I always enjoy sharing the odd google searches that refer people here. Monday's google search referral of the day comes to my blog from Australia:

completely 100% free face dating and love site 2007

This lonely gentleman also composed the following heartfelt letter and mailed it to the search engine giant:

Dear Google,

I want to emphasize to you that I am not screwing around on the percentage of freeness of the dating site for which I am looking. Not just 100% free, but completely 100% free. None of this partial 100% free bullshit or even completely 90% free. Completely 100% free is the only amount of freeness I am willing to accept.

And I don't want to date a whole woman, I only want to date her face, so only show me face dating sites. No legs, no breasts, no asses, just faces. Anything I need to do with or to a woman is available on or in her face. Vaginas are not necessary when there are a perfectly good mouth and pair of nostrils available. In fact, I would go as far as to say that the perfect girlfriend would be a face in a shoebox. When she gets lippy, I'll just put the lid on the box and shove it under the bed. But I'm not completely heartless. I don't just want to date her face, I want to love it. In 2007.

Regards,

Guy in Australia who clearly doesn't speak English well and wants to keep a chick's face in a shoebox because his mother scrubbed his genitals with a wire brush and boiling ammonia when he was 5

An increasing number of Minnesota women are choosing to stay at home to deliver their bowel movements. In the last century, it has become more common for women to deliver these fecal bundles of joy in hospitals and even shopping malls, gas stations, and at the office. Some women go as far as to refuse to give rectal birth without seeking pain relief from an epidural.

Sociologists at the University of Minnesota credit this trend to busy mothers and career women wanting to return to a more natural, healthy way of living. The women we talked to seem to give a different reason. Thirty five year old Lotta Dumptztaken, a senior executive for Best Buy and a divorced mother of two, says she's simply had it with dirty restrooms. "Other women are disgusting. Every damned time I walk into the bathroom at work, there's menstrual blood spattered all over at least one of the toilets and the others have piss all over the seats or are filled to the brim with fruit fly-covered, maggoty shit. They could clean in there ten times a day, and it would still smell like fishy crotch and sickly sweet turds. I just couldn't take it anymore, so I trained my body so that I only have to poo during hours when I'm at home."

And what about when her stomach feels unsettled? "Oh, sure, there are times when I eat at Taco Bell or maybe have a touch of the flu. But I have a special tea that firms my bowel movements to the consistency of garlicy salad croutons. It hurts a little coming out, but at least I can hold it until I get home. I am never shitting away from my own toilet ever again... or going on vacation. Oh, and I'm also never going to visit anyone's home ever again or go out to eat. I'm also going to home school my children so I don't have to pick them up or let them participate in things like activities and enjoyment. They will also poop only at home." Dumptztaken then quickly hung up the phone, explaining that she believed that she may have just accidentally "croutoned herself."

Are you a Minnesota woman who prefers going to the bathroom at home? We'd like to talk to you for future stories in this ongoing series. Please also send photos and videos of yourself going to the bathroom. Wear something pretty.

A lot of money and a lot of beer disappeared last night, but as far as I know, no cock disappeared. Certainly not in the vicinity of my person anyway. But that's like saying, "Hey! Check it out! My house is still where it was yesterday!" You just pointed out the obvious and contributed nothing of value to the conversation. Thanks, ass.

Alie organized an outing to see Southern Culture on the Skids at the 400 Bar. I was only peripherally familiar with their music before she suggested going to the show, and I'm glad I gave 'em a shot. I hate country music like your momma hates soap, and while the band has an obvious southern fried theme going, their music is very heavy on guitar-driven rockabilly and surf rock. They whooped some ass and put on a hell of a show, despite it being hotter than an elephant's ass crack in the 400 Bar. Motherfuckers, do you not have A/C, or was it just on the fritz? It was maybe 65 or 70 degrees outside at that hour. I can't imagine how miserable it would have been in there on 90 degree, humid evening in July. I'm just kicking myself because none of us brought our cameras, and none of our cell phones could take a picture for shit in the dark bar.

A couple of people had to bow out at the last minute, so it ended up being just Alie, my college buddy Kelly, and myself. I talked them into meeting at my place so we could all split a cab there, drink as we pleased, and not worry about driving or finding a ride home. After the show, we cabbed it back to Eagan, had a few more beers and drinks, ordered a pizza, shot the shit, and ended up getting sucked into The Hills Have Eyes on HBO. When that wrapped up a little before 5 am, we all retired to our respective corners. Alie took the guest bedroom and smeared eye shadow all over the sheets, carpet, and moulding (she evidently was determined to mess up all of my beds, as earlier she dumped an entire whiskey and Diet Coke all over the couch where I normally sleep). I think she also pooped in my piano. Kelly took the couch after putting a dry blanket down and flipping the wet cushion, and I retired to the lonely master bedroom, where I only sleep when overnight guests stay or when I'm getting laid. So yeah, I'm never in there.

Of course, I'm just giving Alie crap about the bed and spilled drink. We were all pretty drunk when we got back to my house, and I was more than happy to provide a safe place for everyone to sleep it off. We all had a great time, and I thank her for turning me onto SCOTS!

In other news, my bronchitis is still hanging on but waning. I managed to run 3.5 miles with plenty of vigor and not a single cough Friday night and had no problems with the hike yesterday. I still have minor coughing bouts here and there, but I feel about ten times better than I did on Wednesday. I think by the middle of the week I'll be running down a sandy beach yelling crude comments at mothers walking side by side with their daughters talking about douching and birth control.

Are you in Minnesota today (April 28th, 2007)? What are you doing reading my blog, you slug!? Get outside! NOW! You probably shouldn't read it tomorrow either. We only have a short window before it's 90 degrees with mosquitoes the size of paragliders buzzing through the air. Then winter. Otherwise you'll miss things like hiking around Minnehaha Falls with Lesley and Elizabeth, getting mildly sunburned, driving with your windows and sunroof open, getting your car washed, mowing the lawn, tickling a sleeping bag lady's bare, dirty feet with an empty juice box, and urinating in your neighbor's fire pit. I can't wait 'til they light that baby up! Now if you'll excuse me, I have more yard work to do. And I think I'm building up a deuce for the other neighbor's decorative wishing well.

The thread of comments on this post got me wondering. Is it gay if you mix your man spoo with another man's spunk if he's not present? Obviously it's not gay if they get mixed together in the process of the two dudes launching a double money shot onto some poor chick's schnoz. In fact, there might be a little splashback or a misfire that results in one guy's spooge getting onto the other guy. That's disgusting, but not gay. I'm talking about mixing the jisms together. Like in an empty shampoo bottle or a little ketchup cup from Wendy's. The other guy doesn't even have to be in the room. Maybe he handed it to you through a slightly cracked door, or he forgot it on your coffee table next to your spattered and worn copy of Men's Health. That's not gay... is it? *bites nails*

I just wanted to announce that I have tried every sexual position ever. This is nothing new. I'm not typing this having marched straight from the bedroom drenched in sweat (in fact, I haven't had sex in months). For legal reasons, I've kept this accomplishment to myself since I first achieved it on January 27th, 2005. But now I can finally reveal that it was a position I learned from a Rachel Ray cookbook. I'm speaking, of course, of the left-handed kitten yank. Now my lawyers tell me I can't really go into detail about how to do the ol' lefty yank, but it was awful. I did it purely to achieve my goal, and I can assure you no pleasure was had by anyone involved, including the caterer. It turned my semen purple with sparkles in it. I don't take kindly to my wazz being turned into a chemical suspension. My penis is not a glitter pen meant for writing down thoughts in the tear-stained diary of a brooding preteen girl, dammit! It's more of a fountain pen filled with lemon juice. Then you write a secret message and hold it up to a hot light bulb to read it. My last girlfriend burned her stomach pretty bad that way once.

...bronchitis! Last night I had the worst coughing fit yet and didn't fall asleep until well after 2 am. It just wouldn't stop, and the coughs were so intense and deep that I thought I was going to hack up a swatch of intestinal lining. I knew then that I had better see the doctor today. So after awaking to another hacking fit at 4 am and another when my alarm went off, I called around and managed to snag a 9:30 am appointment. I described my symptoms, horked and hacked for the stethoscope, and the conclusion was bronchitis. I was prescribed 7 days of the antibiotic Zithromax, a cough syrup with codeine for use at night, and Albuterol, which is in an inhaler. Throw in a refill of Nasonex for my chronic rhinitis, and I ended up walking out of the pharmacy with a sack the size of a fat guy's to-go order at Long John Silver's.

Hopefully my recovery will also give me more time and desire to write. Between this crap and trying to get a lot done on a couple of interesting projects at work, I've been a naughty blogger this week. Please forgive me. Even though I'm not in love with you, I love you like an estranged brother or a mildly retarded farm cat.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to catch up on.

Sping is my favorite season. The green grass of the rooling hills is the best. Oh, shit... hang on, my phone's inging.

Originally uploaded by afterglide.

God dammit, I'm tired of being sick. I've felt like shit in one form or another for the literally entire month of April. A cold, a shit spewing stomach bug, and ANOTHER FUCKING COLD??? This one seemed to come on last Tuesday. It's a deep, hacking cough, and I hork up thick, yellow phlegm. Mmm. Come and get me, ladies!

