

Amazingly, not once during this entire corporal journey did any part of my body other than my feet touch the ground. My legs, however, did brush the mud splashed side of the car, soiling my pants (from the outside and without the involvement of alcohol or fear for a change). So there I was, hanging from my car door with people in every direction. I'm sure many of them were staring, perhaps even laughing (I sure as hell would have laughed at me if I were them), but when physically shamed in public, I did what everyone would do in that situation. After I hauled myself to my feet, I quickly looked around to assess the embarrassment quotient, yet made a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with anyone. I filled up my car with gas as if nothing happened, hopped back in, and tore ass away from that gas station as if I'd robbed it.

Buffy and Lesli

Hedy had herself a bitchy encounter with a chick a coffee shop. I feel for you, Hedy, but maybe you should put yourself in the other person's shoes sometimes.

Here's Hedy's U of M med school chick's conversation with a friend from her Crackberry. They are the anti-Hedy and anti-Lesley. Total Bizarro world!

Buffy: Gotta tell you about the bitch next to me.

Lesli: Go on

Buffy: I just left. She wouldn't pay attention to me!!!

Lesli: OMG! But you're so awesome!

Buffy: No shit, Sherlock. I pulled out my acceptance letter so everyone would realize that I was even more awesome than they first thought when I walked in, but she just acted all annoyed and snotty.

Lesli: Christ!

Buffy: Oh, and get this. I wanted to open the curtains in there to let more natural light shine on my tight pores. I was very polite and asked her if it was ok, and she said NO!!! I mean, I didn't ask her because I wanted her real answer. Bitch, I'm opening these curtains!

Lesli: Ha haaa!

Buffy: Then she put them back. The nerve.

Lesli: Bitchmuffins!

Buffy: Motherfucking bitchmuffins is right!

Lesli: You know what would make you feel better?

Buffy: what?

Lesli: Sucking 30 cocks off, slut!

Buffy: Yes!!! I love that shit!!! I can smell them now. And taste the salt.

Lesli: ha ha

Buffy: I'm even going to suck some 40 year old cock. Maybe take a couple in my ass at the same time

Lesli: I wish I was you. I want to eat your soul.

Buffy: Lesli! You know I'm hollow inside. Don't talk about my soul.

Lesli: Sorry...

Buffy: No prob

Lesli: Buffy?

Buffy: what?

Lesli: Can you save some cock for me?

Buffy: You know it!

Lesli: Yes!

Time machine fixed earlier than expected

We've made it this far, people. For months, you've tread delicately in order to prevent time paradoxes. You've avoided contact with your parents and have resisted the urge to impregnate your grandmother. Yes, we're in the home stretch, but that doesn't mean it's time to let our guard down. The next few hours are crucial. At 2 am, millions of people will be sent back to the future world from whence we came. Just keep doing what you're doing. Keep your mouth shut about who won the World Series, and for the love of God, don't tell them that Britney and K-Fed got divorced (or that you've seen her floppy, sloppy honey hole). You could unravel the very fabric of time and space itself!

Now let's synchronize our watches and do one last equipment calibration check.

You will address me as MISTER Farty McFartfart!

I scroll through my spam folder occasionally because every once in a while, a legit email will get tossed in there. Lately I've noticed a trend of subject lines like "Farty McFartfart, have you thought about refinancing?" and "Free iPod for you, Farty McFartfart!" Ah, spammers. They don't care where they get your information from so long as they have your email address. Apparently one such spammer culled my email address from a throwaway account. Perhaps I wanted to read an article on one of those stupid news sites that makes you log in, or I joined a forum of some sort, but I must have signed up with my real email address and the name Farty McFartfart. I'm puzzled because that doesn't sound like me at all. I can't imagine myself using such a crude and juvenile moniker! Perhaps I had a moment of weakness, drunkenness, or was woozy on NyQuil, but the deed is done. I have shamed my family and cast a pall over the dignity of bloggers everywhere.

Since the cat's out of the bag

I tried to be sly and secretive about it, but since the cat is out of the bag here and here, I might as well tell the story. A few weeks ago, Amber asked me if I wanted to play a small part in Chasing Windmills, a vlog serial created and filmed here in the Minneapolis area. I was thrilled to be asked since CW is seems to be the cool clique of the Twin Cities blogging community. Plus it would be a fun opportunity to hang out with Amber and meet a few other bloggers I dig. CW creators Cristina Cordova and Juan Antonio del Rosario, aka jadelr, couldn't have been nicer. I also got to meet Erica and Alexis (who I actually had met once before in a very fleeting encounter about a year ago, one which she had blocked completely in order to preserve her ability to maintain higher social function and standing -- like you wouldn't do the same).

I don't want to spoil any plot points, so I'll keep my yap zipped on the specifics. My role was pretty straight-laced and small. I literally had a single word of dialog (sorry, but no appearances by Flavor Javier, Darren Halling, or any other characters are forthcoming). I will tell you that I got a little sticky, dirty, and cold during the shoot, had a great time, and will leave it at that.

I'm fully aware that nothing is concrete even after something is committed to film, and it's entirely possible my shit could have simply been so awful that it will be cut entirely. Or they change their mind on the plot and decide the scenes don't fit. I'll probably go into more detail about shooting it once it's posted (or cut).

Fart Flavored Lemon Candy

This blog is brought to you by Fart Flavored Lemon Candy.

Download the MP3 and listen.

Musical bingo followup: moose knuckle defined

We had a small disagreement at the Chatterbox last night over my usage of the term moose knuckle here the other day. My usage of the word referred to grotesquely large and/or misshapen labia, whether minora or majora. However, the GLoB (Gorgeous Ladies of Bingo) argued that it referred to the male equivalent of camel toe, which is when the unmistakable outline of the genitalia is visible through inappropriately tight clothing. I think the following definition I found via google delivers the verdict: we are both right.

"A related term is camel toe. The divergent understandings of a term like moose knuckle—some people claim it only applies to men, others that it also applies to women; some claim it refers only to prominent labia minora and others to the labia majora; still others differentiate between being clothed or naked—is a common occurrence in slang, where sub rosa origins might not be transmitted with a new term, where context might be opaque to outsiders and therefore subject to mis- or re-interpretation, and where the most common meaning of a term can take time (even decades) to settle."

- Source: Double-Tongued Dictionary

Diablo does Chasing Windmills

Check out today's Chasing Windmills for a guest appearance by Diablo Cody. I haven't had a chance to watch it yet, but I hear tell that it's quite funny. Since they just shot this one Sunday morning, I suspect that Friday or early next week you will see another certain Twin Cities area blogger's (not as) familiar face making a smaller and less skilled guest appearance.

The flaming ballsack: better drink name than stunt

Here's another one for the "I'm not making this up" file. An intoxicated Eau Claire, WI man was hospitalized after letting one of his equally drunken buddies light his package on fire. With lighter fluid. Really. No. Fucking. Shit. Guys, have you ever been drunk enough to let open flames (or any source of significant heat for that matter) near your special purpose? No, you haven't. In fact no one has because this isn't a question of how drunk you are. It is a question of how stupid you already were before you got drunk.

Even I have to say that only a guy would be this dick blisteringly stupid. You've never heard of a woman getting drunk, letting a girlfriend douse her labia with lighter fluid, and setting the whole works ablaze like Jimi Hendrix over a guitar. Though I could see a woman setting a dude's balls on fire. Hell hath no fury...

Blogcast: Interview with Todd "Pubes" McCafferin

Tonight host Raymond Dallespuchen interviews notorious penis waver Todd "Pubes" McCafferin. Sponsored by Fart Flavored Fart Candy.

Download the MP3 and listen.

Northwest Airlines employee jizzes on passenger

No, really. I'm not lying. I know this sounds like something I would pull out of my ass, but for really reals and for true, an off duty Northwest Airlines employee launched a cutting stream of choad load onto a female passenger during a flight. She didn't realize what he had done until after the fact when she felt the still steaming farm fresh jism all warm and gooey on her back and side. The nerve of that little squirt. I ought to fire off a meaty letter to the president of Northwest, Jack Mehoff. But seriously, that's disgusting. At least give the poor woman a nonoxynol-9 wet wipe or a tissue, maybe a coupon for 10% off her dry cleaning bill. Hold the starch.

UPDATE: Video on the story from KARE 11 (no flying, pooled, or congealed ejaculate is shown in this video)

Coldplay tries to put positive spin on shitty album

Mexico City, Mexico -- In a Sunday press conference, Coldplay lead singer Chris Martin doomed his band's upcoming album to failure by spouting off about how great it is. Prior to a concert later that day, Martin said the album contains Coldplay's best song yet.