Sometimes I cough so hard that I nearly pass out. For real. I wake up in the morning feeling like I smoked a pack of Luckys and some pole. My sinuses are horribly congested, and I have a headache probably from both the congestion, and the nonstop rattling of my bobbing, hacking head. Somebody make this shit stop! If I'm not feeling better in the morning, I'm going to the doctor. Better yet -- Lesley, heal me with your activated charcoal Yanni energy!!!

I'm fucking going for it.

"Chloe, open a socket to a Level Mercenary Swamp Cooler, and transfer it to my screen."I've spoken several times now of the wonders of the Bristol Stool Scale. My coworkers are aware of this scale of measurement for stool form and viscosity, however, we have devised a superior scale where fecal form is measured by what it can pass through.

Afterglide Fecal Threat Level Scale

Also known as the Afterglide Fecal Thread Count Scale

Level Ten Bounty	Stool is basically brown water. There may be an undigested onion or peanut in there, but that's about it. Passes easily through brand name quilted paper towels.
Level Foxtrot Cheese Cloth	Stool is mushy with low viscosity. May contain an acorn or a half Cheeto.
Level Deux Deux Beach Towel	Stool is the consistency of watery gelatin. Jiggling banana slices and grapes are optional.
Level Charlie Worn Shammy	Stool has murkily defined edges, but is soft and globular like briefly microwaved bubble tea. Not quite solid, but not quite liquid.
Level Sub Seven Screen Door	Stool has definite edges, but is still not exactly solid. Easily breaks apart into its component ingredients upon contact with straight-chain hydrocarbons. May contain Duplo blocks and Skittle shells.
Level Paladin Manna Broken Windshield	Stool is just barely solid. Will not maintain shape when thrown. May be used to grease ball bearings in lawnmowers, jackhammers, and light duty trucks.
Level Mercenary Swamp Cooler	Stool is solid with well-defined edges and passes with minimal effort. Will maintain shape when thrown, but will splatter upon impact with a hard surface. Will also pass through a running fan with minimal splashback.
Level Cobalt Picture Window	Stool is firm, passes with reasonable effort, and contains a minimal grease factor. May be used as an ergonomic crayon. Cobalt Picture Window is widely considered to be the ideal stool size and consistency.
Level Jarlsberg Garage Door	Stool is firm, mildly compacted, and is difficult to pass. Low fiber level combined with dangerously high Kraft Dinner ratios make for unavoidable rectal bleeding.
Level Sushi Tango Black Hole	High level fecal impaction. Short of medical intervention (manual extraction), the only way to empty the bowels is to stand near a deep gravity well with a high Δv. Time slows, blood pressure drops, and bread dough will not rise without increased yeast volume.

Here's hoping every day is a Cobalt Picture Window day.

February, 2004 was a tough month. In the span of a few short weeks, everyone in my group at work was informed they would soon be out of a job, I had been dumped the day before Valentine's Day, and I got infected with the Norovirus. Late that month, Eagan and other parts of the Twin Cities area were hit hard with Norovirus, which is also known for quickly spreading amongst passengers in the close confines of cruise ships. The symptoms sound like standard fare for a stomach bug, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and low-grade fever. But this was no ordinary poo poo pukey virus.

By mid afternoon at work, my stomach was starting to feel slightly unsettled. At first, I didn't give the moderate gurgling and churning much thought. Perhaps my simple bowl of soup at lunchtime wasn't sitting well for whatever reason. However, as the afternoon wore on, it became clear that this was something more than a mildly upset stomach. By 4:30 pm, it was bad enough that I knew I had to leave for home as soon as possible, or I surely would be too ill to drive myself. I informed my boss of what was going on, and by shortly after 5, I was huddled under a blanket on my couch watching The Simpsons. I soon fell into a dead, dreamless sleep.

When I awoke, I was punched hard in the gut with gentle but persistent waves of nausea. I moaned. I looked the clock. Barely an hour had passed. As I slowly sat up, I also became aware that my head was baking with fever. And I had to shit. Right. Fucking. Now! I jumped to my feet. The sudden movement caused the room to spin, and I had to pause for a moment to let the feeling pass. Ok, that's over. Gotta shit. I hightailed it to the bathroom, parked my ass on the cold porcelain and unclenched. Hot bubbling brown horror shot forth from my unclenched sphincter. It sounded like someone was trying to shoot pancake batter through a garden hose. That would be the most viscous bowel movement I would have for the next 24 hours.

Even though I didn't really have to do much work to fill the bowl, the physical exertion of rushing to the bathroom in my lightheaded state had taken its toll. Reeling with dizziness, I stumbled back to the couch, wrapped myself in the blanket, and once again fell asleep. I awoke again about 45 minutes later. This time the nausea was overpowering. I couldn't lift my head without nearly passing out. Once again I had an urgent need to use the bathroom. I rolled from the couch to the floor and crawled on my hands and knees to the bathroom, navigating by memory since my vision was clouded with shimmering stars. My hands and knees finally felt the cold tile of the bathroom floor, and I hoisted myself onto the toilet. I didn't need to be there much more than about 60 seconds before the gastrointestinal transaction had taken place. With a great deal of effort, I wiped, pulled up my underwear, went down on my hands and knees, and passed out in front of the toilet.

When I awoke, I had no idea how much time had passed. A few minutes? A couple of hours? I really didn't care at that point. The nausea was now so powerful that I couldn't even crawl on my hands and knees. I slid on my belly like a snake to the living room, pulled the pillow from the couch, and fell asleep before I could get the blanket down. Perhaps another 30 or 45 minutes later, I awoke again with a forceful trembling vibrating my innards. I whimpered and slid to the bathroom, summoned every ounce of physical and mental strength I had, and pulled myself up onto the toilet to give back the bounty which God had bestowed upon me earlier that day. I finished, slumped to the floor, and passed out with my underwear around my ankles. I didn't even get a chance to wipe first this time. Once again, I had no idea how much time had passed. Laying on my side, I dabbed pathetically at my seared butthole, and pulled up my underwear.

By now, I knew that I was not dealing with a simple case of the flu. This was some sort of virus sent from the depths of hell to rob me of every ounce of fluid in my body. Inch by inch, I slid to the bedroom and grabbed the phone. This wasn't an emergency, but I wanted someone to know enough to check on me in case things got progressively worse and I was unable to get to the phone later. I called my friend Mary, who lived and worked about 10 minutes from my house, and left a message on her work voice mail. It was 1 in the morning, and even barely short of delirium, I didn't want to wake her at home. My eyes half-closed, I mumbled into the phone. "Mary, it's Jeremy. I'm really sick. Some sort of stomach bug. I keep crapping and passing out. Can you check on me in the morning?" I hung up the phone and promptly passed out on the bedroom floor.

My eyes fluttered behind my eyelids. I had woken up, but couldn't bring myself to open my eyes. I didn't even wait for the signal from my brain. I knew I was going to have to shit and rolled over onto my stomach. Sure enough, about mid-roll, the familiar feeling hit my core, and I clenched tightly. I slid with determination and purpose, but it was still a slow process. I attempted to lift my head from the floor and was greeted with tunnel vision and stars. My lips were stuck to my teeth, and my tongue felt like a dried out slice of ham. I hadn't consumed any liquids in nearly 12 hours. Finally cold tile. After a couple of false starts, I managed to perch myself on the toilet and let gravity do its work. I slid to the floor and let unconsciousness wrap me in its dark embrace.

Again I awoke. I was laying on my side, underwear around my ankles. A pool of drool had accumulated on the tile beneath my mouth. I could tell that again I apparently didn't have time to wipe. I rolled over to grab at the dwindling roll of toilet paper and could just as well have walked in on a family of four being brutally hacked to pieces with a dull hatchet. This time in my bare-assed slumber, I completely slept through another rumbling urge to use the bathroom. Since the shit itself offered no physical resistance during its rush to my cakehole, I did not need to be awake to release it. In my sleep, I had spattered turbocharged ass mud all over the tile floor and wall behind me. Yes, I had shit on the god damned wall.

At first, I was in denial and muttered, "What? No! I couldn't have!" I slapped myself and looked again. The wall was just as mottled brown as ever. This was not a nightmare. It was quite real, and it was about to get worse. You see, embedded in this wall is a furnace vent, and when my bleary, dried out eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that I had not only shit all over the wall, I had splattered shit into the vent. And not just any vent. This vent was directly above the blower fan and provided the most powerful blast of air of any vent in the house. It was February. It was below zero outside. The furnace was running full tilt, and the blower fan forced billowing plumes filled with the stench of hot diarrhea directly into my face, past my head, out the bathroom door, and into my upstairs, which up until this point, had been unsullied by the stench of diarrhea, hot or otherwise.

"What the fuck?!? No way! No fucking way! Oh my God!" I was just about to go into hysterics when a sharp tug of nausea reminded me that I was still sick. I couldn't deal with this at fucking all right then. I tentatively wiped, pulled up my underwear, and crawled yet again to the living room floor, leaving the steaming ass explosion behind me. I fell asleep, repeated the crawl, shit, pass out, wipe, crawl, sleep cycle a couple of more times, then awoke again around 5 am. I still was running warm and felt slightly sick to my stomach, but I could lift my head without immediately fading to black. And amazingly, I didn't have to shit! I surmised that I had shit and sweat the last liquids out of my system a couple of hours beforehand. For the first time in nearly a half day, I rose to my feet. Unfortunately I immediately remembered the horrific episode from earlier that morning. I shuffled to the bathroom to survey the damage. "Fuuuuck..." I whispered. My throat was too dry to shout. Perhaps it had been burned by the nonstop vile smell of drying liquishit being pumped into my house like noxious poison.

I opened the cabinet under the bathroom sick and fumbled around looking for my bottle of cleaning solution with bleach. Got it! But shit, what about the furnace vent? I found a screwdriver, removed it from the wall, and started with the duct first. I probably emptied half the bottle of cleaning solution into the vent then scrubbed vigorously with hot water and a brush. Gagging and fighting back tears of disgust every step of the way, I moved to the wall and floor, giving them the same bleach and scrub treatment and noticed that the floor around the toilet was splattered in high velocity crap, as well. Some of my shit had come out with such force, that they splashed off of the bowl, up onto the underside of the toilet seat, and bounced out onto the floor. Now that was just plain impressive. I bleached and scrubbed the toilet, threw the brush away, then emptied the remainder of the cleaning solution over everything again, wiped it all down with a rag soaked in hot water, and threw the rag away. After securing the furnace vent cover, which I had cleaned with equal vigor, the nightmare was over. I crawled into my bed and fell asleep.

A little before 8, my phone rang. It was Mary. After hearing of my ordeal (I had spared her the shit-splattered wall and vent for the time being), she said, "Why on earth didn't you call me at home?" I explained that I still didn't realize then how bad it was. I just knew that I didn't need medical attention, but wanted to hedge my bets in case I needed to be taken to the hospital in the morning. She kindly offered to bring me some saltine crackers and Sprite so I could get something into my still unsettled stomach and had them in hand on my doorstep by 9 or so. I was grateful to have such a good friend. Oh how I couldn't wait to share with her my tale of feces and furnaces. When I recovered she would get the full story in all of its animated, graphic glory, describing every millimeter of the carnage because friends share things like that. True tears come from crapping down your furnace vent. And true friends are there to share it with you.

You decide.

As you saw from my moblog photo last night, I was at the Turf Club in St Paul. Mary, Alie, Lesley, and I went to drink a few beers and catch a few bands. Faux Jean (well, a couple members of Faux Jean), The Slats, and Rank Strangers were opening for Missing Numbers at their CD release show. I've seen Faux Jean a couple of times, and Rank Strangers seemed familiar, but I definitely hadn't seen the other two bands before.

Alie is the only one of the group who smokes, and I'm still kicking myself for not getting her the perfect gift from the men's room. There was a perfectly good disposable lighter that had been dropped by some poor bastard in the trough-style urinal. How ever will he light his ciggies and start campfires now? The guy on the other end of the trough also spied this enviable prize, but politely gave me dibs. I replied, "Ok, you just clench for a sec while I fetch it. I don't want pee on the back of my hand." A manly urinal laugh was shared. The lighter remained it its piss-soaked graveyard.

As Missing Numbers was setting up late in the evening, there was a bit of a commotion up front, then a loud TAP!! that sounded almost like someone had dropped something onto the hard floor right in front of the stage. The band and everyone else up front stood motionless, and the whole place went dead quiet. After a few confusing and tense moments, the eerie quiet broke as maybe 5 or 6 St Paul police officers escorted an older guy with a ponytail and a loud Hawaiian shirt out the door with his hands cuffed behind his back. Obviously some bad shit went down, but what? It was about this time that Lesley came back from the bathroom. Hopefully she can provide a more detailed and colorful account on her blog, but she informed us that the guy apparently had a gun and a knife on him and had to be tasered. Fucking awesome!

UPDATE: Alie took photos. Unfortunately there are none of the dude getting his balls electroshocked by the fuzz.

Hey, can I take a rain check on judging you? I'm really beat and need some rest. I mean, shit, I don't even know where to begin right now. But there will be plenty of time for me to judge you, your lifestyle, your choice in friends, your religion, and your dating decisions bright and early tomorrow morning. There's just so much to judge that I'm going to need a solid 8 and a McGriddle in my system first. Can I pencil you in for 8:30? See you then.

A Vatican committee has published a report that says unbaptized babies who die may go to heaven instead of limbo. In other findings, the Vatican committee also determined:

• Unbaptized babies who murder baptized babies go to hell.
• Unbaptized babies who rob liquor stores and die in a shootout with police can still go to heaven, but only if no cops get shot (no conclusion was reached on what happens of other unbaptized babies get shot).
• Dead baptized babies get cuts in front of unbaptized babies in the formula line in heaven.
• Athiest babies will be given the opportunity to accept Jesus before being sent to hell in a razor blade stroller.
• Monkey babies might go to heaven, but only if their parents wore diapers, knew sign language, and could roller skate.
• Toaster strudel is only a suitable substitute for the body of Christ in the taking of the Eucharist if it's unfrosted and contains no cream cheese.
• Pancakes and grilled cheese bearing the image of Christ may be eaten within 30 minutes of preparation, otherwise they must be placed on eBay.
• It's not ok for priests to touch their own penises, but it's cool if they can talk little boys into doing it.

This is what I dubbed my custom pizza configuration at our regular office lunch hangout today. Bacon, garlic chicken, and jalapeños. The bacon garlic cock burn. I think I will be chowing down a lot of cock burn from this day forward. I've already written a letter to my mother.

I don't like your peeps. You aiaight, but your peeps is wack. That fat bitch with the big ol' Virginia ham arms think she all that. But she ain't. She nothin'. I smack that bitch with a hot curling iron you don't pull that shit back! She tryin' to play me but I see through that shit. I wise like that aiaight. And scrawny muthafuckah with the clip on grillz stick his skinny ass neck in my snazz. I fuck that bitch up, god dammit! You pull that shit back too or I snap his toothpick with a wet sheet o' Bounty. That shit the quicka picka uppa and limp dick snappa you don't wise your shit, fool! You remember that aiaight? Much love.

Another Wednesday, another fun evening of musical bingo. Last night felt a little more low key than usual for some reason. I know I was rather tired from a couple longish days at work and from going out Tuesday night. I also arrived a little later than usual since I agreed to pick up a friend at the airport. Nobody really seemed to be in much of a picture snapping mood, myself included, but I did take these choice shots of Alie playing with her gift from Rheo, a promotional baseball bat bottle opener. A couple of us won rounds of bingo. Elizabeth got a swaggity $10 gift certificate, while Hedy got stuck with a shitty Comcast t-shirt. Fucking Comcast?!? Who's running the back end on the musical bingo snazz? Seriously, the only thing worse than winning jack shit is winning then getting disappointed with a Comcast t-shirt. Just hand the poor girl a loosely clumped pile of horse crap with random strands of hay jutting out and get it over with.

Alie wants to tap that ass!


Alie and her vestigial penis


This is Spider-Man's penis.

UPDATE: I apologize for the sound on this. This was my first experiment with moblogging video, and evidently the audio quality for video mail on my phone is shit. I'll keep it in mind in the future and save this feature for things far more visually interesting (i.e. dogs humping). We were talking about hairy balls. A nameless soul in the musical bingo group didn't realize that men have hairy balls. We all agreed that her men either have always shaved their balls or she's been dating 12 year olds.

Click to Play

My brother hates cats. Maybe it's because one died in our ceiling once when we were growing up (for the record, the girl mentioned in that linked post is long gone, vanished into the dating ether). Me, I like cats, but I don't own one because I don't want to be responsible for one on my own. Yeah, they're low maintenance, but I'm all about reducing my responsibility load. Sometimes I sprinkle my responsibility load onto others. It's gritty and gets in your shoes and socks. You'll probably be picking my responsibility load out of your nice wool socks for the next several months.

If you are a hot girl and own cats, don't worry, it's cool. You can live with me and bring your one to two cats (but no more than that). I'll enjoy your cats and help care for them as long as I can bang you one to five times a day (but possibly a lot more than that). And you have to let my friend Rocko bust a nut in your eye on St Patrick's day. It's tradition. We'll talk about the Veteran's Day tradition later. I can only tell you that it involves Sriracha and a Brazilian.

Save the dead, stinky ceiling cat in his face, I don't recall our dad having much of an opinion of cats one way or another. I'm sure he enjoyed our roving band of farm felines because they kept the buildings free of mice and rats. Plus every once in a while, they'd inbreed and you'd end up with a litter of funny little bastards that walked backwards and shat vanilla soft serve and miniature paper clips. Hilarious!

Dad often told us stories of how they disposed unwanted kittens and puppies on our farm when he was growing up. The more humane sounding method involved putting them into a barrel, running a tube from a car's exhaust pipe in the barrel, sealing it shut, and firing up the engine. G'night, sweet kitties! The other method was to fill up a burlap sack full of writhing, mewing kittens, throw in a rock, tie the sack shut, and throw it into the coulee (it's like a creek) that ran through our property. The least humane method wasn't really so much as a way of getting rid of them as kids fucking around. They'd climb to the top of the windmill, probably a good 4 stories high, tie handkerchiefs to the kittens like little parachutes, and toss them into the air. The chutes never opened. There were no survivors.