"In order for us to get excited about a new album, we have to have one song that we feel like everybody has to hear... before we die." He later added, "I can't tell you about it, but it's basically genius."

After Chris Martin's comments, the other members of Coldplay were seen slapping their foreheads in the background and making the neck slice motion with their fingers, motioning for him to put a lid on his self-aggrandizing cock-of-the-walkery.

An unidentified bandmate was later heard to say, "What the hell was he thinking? You don't go around telling people that your next album is genius and the best ever! We could have just slid by with another lame ass album that our fans would've lapped up like a dog eating a popped tick. Now we're under the microscope. We're only going to sell 4,000 copies and get dumped by our label. You can't jinx our shit like that. What a jagoff. I mean, yeah it's an ok song, but genius? Oh, God, we're going to be the next Right Said Fred if he keeps this up."

Details on Coldplay's 'genius' song were scant at the time of publishing this article, but insiders say it was written with Kevin Federline and the ghost of Doug Henning's mustache.

Blogcast: Jeremy talks about his new book

Darren Halling interviews Jeremy about his new book, based on a true story. Sponsored by BallzOn.

Download the MP3 and listen

Spruce up that moose knuckle

Americans are obsessed with big ass food and being ashamed of our bodies. I wonder if the two are related? Hmm...

Certain things we do have a fair amount of control over, such as what we eat, how much we eat, and how much we exercise. Other things people have no control over, like having a crooked nose, thin lips, or having a ridiculously huge penis that provides so much sexual satisfaction that you are required by law to provide a written notice to a woman on the first date warning her about the stratospheric degree to which her world could potentially be rocked. And trust me, it's really embarrassing having to pass those forms out.

Unfortunately women bear the brunt of society's shallow pressures. If she doesn't have a perfectly flat stomach, big perky breasts, and a bubble butt, there's no way I will jerk off to her MySpace photos. Um... I mean society... won't jerk -- look, my point is that women feel pressure to be perfect from top to bottom. Yes, that even includes their vaginas. Some women with big old gnarly mudflap labia sans the picture of Yosemite Sam may wish they had daintier flesh petals on their cooterlilies. Surgical procedures for reducing the size of the labia have been relatively commonplace for years.

What about women who want to tighten up their lady business? Maybe they've given birth to a lot of kids or Ted Kennedy has been using them as a stocking cap on his gigantic melon. Well, now cosmetic surgeons are willing to perform surgery to tighten up the vagina. I don't understand the medical minutiae of what happens during the procedure, but let me just go on the record as saying that I would be happy to volunteer to test post-op tightness. But first I'm going to need you to sign this form.

Have we seen this guy before?

A Cottage Grove, MN couple have been arrested for allegedly having sex with 4 children and arranging over the internet for other men to have sex with the children. These two people are disgusting in appearance, deed, and soul, and what they did is not funny in the least, but look at the guy. Is this Todd "Pubes" McCafferin's long lost brother?


Image courtesy KARE

I'm a hit with the AARP set

Normally I would be totally skeeved out over getting an email on Match.com from a 61 year old lady, but I actually thought this was very sweet. I even wrote her a note thanking her. Frankly I'm more skeeved by the super cute 31 year old chain smoker with 4 kids who contacted me on there the other day, despite specific sections of my profile devoted to my hatred of smoking and aversion to kids. Parts highlighted with many asterisks to draw the attention of those incapable of reading an entire profile. Evidently the thick cloud of smoke hanging over her head blurred my asterisks. Or maybe her kids smeared grape jelly on that part of her computer screen. I'll bet her kids smoke, too.

I just had to read your profile all the way through and found it interesting and thoroughly entertaining. You are a breath of fresh air in a sea of mundane repetitive cliches on here. It's just too bad that we are so far apart in age and miles as I think we are kindred spirits in our perceptions of life.

Thanks for making me smile this morning. Stay warm up there in St. Paul and good luck in your search for someone who will truly appreciate your imagination, wit and charm.

[name removed] in Oklahoma

Scrubbing Bubbles for the Ass!

Not to be outdone by rival Procter & Gamble's "...for the Cock" line of products, SC Johnson announced today the introduction of its line of "...for the Ass!" products. Dr. H. Fisk Johnson, Chairman and CEO of SC Johnson, gave the following statement in a press conference.