UPDATE: Sorry my writings have been brief the last couple of days. I have a lot going on at work. Then Hedy forced me to drink beer. As revenge, I shot this video of her against her will.

Last night after some relentless text message-based convincing from Hedy, I joined her and a couple of her friends at Billy's to watch the Twins whomp on Seattle. I had a rather long and rough day at work and needed to be in at a relatively decent time this morning, so I originally begged off. Bullshit was called (on what, I'm not sure) and I decided that perhaps a couple of beers in my system was just what I needed to relax. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time I had seen Hedy truly drunk. She was fun despite wetting my pants. She flicked water from the table onto my denim man trousers and some got on my leg. She was also insistent that we arm wrestle. In 3 or 4 matches, I beat her handily and effortlessly. I was puzzled at her puzzlement considering I probably weigh nearly twice as much as her and could almost certainly bench press her (she refused my offers to bench press her). I also learned that she doesn't like perverts, which means my chances with her are shot. As always, she took photos nonstop, preventing everyone from relaxing and having an actual good time. So she has posted photos on her blog of the rest of us pretending to enjoy ourselves. (You know I'm kidding, HDV)

Married Coworker: "I got a wedding invitation addressed to 'Mr and Ms [last name]' the other day. What's up with that?"

Me: "What do they not want to recognize your marriage? Or they aren't sure you're married?"

Single Coworker: "Dear Mr and Life Partner [last name], you are invited..."

Hello there, miss! Yes, you with the writhing sweater meat. Great rack there! Very perky. Are they real? Oh dear, that was a very rude question. I don't know where my manners are. I apologize. Actually I just came over to ask you if I may enjoy your breasts. You see, I -- huh? Oh, no no no! I'm not going to touch them or honk on them or anything. Unless you want me to. You don't. I see. Well, I'm not surprised, and that is fine. But if you'll let me finish, I just want to ask your permission to enjoy them. With your blessing, I'm just going to stare at them for a little while here and mentally map your chestal topography. Then I will leave you to your business and will enjoy and appreciate them elsewhere. Now if I can just -- what's that? You don't want me enjoying your breasts? Now I think that's a very selfish attitude, but it's your right. No, I'm sorry to have wasted your time with my polite and innocuous request to enjoy your quality bosoms. Before I go, answer me this -- do your jugs keep you warm at night? Can those breasts buy you love? Oh, they can. Well, I guess I've been told. Good day to you, miss.

On several occasions now, I have shared with you responses I received from foreign scammers through Match.com. What is their angle? Do they need me to donate part of my liver for their transplant because of all of the vodka they drink? Maybe I'll wake up in a bathtub full of ice with a note written on my chest that says, "You seemed feverish and passed out. We cooled you off. Hope you feel better. We left a SoBe on in the fridge. Eskimo kisses and moon pies, Shady Russians."

Tonight I was bored (really bored), so I decided to take it a step further and seek out a fake profile. It didn't take me long before I spotted a suspicious one flanked by a photo of an equally suspiciously hot, tan, fit brunette. No match criteria listed, horribly broken English, it's all there. Fake!

Title: Privet!!!

Privet!!!

Well I can tell about myself... Well I simply interesting girl with which to you is not necessary to miss, with me always is about what to talk. And call this fine creation Tatyana. At me it is a lot of hobbies, but most of all I love navigation. At leisure I like to descend to take a walk with girlfriends along the street to descend in cafe, in club or simply to sit and listen to houses quiet music which me forces to relax. If has interested you? So do not pull write faster, I shall press your letters...
Well here I precisely do not want to search for people to whom serious attitudes are not necessary... If you such that at once can pass me and if there is no that I I shall be very glad with you to communicate... I want to find the person who would be kind, clever, cheerful and fair. Probably it is which those qualities to me yet it was not possible to find in men whom I met. But I do not want to speak about sad... If you want to find here the girl of the dream that write I shall be glad to communicate to you, my destiny can you...

This is quite possibly the most indecipherable string of English-like crap I have ever read in my entire life. Oh, I have to write to these fuckers! This is the actual email I sent in response to this profile:

Subject: Lesley Grammar

Privet yourself!!! I noticed you said privet twice. That's awesome!!! You simply interesting yes! And a fine creation Tatyana is indeed. Is that a potato dish? I like those au gratin potatoes. They have zip and zing. I also like Cool Ranch Doritos. Oh, and pie! Pies are good, too. So is this cafe you go to in somebody's basement? You said you had to descend to get there. I'll bet it's like Cheers where you go down some stairs, walk in the door, and everybody's like "Privet!!!" when you walk in! Then you kick them in the cake stain and take their heart still beating from their chest, yes? But really no one should force you to relax. No means no. Oh, and it's embarrassing to admit, and I know you said do not pull write faster, but when I saw your photo I was pulling and writing as fast as I could! I think I ruined the space bar on my keyboard I was pulling and writing so fast. Ha ha! And yes, my letters could use a pressing. They are a little wrinkly. I left them in the dryer for a couple of days, which is dramatic and shameful. I also think serious attitudes are sometimes necessary, like at a funeral. You should be pretty serious there. Speaking of which, I'm going to one this weekend. Wanna come?

-Lesley Grammar

Will they write back? Will they latch onto my ruse, track me down, and send Russian mobsters after me? Or did I just send off a mocking email to some poor Russian girl who recently moved to the United States and is simply trying to find a nice boyfriend, in which case, I am a complete asshole? I guess we'll find out. Stay tuned, won't you?

Sandra has kindly taken in a foster dog until a proper home can be found. Her generous spirit has inspired me to take in human foster children. Sandra takes in handsome, docile dogs, but I specialize in caring for really ugly, dumb babies like poor Franklin here. What a stupid, stupid baby. Stupid babies don't deserve people food.


"Abortion is for babies!"

Wednesday's musical bingo session was a stellar success. Drinks was drunked, laughs was chortled, and not a single mean drawing had to be drawn. Yes, Amber didn't make it this week, but she gets a pass. Sandra didn't make it either, but the circumstances surrounding her absence where less than pleasant, so again, a pass. The Family is firm but understanding. We're not monsters. I think one of us has a soul, too. I had a soul once. But the string broke when we walked out into the parking lot, and it floated away. Two weeks later, I got a letter from a kid in Alberta who said he found it in a field. He probably let all of the helium out to make his voice higher. Fucker wouldn't give me any of that famous bacon.

Without further doo doo (other than Alie's doo doo), I present musical bingo. Also enjoy this finely polished video we shot.

Lesley, you've got a little something up your nose. Let us get that. No, hold still. Hold STILL!!



Hedy shows us how her cats drink beer and Alie sharpens her pencil eraser.


"This is how we play bingo in the TC, fuckfaces!"


Hedy wanted me to make love to the camera, but I ended up awkwardly groping it instead.


I wish I had washed my hands after pooping.


Hedy and Alie are blog buddies.


Alie gets ready to release her sparrows.


"Hey, ladies! Want to see my hairy, translucent chest? If you look closely, you can see my heart beating. Later I'll show you my liver. In a jar. After the transplant. [drink]"


I tried to wink at Hedy, but my motor functions were already seriously hampered.


Jeremy SMASH!!!!


"What's up, bitches?"


Lesley, we tried to help you out with that boogie thing, but hey, if you want to dig it out yourself, that's your bid-nazz.


Quite possibly the cutest photo of Lesley ever.


No, I take that back. This one is. Or not.


Sorry, Hedy, we drank all of the beer in Minneapolis. The next shipment comes in 2 weeks.


"I always make this face when I text people."


"Don't touch my fucking gear, asshole!"


Beer (coaster) goggles


"Rock n' roll makes me angry."

Most people are mortified by their photos from their past, but not me! I'm oh so very proud to show you a couple of photos I ran across while digging around on my computer tonight.

This is me at around the time I was at my heaviest, nearly 300 pounds, about 8 or 9 years ago. But diet, exercise, and a lot of hard work turned all of that around. Two thumbs up to being jolly!


When I'm not wearing these pants, a family of 4 lives in them.


This is me last night at musical bingo. That's right. Fuck all y'all. I look good!


To be fair, this is me at my most fit probably about 4 years ago. Packin' a little more to love than that these days in my thirties, but I'm still pretty damned proud of how far I've come.


P.S. More musical bingo shenanigans, including videos, to come. Stay tuned, candy asses!

I don't know nothin' 'bout no meditation, but I larnt somethin' last night from Elizabeth and Lesley at musical bingo. Chakras come from your butthole and connect through an imaginary telephone pole to Middle Earth. There J.R.R. Tolkien pulls on your Chakra cable, which seals your butthole to the floor so you can't get up. Then your mind goes blank and you focus on your butthole and the hobbits in Middle Earth and you get all calm like a bomb. Then Zach de la Rocha screams at you, and you wake up feeling refreshed like you just got hipmuhtized. That's meditation.

For your health.

Knowing myself all too well, I doubt I'll ever finish it, but this is the first time I've ever had an idea in my head that I actually believed could be a book. It's nonfiction, and it's about playful kittens in a basket in Canada. Actually it's fiction, and not at all funny. Mental illness is involved. Kittens with mental illness.

Incidentally, I say this not as a proud announcement. Anyone can say they're writing a book. I could tell you I'm painting the Empire State Building in Dutch Boy eggshell and milky squeezings from Anna Nicole Smith's bloated corpse, and for all you know, it would be true. Hell, I very well could be actually painting it, but if I don't finish it, I might as well have just sat in a dark room jacking off and wishing for it to be true.

In other words, I'm just flapping my gums and filling space. But I really am writing a book. No shit.

During my formative junior high and high school years, one of my great joys was watching Saturday Night Live. This was during one of its rare upswing periods where it usually was more funny than not. I remember many a dateless, friendless (aw, poor Jeremy!) Saturday evening snickering quietly at Dana Carvey, Dennis Miller, Adam Sandler, et al so as not to alert my parents in the other room. It wasn't that I would get in trouble for watching it, but I certainly would be mortified to have them walk into the room to find me laughing out loud at the "penis sketch."

In the late 80's, my grandmother caught wind of my love of SNL and informed me that we were related by marriage to one of the cast members. "PleaseletitbeDanaCarvey PleaseletitbeDanaCarvey" No, she informed me, it was Phil Hartman. Who?? At the time I had no fucking clue who Phil Hartman was, as he hadn't yet really risen to any level of prominence on the show. But apparently his mother-in-law was my grandfather's first cousin. Oh.

During the Christmas season that year, Grandma produced a handwritten card from Grandpa's cousin in Thief River Falls, MN. Nestled snugly with the typical family blah de blah was a paragraph cooing about how much Phil and Brynn (her daughter, his wife) loved living in New York, how much Phil enjoyed working on SNL, and that they were estatic to have just had birth to their first child, Sean. Meh. I found it mildly interesting but for the most part, was unimpressed. Send me X-Rays of Phil Hartman paddling Jon Lovitz's balls with a cricket bat, then I might raise an eyebrow of intrigue.

As Phil Hartman proved his talent and rose in the ranks on SNL and especially after he left to do movies, voices for some of the most hilarious characters in the history of The Simpsons, and his hilariously assholish character on NewsRadio, he easily became one of my favorite comedic actors. So when a coworker at my on campus job during the waning days of my senior year at UND told me that "Troy McClure died today," I didn't quite process it right away.

"Huh? Troy McClure? So they're killing that character off on The Simpsons?"

"No, the dude that did his voice got shot today. What's his name?"

"Phil Hartman died?!?" I was incredulous.

"Yeah, that's it! Phil Hartman. Somebody shot him I guess."

From that description, I pictured him walking down the street, being accosted by a mugger, and catching one in the chest when the transaction went sour. Then it came out that this was in his home. A home invasion? A crazed fan? Finally came the crucial details that his wife had shot him and hours later killed herself. So my grandpa's cousin's daughter murdered one of the best comedic minds of our generation. Fuck 'sup with that?

Hi there. Pardon me. Excuse me. Yes, I'm talking to you! Now this is going to sound kind of creepy. Ok, it's going to sound REALLY creepy. But I promise you I'm not some nutjob who has been stalking you for months, weeks, or even a few minutes. I just ordered some coffee, turned around, and there you were. I'm just going to ask. May I love you? I'm not saying that I actually DO love you. That would be pretty outlandish! I don't believe in love at first sight. Love is something that happens over time. Or so I hear because let's be honest, I'm not sure if I'm even capable of love. But I'd just like to file away the option to love you for future reference. You don't even have to love me back. In fact, I would prefer it that way.

Coming next week: "May I bang you?"

First Mel Gibson drunkenly slung antisemetic slurs. Then the formerly funny Michael Richards when ape snap and threw around the n-word like a pre-Civil War plantation owner on a "hiring" spree. Then Don Imus made remarks both racist and sexist at once when he called an African American womens basketball team a bunch of "nappy-headed hos." Two birds with one stone, Imus? Impressive. And now Laguna Beach's Jason Wahler has apparently tossed around some not-so-nice slurs (as opposed to warm and inclusive slurs) after being arrested on Sunday. Shame on you, celebrities! Shame on you for using insensitive and hurtful words. That shit is so retarded and gay! And you know it.

I'm at work, but I'm not doing too well. I just need to get through this 3 pm meeting with some semblance of coherence. Unfortunately it's not a meeting I can just sit quietly through, so I will need to at least bring my B game. Maybe B minus.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go paint the toilet with #5 chunky. For real.

Fun google -> afterglide referral of the evening: odd smelling diarrhea.

Speaking of diarrhea, I could shit through cheesecloth right now. Earlier today I thought I was having a Trazodone hangover, but I now suspect I have a stomach bug. Fever, upset stomach, diarrhea, excessive masturbation, the symptoms are all there.

UPDATE 8:00 am: Definitely a stomach bug. I just called in sick. I feel better than I did at bedtime last night (10:30!!! Woot!!!), but I'm going to rest to avoid getting myself even sicker. This blows. I'm going to rest for a few hours, reevaluate at noon, and might still go into work. I've been eating Responsibilityuns.

UPDATE 12:15 pm: Dragging my ass to work. I have a meeting necessary to wrap up a project we need to get out the door, and we'd have to put it off a couple of days if we can do it today. As soon as I'm completely recovered, I also have a wrecked toilet at home that needs to be cleaned and sanitized in a gigantic microwave oven.

Thanks for the warning on the controlled burn, assholes in Lakeville. I love having my car filled with smoke. My car had been parked a couple of spots over from the red truck (the guys doing the controlled burn) when one of my coworkers came over about 20 minutes ago and told me I better move my car if I didn't want it to stink like summer camp. Earlier in the day, the business next door, which does not share the parking lot privately owned by our company, had a gigantic fucking truck parked about 3 inches from my car hanging a new sign with a cherry picker. Evidently the 5 other signs all over their building aren't enough to identify them from outer space. If the fuckers had dropped that sign on my car or scratched my shit, I would have beat every one of their stupid asses with a spare tire. Not a tire iron, but an entire fucking spare tire. Never mind the fact they did not have permission to be on our property with their heavy equipment. Their punishment? My scorn and an emphatic harumph. Harumph!

UPDATE: It turns out that when I originally wrote this, I was coming down with a stomach bug and incorrectly assumed the symptoms were related to the Trazodone. When I recover from said bug, I will give Trazodone another rip and report back.

Trazodone has yet to prove itself as a sudden and magical cure to my insomnia. Yes, I've slept more in the last 3 nights than I probably had in the previous week, but I'm still not caught up. And this shit is leaving me with a hangover. I've also felt hot in the mornings, like I have a fever. I'm going to try taking it around 10 pm tonight (instead of midnight). I also still have no energy. I haven't worked out once so far this month. Ouch. I keep telling myself I'm going to, then lethargy takes hold. I need to get back on that tonight, even if it's just going for a walk after work.

I also apologize for my spate of metaphysical and confessional topics lately (I'm going to get back on that thread momentarily, but it is a slightly more amusing subject matter). I'm in a rather introspective mood lately. Poop isn't as funny when you're introspective. But thankfully I haven't stopped pooping. I just examine my life while I do it these days. Then I examine my poop. "[grunting] I need to alter my life and attitude in positive ways! [turd plops into toilet]"

Some of my issues stem from my obsessive tendancies. I obsess on food. I obsess on exercise (well, normally when I actually have energy to expend). I obsess on what I write. Perhaps obsess isn't the right word. But I certainly suffer from varying levels of compulsion. A conversation I had over the weekend reminded me of my faded enjoyment of porn. I'm not embarrassed in the least to say that I once loved the pornography. Boobs a bouncin', cooters a rumblin', jisms a flyin'. Especially since I'm not really a strip club guy (I've discussed here before about how they creep me out), I didn't find it to be unhealthy at the time. It's not like I was spending my life savings on it, but I sure spent a lot of time looking at it. Not hours upon hours, but enough where I took a step back and realized what a waste of time and money it was. I'm a very visual person when it comes to sex, as most guys are, but my brain is a pretty powerful image generator.

I don't recall making a conscious decision to give up teh pr0n, but quite some time back, I just kind of stopped. Stopped looking, stopped downloading, deleted the stuff on my computer to clear room for more music, and stopped... um... using (squirt! .. oh, sorry about your keyboard, pastor!). I'm not passing any moral judgement on enjoyers of the stereoopticpornographics (I often still joke about porn), but I'm long since done. In fact, I can kind of trace the rise of time I invest in writing to the fall of time spent on cootervision. But don't take my busy times where I can't write to mean I'm spanking it to Anal Midget Fisting 24: Butt of Course. I'm either working late or spanking it to serious literature. "Unngghghhhh! Tolstoyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!"

I've taken Trazodone three nights in a row now to get to sleep and so far the severe potential side effects have not occurred. My erections are of normal duration, enviable rigidity, and are always appropriate. Take THAT, modern medicine! Although my testicles now get erect, too. Weird.