"While it would seem to make sense for a company with the word Johnson in its name to come up with its own line of products for the wang to counter our competitors, we at SC Johnson have always taken pride in focusing on filling the needs of consumers that no one else has addressed. That is why today I am proud to give to you our '...for the Ass!' line of personal hygiene and cleaning products. Also notice that we have an exclaimation point in ours, so it's way better. We're shouting from the hilltops how great our products are...for the ass!"

Johnson also couldn't resist getting a few digs in at Procter & Gamble. "Our competitor's '...for the Cock' line fills a market need, but they apparently are happy to rest on their laurels. What about their female customers? For months, they have promised -- and failed -- to deliver their '...for the Snatch' series of products. Procter & Gamble was so blindly focused on the needs of their male demographic that they are now left struggling to hastily rush a half-baked series of inferior products to the market for ladies' snack boxes. Our '...for the Ass!' products are for everyone. Men, women, children, seniors, even Chinese guys, and whatever Vin Diesel is. Whatever happened to him, anyway? Remember that movie where the duck bit his ear? He was a tough guy, but he was a nanny! I laughed my ass off--" At this point, an associate cut him off, whispered in his ear, and led him to a back room to feed him Oreos and warm Mr. Pibb.

The first product in the "...for the Ass" line, Scrubbing Bubbles Flushable Wipes for the Ass!, went on sale today and is available in stores nationwide. SC Johnson claims that the flushable wipes will revolutionize pooping, as they are designed to reduce wiping to a single stroke. The solution in the wipes adheres to the skin and forms a bubbling layer of feces eating bacteria. The product literature says, "...just wipe with a single pass, pull up your trousers or skirt, and walk away feeling the tingling cleaning power of bacteria feasting on your feces. In just 2 to 5 minutes, every particle of feces will be completely eradicated from your crack, even if you have a really hairy ass and big chucks of crap get stuck in there. Never shave your ass again!"

Future products planned in this line include Windex for the Ass!, Drano for the Ass!, and Shout for the Ass! SC Johnson's line of Glade rectal douches will also be rebranded as Glade for the Ass! by the end of the month.

I'm putting sexy back where I found it

After getting a quasi snow day yesterday afternoon (quasi since I actually did a little work from home), I have a full blown day off today. Evidently I was shoveling much more enthusiastically than I realized the other night and pulled a back muscle. The additional shoveling I did yesterday afternoon must have aggravated things, as I awoke this morning with painful back spasms. My snowblower took a crap last winter, so there was no way I was getting out of my driveway without doing at least a little more shoveling. What do you think, Jeremy's back? "Hey, that sounds fine with me, but first let me just coil up in a knot so you can't even sit on the toilet to crap. Pinch!" And with that, I emailed the boss to let him know I wouldn't be coming in or even working from home. I think it's been at least a couple of years since I've taken a sick day.

Before I go, let's see if Jeremy's back has any final thought's he'd like to add. Jeremy's back? "Yeah, I wish we could shovel the driveway so we could find a massage parlor. Grease me up and rub me down! Then a little happy ending for you, shooter. Just slip her a Lincoln, and she'll work those sandpapery leather mitts she calls hands on your lady bait. Just tell her to put the cigarette down this time so she doesn't drop hot ash in your urethra again. I'll bet that burned like a Draino sandwich."

Ooh! Aah! A new look

My blog is now icy like your heart, bitch who left me to join a convent. Bet those priests don't do that thing I did with my tongue and the Silly Putty egg.

I have no balls, yet I jizz copiously(?)

Alie took umbrage over my decision to stay at home and not attend musical bingo at the Chatterbox after my plans were canceled last night. She drew a picture to express her disdain. Click on the picture to read on and see more photos.

Snow my place

Ha ha! I'm clever! I made a funny with the word snow! Snow job. Snow joke. Snow fuck yourself. Now where are my cash prize and peanut butter pretzels?

I just got home a little while ago. They closed our office entirely. It's snowed several inches just since this morning. I know because I did a little preemptive shoveling when I got home to make it more likely I'll be able to back out of my driveway without shoveling tomorrow. I'll ram through it like I did Monday morning. Ram it like a trucker rams a glory hole.

Unfortunately this doesn't really give me an excuse not to work today. I have all the software here for remote access to our systems, so I'll try to get that running. Dammit. There's too much work to do, and I'm too responsible.