I've mused on this subject a couple of times already, but I'm obsessed and perplexed. Each and every day, a good 10 different people searching for information on Sven Sundgaard's sexuality visit my blog. Who are these people who find my blog by searching for Sven Sundgaard gay, and why do they care? Of course, the more I address this oddity, the more truth seekers come. But I'm not in it for the traffic. Who are you people? Leave a comment! Tell me why you care if this wee little local tv weatherchkin is gay. Are you just curious? Or maybe you are REALLY curious and want to date him. Maybe you can't reconcile getting your weather report from a gay guy. "Is my weather report coming from a HOMOSEXUAL??? Should I panic? Can I trust that it's REALLY going to rain tomorrow? Oh my God! What if it rains MEN!?!? Honey, bring in the patio umbrellas!!! Come on, google! Load, goddammit, LOAD!!!" Silly Lutherans.

I was scrolling through the guide on my Tivo to see if there were any interesting shows on INHD, a very eclectic HD station showing uncut and uncensored Hollywood and independent movies, rebroadcasts of concerts, original programming, sports news, and other random whatnotatoria. I did find a couple of interesting programs to record. One is an episode of a music show called London Live, in which Minnesota's own Tapes 'n Tapes will be featured. I found it interesting that they are listed as the headline act on the website and the guide listing, appearing even above Wolfmother. The other show that looked interesting is a documentary about the arduous making of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, an album that almost never saw the light of day.

One series of shows that I decided not to record was called The Girls of STARE, the description indicated it was a bikini model show. Yeah, I enjoy looking at hot chicks in bikinis, but only in real life and only if I'm personally rubbing cocoa butter on their perky breastuses. Watching them on television, even in HD, is boring. What amused me about the listing for these shows, however, is that they were listed under only one Tivo category (usually shows are listed under multiple categories like "comedy, documentary" or "movie, science fiction, drama"). According to Tivo, The Girls of STARE is a "biography."

Voiceover: "Ever since she was a little girl, Totty McHootenboob knew she wanted to be a bikini model. [montage of childhood photos of a freckled girl in pigtails playing with Barbie dolls and playing dress up] But the road to looking hot and wearing bits of fabric designed to barely cover your naughty bits isn't a smooth one. [dramatic music] Drugs, alcohol, expired gym memberships, and a bouncer who wouldn't let her backstage to meet Dave Matthews. You never knew it was this hard. Tonight we take an in depth look at the mistakes and tragedies in the life of Totty McHootenboob. [55 minutes of her trying on bikinis, smearing oil and cream cheese on her nearly nude body, jumping up and down, and riding a Big Wheel]"

I awoke this morning from a disturbing dream. Someone I know was playing a new character in Chasing Windmills. Her character was addicted to some sort of pills that came in tiny Victorian looking glass vials. She was addicted to the same pills that I was in "real life" (real life in the dream, not real real life), so the story line was really hitting home. In the season finale, she was in London on a dock or pier of some sort on the Thames and emptied one bottle of pills into another, then dropped the empty one into the water. Cut to blurry scenes wrapping up plot lines I didn't care about. Cut back to an underwater shot of her character slowly sinking to the bottom of the Thames, eyes open, apparently having decided to kill herself. Haunting and depressing music plays in the background. Fade to black and credits. In the dream, I knew it was fictional and all part of the episode, but the image of her sinking in the water to her certain death freaked me the fuck out. It made me sick to my stomach. I called her with the horrifying image still burned into my brain, railing about why they would kill off her character like that. She tried to calm me down to no avail. I woke up with the same sick feeling in my stomach. Keep in mind that this person seems very well adjusted, and I have no fears that she would ever hurt herself. It was just a character she was playing, not her. Either way, what the fuck was that all about?

Until I was 7 years old, my family lived in a trailer house on my grandparents' farm right next to their house (not a trailer house). During the day, while dad farmed away out in the field and mom slept after working the graveyard shift at the hospital, Grandma would keep an eye on my brother and me (Grandpa also farmed and was out in the field during the day). My brother and I were extremely close with our grandparents, so even after we moved into an actual house of our own a few miles from the next town over, we frequently visited Grandma and Grandpa, often staying overnight for a day or two.

Grandma had had one those yippy little dogs, which I believe was a pomeranian and poodle mix. Mitzi the yipping dog was rather skittish, didn't much care for kids, and went absolutely Vietnam flashback apeshit at any hint of a loud noise. Mitzi also liked to sleep under Grandpa's well worn easy chair with the squeaky springs. During one of our regular overnight stays, Grandpa popped a massive bowl of popcorn in the air popper for everyone to munch on, plopped down in his chair, and unleashed the most massive fart God has ever bestowed upon a humble servant's colon. The fart left the springs in the old chair vibrating violently at a low E flat, which scared the unleavened shit out of the dog. She rocketed out from under that chair as if she'd been launched from a t-shirt cannon.

I've spent my life trying to recreate that fart. But no manner of popcorn, bean, or taco meat has ever resulted in that perfect pitch and timbre let loose on that warm summer evening. So far I only scare women away, and the tiny little dogs stay around to hump my leg. How I wish it were the other way around.

After work last night, I stopped at the Sprint store in Burnsville Center to once again look at getting a new phone. I had my heart set on a Samsung M610, which I had looked at previously at the Sprint store just a couple miles from my house, but they tried to talk me out of it without any sort of concrete reasoning as to why. They were kind of condescending assholes about it. Granted, I may have deserved just a little snip, but it still pissed me off, so I left the store without buying anything. I later learned that store is not a Sprint corporate store, which might explain their tiny layout, shitty selection and less than professional attitude.

In any case, the new phone is fucking incredible. Web access is probably 5 or 10 times faster than with my old phone, and the camera is 2 megapixels (my regular digital camera is 3, so that's pretty good), though it doesn't have a flash. Hedy and Alie gave me shit as I geeked out and played with it at the bar last night. Hey, at least I didn't have it strapped to my belt and set to ring with the Imperial March from Star Wars!

The phone is very thin and as you can see, often has nature in the background.


The screen is pretty impressive, and my old phone didn't even have enough memory to load my blog. Now I can pick up girls at bars with, "Hey, check out my blog, baby!" *slap, drink in face, storm out* Aw, man...


For less than $20, I picked up a 512 MB microSD card to upgrade the phone's storage for pictures, videos, songs, etc. Look how tiny that fucking memory card is! Not only could I swallow it and pass it whole, a newborn chihuahua could, too! In fact, the baby chihuahua could swallow it, I could eat the chihuahua, and I could pass them BOTH whole!

Just kidding, chump. I don't blog about feelings typically. You should know that by now. I think Hedy wants me to blog about feelings though. But if I did that, my blog would be all about constant disappointment and being horny. Alie just wants me to post more photos of my balls.

Speaking of Hedy and Alie, I got together with them rather spur of the moment last night at the oddly named Christensen's Big V's Saloon in St Paul. I only had a couple of beers since I wanted to drive home in a legal and safe manner, but afterward we went out for a huge ass plate of nachos at a Mexican joint in Minneapolis that was open until 3. When I got home it was almost 4. Hmm... what about insomnia again? I'm sure that helped. As always, Hedy took lots of hot photos, which can be found here, along with her feelings, and Alie shows us why she's popular at the bus depot.

If you are of the Easter celebrating persuasion, I wish you an early Happy Easter. I'm not doing shit for it other than lament the fact that the stores will be closed. When Jesus rose from the dead, I'll bet he wanted to buy some toothpaste and some Doritos. Open up, fuckers!

Since last summer, every once in a while, I get an email at my afterglide.com address (see the top right of this page if you ever want to drop me a line) from people at or associated with some fucknut marketing firm called M80. Evidently they search blogs for specific keywords then get in touch with the owner to try to pry information out of them or prod them into posting ads, contests, or links for their clients on the blog in question.

The format of the emails from M80 typically goes something like this:

Hey there!

I just happened to be looking at your blog and noticed you mentioned [product, movie, tv show, or brand name]. I'm willing to bet your readers would be interested in [thing directly or tangentially related to previously mentioned product, tv show, etc].

Would you be interested in [answering some questions about or posting a link or informaton about] [product, movie, etc]?

-[first name]
[first name]@m80im.com

What slays me is that it is quite obvious these jokers don't bother to actually read the post, and typically the messages come several months after the post was originally written. I could write something like "Man I took a wicked liquidump through a screen door and a funnel into a Cherry Coke bottle then threw it at a grad student." Eight months later, you'll probably get a message from Johnny at M80 telling you how much he loves Cherry Coke, and would you be interested in posting a link to the Cherry Coke Tahitian Getaway contest? I think I need to create a form letter for responding to M80 reps.

Dear [first name],

Your tactics are transparent and weak. Fuck off.

Sincerely,

[Jeremy's name, which is Jeremy]

Amber finally realized that she can no longer ignore the call of the Blogger Mafia and joined us for this week's round of musical bingo. She even brought her lovely friend Katy. Amber has pleased The Family, and she goes forth with our blessings. Many photos were taken, but not all of them turned out (I tried get all artsy and shit). Here is a review of the evening's fun.

UPDATE: For more photo fun from Saturday's bad movie party at my crib, Alie's got the goods.

UPDATE 2: Hedy's got more sex-ay photos of the bingo mobsters.

Amber is the color of her energy! Katy (left) just spotted like seventy three cents in change in the low rider couch. Fuck yeah!


Without any naughty no-shows, I had to draw something, ANYTHING!


Fat Joe.


Pugsley Q. Turtleneck


White chicks and gang signs.


Bite me!


Amber shows us where she keeps her tomato garden.


Ladies!


Aw, what's wrong, Jeremy? Did a pelican bite your penis?


Miss Lesley poses oh so prettily.


Not if I can snap you first, Hedy! BLAM!!!


Alie laughs when I tell her how good I am in bed. No, really, Alie! I swear! Fine, be that way.


Elizabeth in motion


Ceiling Hedy


I hope they accept cash.


This is what it looks like when you live in the bottom of a beer glass.


Elizabeth in my favorite photo of the evening


Lesley takes a closeup shot of her lady pattern.


No one pays attention to the game. They just drink and make fun of me.


Alie wonders why Lesley is imitating a robot.


Rheo spins his shit, and Sandra digs it.


Hell-oh-ohhhhhhh!


My wiener is fuzzy and gray.


A quarter full? Motherfucker's 3/4 empty, and I'm still thirsty!


Hedy can't keep her hands off of Alie. Peekaboo!


"Lessee, a 15% tip? Um... carry the 5, divide by sigma..."


Hedy tries to lift the couch with her feet.

I've got a disease, and the only cure is modern medicine or maybe a lame-ass Ziggy cartoon. What's my disease? I have Ass Burgers Syndrome. It's where medium rare patties of crap get stuck in the hair between your buttocks. It's somewhere between dingleberries and having a full blown turd that refuses to push the last half inch out of your butthole such that you have to stand up and slam your hips against the bathroom wall to get it to drop. The accredited cure for Ass Burgers Syndrome is medicinal paint huffing from a Ziploc freezer bag. But you end up with a permanant eggshell enamel mustache and say "dude" a lot.

Ok, I don't really have Ass Burgers, though all this burger talk is making me hungry. As I mentioned yesterday, I had an appointment this morning to finally see a doctor about my long running issues with insomnia. I filled out a questionnaire apparently meant to find out if I should be referred for psychiatric help. ("Do you have thoughts about hurting yourself or others?" Does wanting to kick Ryan Seacrest squay-ah in the nuts count?) The doctor then came in, asked me a bunch of questions about stresses in my life, anxiety, history of depression, etc. He seemed satisfied with my own assessment that any severe anxiety in my life right now is being caused by my sleep issues directly and prescribed me Trazodone. He said it could result in a hung over feeling in the morning, and if that becomes too much to deal with, I can try some over the counter Melatonin (which I'm not sure why I've never tried before come to think of it).

Ironically enough, before musical bingo last night (I took over 80 photos last night, so there are a shit ton to select from that I will post later tonight or tomorrow night), I managed to take an amazing power nap. I rarely nap because it is usually a lost cause. But yesterday I managed to focus, quiet my mind, and actually fell asleep in maybe 5 or 10 minutes, catching a solid 45 minutes of Z's. And last night when I got home, after putzing around the house, I laid down on the couch and fell asleep almost instantly. Granted, I was exhausted. I need to be able to fall sleep when I'm just tired, not exhausted. I want to prevent said exhaustion. I don't want to prevent ass exhaust though. It makes funny noises and smells like eggs and brackish water.

UPDATE: I read more about the possible side effects and warnings for Trazodone, including this one:

Trazodone has been associated with the occurrence of priapism. In approximately 33% of the cases reported, surgical intervention was required and, in a portion of these cases, permanent impairment of erectile function or impotence resulted. Male patients with prolonged or inappropriate erections should immediately discontinue the drug and consult their physician.

Jesus Christ!! Is this shit going to fuck up my dick? I mean granted I haven't had any action in a good 5 or 6 months, but I'd at least like to be able to fire one off once or twice a day. And I can see where a prolonged erection could cause issues, but what the hell is an inappropriate erection???? Are these pills going to cause me to get a chub when the senior bus rolls up at the supermarket? Or am I going to be watching QVC and get a raging hard on when they start selling pewter Harry Potter chess sets? I need to know if this thing's just going to start going off in my pocket without warning. You can't walk around with a loaded gun with the safety off!

I should host my own show where I travel from town to town, talking with weird people on the street who are either drunk or high, all the while visiting local bars getting cakestained out of my autumnal gourd. Oh, but it's already been done. Damn.

Ever since I was a kid, I've suffered from bouts of insomnia. Some are worse than others, but I'd say normal sleep patterns are the exception rather than the rule for me. I can be so exhausted that my eyes feel heavy and my hands feel numb, but I just can't fall asleep for the life of me. My mind races about anything and everything or nothing in particular.

During the worst bouts, I can take as many as 7 or 8 25 mg tabs of diphenhydramine, aka Benadryl, with absolutely zero impact -- I still lay awake. And in case you're wondering, that is a lot. It's about 4 times the maximum recommended dosage, in fact. I know I'm building a tolerance to it because several years ago, a dose that big only happened once, and it was accidental. I hallucinated, talked nonsensical gibberish to my then-girlfriend, and fell asleep feeling like the bed was dropping through a hole into the center of the world. My subsequent girlfriend, a registered nurse, often expressed worry over my frequent, nearly nightly use of it as a sleep aid, but I brushed aside her concerns.

Diphenhydramine is not an addictive substance, but I'm now willing to say out loud that my pattern of using it in both high frequency and high dosage over multiple years almost certainly constitutes abuse. And lately I've been bringing alcohol into the picture, as well. Not good. I need to stop. For the first time in my life, I've made an appointment with a doctor to talk specifically about my sleep problems. I'm hoping suggestions in lifestyle changes, prescription medication, and/or getting referred to a sleep clinic will help me. I'm tired of not getting enough sleep and am worried about how many pills I'm taking every day.

My name is Jeremy, and I'm a sleep-deprived Benadryl junky.

UPDATE: Seems like some of the images in this post randomly won't load sometimes. If that happens to you, you can also scroll through them (sans my narration) here.

Aside from bringing the wine on Saturday, Elizabeth gave me a very lovely gift, a coloring book! I was delighted at her thoughtful gesture and earnestly told her I would treasure it and her friendship always.

This is Elizabeth (right) having a grand old time with Lesley (photo courtesy Hedy)


Here is the coloring book she gave me.


Tuesday night, I was feeling rather blue because I was recovering from a cold (again!) and missing the Humanwine show at 7th St Entry, so I decide I would cheer myself with wine (some left from the stock Elizabeth brought us Saturday -- how apropos!), crayons, and artistic expression!

I sat down with my first glass of wine and let my mind explore the possibilities. Ok, so actually I was on my second glass of wine when this photo was taken.


First I filled in my name. This coloring book is mine all mine! Thank you, Elizabeth!


Then I started coloring with the bright pretty crayons that came with the book.


So pretty! Stay in those lines!


Then I had another glass of wine and things started getting a little out of hand.


Oh dear.


Oh, I hope my mom isn't reading this.


Now that just doesn't even make sense!


Hee hee... ok, so this one's kinda funny. Squirt!


Mean old preacher! Who are you to judge true love?


Hello, cowboy! Now that's impressive!


Talking about feelings makes a bunny's dick limp. We've all been there, man.


When the magic is gone, it's gone.


Peep, you're scaring Bunny! He needs space.


It's an age old question. But he's just not that into you.


Holy fucking shit, Peep!! What are you doing? Oh my God! Put down the gun! NO!!!! BUNNYYYYYYYYY! You killed him, you son of a bitch! You fucking killed him!

I've posted several times about the extremely unusual searches that direct poor, confused web surfers to my blog. Instead of answers to their questions of the spiritual, corporal, and material planes, they find shitty posts I wrote that just happen to contain some of the words in their question. I feel it is my duty as a blogger to provide concrete answers to these lost souls.

These are real, honest-to-God searches that directed folks to my blog, question mark and all, and these are my earnest answers.

Question: Is it safe to ejaculate in a butthole?
Search engine: Yahoo
Location: Albuquerque, NM

Answer:
Dear Albuquerque, this depends entirely on the butthole. Is this butthole infected with ass scabies? Then no, it is not safe for you to even put your wang in there to begin with. Is your penis infected with dick scabies? Then no, it is not safe for your partner for you to put your unit in there, much less make their browneye blue with your.yellowed, foaming jisms. The safest way to ejaculate into a butthole is to wear a latex condom. This significantly reduces the risk to you and your partner of transmitting diseases, reduces the risk of ass pregnancy, and reduces the risk of getting yucky poopy on your pee pee.

Question: Shoot off your load
Search engine: Google
Location: Newfoundland

Answer:
Dear Newfoundland, that is not a question. It's more of a command. But I went ahead and did it because I'm a nice guy. By the way, you might want to wipe down the leather seats in your car before you sit down next time.

Question: How tall is Sven Sundgaard?
Search engine: Google
Location: Unknown

Answer:
Dear Unknown, to answer your real question, he's gay.

Question: How can I use my web cam to see what's going on at my house while im away?
Search engine: Google
Location: Phoenix, AZ

Answer:
Dear Phoenix, what is going on at your house that is so all-fired important to see while you're away? Do you suspect your wife is cheating on you? Or that your housekeeper is jilling off to your computer background photo of a shirtless Johnny Weissmuller? Maybe you can use that web cam to find out what happened to the missing apostrophe in your contraction. Go to download.com. You'll find a shitload of web cam monitoring programs that can accidentally email your mom photos of you taking a dump while using your laptop.

Question: What is Frankensteining, Meth.
Search engine: Google
Location: Vancouver, BC

Answer:
Dear Vancouver, that's when meth heads stitch together a bunch of vaginas to make a big super vernanner! Or something.

Question: What is the right age to introduce musk mellon to kids?
Search engine: Google
Location: Unknown

Answer:
Dear Unknown, it really depends. How long have you been seeing this musk mellon? Just a few weeks? Then hold off. No sense letting your kids get attached to it if you're just going to get bored with it and kick it to the curb soon. Are you more serious? Talking about moving in together? Then by all means introduce the musk mellon to the kids. But don't let them eat it EVER. That shit comes on the lowest end fruit platters, and I refuse to eat it.

Question: An online dating website for 12 year old kids
Search engine: Google
Location: Brooklyn, NY

Answer:
Ok, technically not a question, but you have me intrigued and concerned. Are you a 12 year old kid looking to date other 12 year olds? Awwww.... that is so precious! I hope you find the right special 6th grader just for you, but no, I'm pretty sure there aren't any websites like that. Or are you some creepy sexual predator looking to score some hot 12 year old tail? If so, you disgust me. I just mailed you an AIDS-covered turd. And if you are a parent trying to find a dating website for your 12 year old, stop it. Your kid's going to end up as a 40 year old virgin living in your basement when you're 70. I just mailed you a turd, hold the AIDS.

Question: how do they keep the mcdonalds fruit and walnut salad fresh
Search engine: Google
Location: Suwanee, GA

Answer:
Dear Suwanee, by never actually taking it out of the cooler when you order it.

Question: Oatmeal changes color of my bowels
Search engine: Google
Location: Birdsboro, PA

Answer:
Dear Birdsboro, again, not a question, but I feel compelled to ask my own questions. So oatmeal changes the color of your actual bowels? How did you come to realize this? Did you look up there with one of those little mirrors that dentists use? Or did you have a close friend (and I mean VERY close friend) look up there with a powerful flashlight? Oh! I'll bet you bought one of those fancy new tiny digital cameras, shoved it up there, and snapped a few wallet-sized keepers! And what color is it? Are we talking a mildly inflamed red? A bruised purple? Or some crazy pastel green or yellow? It's like a reverse Easter egg up there!

Question: puppets that eat jizz
Search engine: Google
Location: Petaluma, CA

Answer:
[stunned silence] ... Ummmm... I think I'm done answering questions now.

I think the cans in the vending machine at work sat underneath a blue haze of exhaust from a Kawasaki dirt bike for a few hours. My coworkers and I noticed yesterday that no matter what you get out of the machine, it smells like two stroke engine exhaust or maybe benzine (or perhaps benzene -- I'm not sure what either one smells like). At first I thought it was coming from the Diet Pepsi inside my can and chucked it after a couple swigs for fear terrorists had adulterated our nation's soft drink supply with nonpolar solvents. But I realized it's just the can itself that stinks, so I'm drinking my juice in the hood from my dinosaur cup. I even washed it beforehand. Sanitary!

"I feel the pain of everyone, then I feel nothing (except thirst for smelly Pepsi)"

One thing you may not know about me is that I enjoy cooking. One of my specialty dishes is seafood lasagna (or "lasagne" as I see some people curiously spell it). This dish has won me many friends, scored me lots of hot tail (even more than the 10 hours I drove a PT Cruiser), and won me a couple of honor-only prizes ("You win! But you don't get jack shit!") at company potlucks a few years back. So without further jawjacking, I give to you, my loyal readers, the current incarnation of my precious and ever-evolving recipe for seafood lasagna...

You'll need:
-A 12" x 8" x 3" baking dish (or a similar size)
-A 1 lb package of no-boil (aka "oven ready") lasagna noodles
-A 16 oz jar of garlic alfredo pasta sauce
-2 lbs of ricotta cheese (two 15 oz tubs are close enough), drained (you may also substitute fat free ricotta)
-2 eggs (you may also substitute a half cup of egg whites, Egg Beaters, or a similar product)
-1/4 cup fresh parsley, finely chopped (you may also substitute dried parsley, but fresh is so much better!)
-1 lb fresh mozzarella (you may substitute shredded reduced fat mozzarella, but c'mon!)
-4 oz shaved parmesan cheese (you may substitute shredded or powdered, but I'll find you and murder you with a car antenna if you do)
-8 oz shaved asiago cheese (again, you may substitute shredded or powdered, but I swear to Christ you'll get your children's severed hands and ears in the mail the next day)
-1 lb crab or lobster meat (given how expensive crab or lobster meat are, I will forgive you if you use imitation crab or lobster, as I usually do so myself, but I still have to burn your buttocks with lye)
-A 7 oz package of frozen, precooked salad shrimp (or similar size package)
-A 7 oz(???) package of fresh scallops (frozen scallops are permissible, and I won't even pinch your dog's nose with a gator clip... this time)

Directions:
-In a large mixing bowl, combine ricotta, eggs, parsley, and half (2 oz) of the parmesan. Mix well and set aside (preferably still in the bowl -- don't dump it on the floor or hide it in a heating duct)

-Spread 2 Tbsp pasta sauce on the bottom of the baking dish. Arrange lasagna noodles to cover the bottom (slight overlap or small gaps between the noodles is fine, or should I call you Perfecto McAnal?)

-Spread 1/2 cup of the cheese mixture from your bowl (God damn it, you put it in the heading duct, didn't you!) on top of the noodles. Then crumble up about half of the crab or lobster meat (imitation or otherwise), and evenly distribute it. Do the same with about half of the salad shrimp and half of the scallops, then evenly space moderately broken or cut up hunks of about a quarter of the fresh mozarella (*sigh* or the shredded stuff) and drizzle a 1/4 cup of the pasta sauce over all of it and sprinkle about a third of the asiago onto it.

-Place another layer of the lasagna noodles over all that good crap, and repeat the layering of cheese mixture, crab/lobster, etc.

-On the last layer of noodles, top with the remaining sauce, mozzarella, parmesan, and asiago.

-Cover pan with foil, poking some holes in the foil with a fork, bake in a preheated oven at 350 degrees F for 60 minutes. Eat it and spooge all over yourself with glee. Try not to get said spooge in the lasagna. The meal would be ruined.

Fucking shit! I just picked up my car from the dealership. I was expecting a bill of a little over $500, but it was over a fucking grand! I double checked the invoice, and sure as shit, it all added up. I took it in for the 60,000 mile service and to take the winter tires off on Friday morning and was informed that I needed new brake pads, etc. This was not surprising, as I've had the car for exactly 5 years (as of today, in fact -- happy anniversary *ball squeeze*). Obviously I'm not happy about paying $1000, but I'm actually not pissed at the dealership. When the guy called me about the brakes Friday, I was trying to get shit done at work and didn't pay much attention. The number I thought I heard would have been suspiciously low even at the most cut rate auto mechanic for that kind of brake work. I'm sure he was quoting me for the front and rear brakes separately. Regardless, fuck!!! And in continued search for the bright side (very uncharacteristically so), the good news is that I can afford this because I got an unexpectedly large tax refund when I originally thought I'd have to have to pay in. The bad news is that I was hoping to use that money to do some travel this summer. Eh, I might still be able to afford Denver.

Oh, and I took a Pepsi from the complimentary fridge in the waiting area before I left the dealership. I wasn't waiting, but fuckers can give me a Pepsi for $1000. I should have taken some cookies, too, but I wasn't hungry.

Third grade was a big year for me. I drove a school bus, got hit by a car, and and had my balls sliced open. Literally. One gray, cloudy day, I was playing with toy cars during noon recess with Kenny, the son of the owner of our little town's only remaining grocery store, when I felt a pain in one of my testicles. Was I having a special, tingly feeling about Kenny? No, it was definitely pain. Sharp, throbbing ball pain. At first, I didn't think much of it. Maybe I'd mildly chung-kinged my seeds while rolling around on the hard ground. The pain soon subsided, and I returned my focus to perfectly timing my "VRRROOOOOOM!" and "SCREEEEEECH!" noises to the movement of the tiny diecast cars.

Throughout that afternoon, the pain in my nutsack rose and ebbed. One minute, I felt fine, and the next minute, I felt like I'd been thwacked in the groin with a length of Hot Wheel track. Each time the pain returned, it was more intense and longer in duration. By the bus dropped us off at home, the pain was intensely sharp, relieved only by brief periods of dull aching. I informed my mom, a registered nurse, of my dilemma. She was concerned enough that she called to make an appointment with our family doctor for the following morning.

Morning wasn't going to come fast enough. By the time 7 pm came around, the pain in my man sack was searing hot and relentless. My testicle had swollen to twice its normal size, and I was in absolute agony. Mom was used to medical emergencies, but when your firstborn son is rolling around on the floor screaming and flopping around a grotesquely swollen elephant man testicle, you're probably going to have a hard time keeping your cool (my brother and dad probably just wished I'd shut the hell up so they could watch Who's the Boss or whatever was on that night. But Mom kept it together and called the hospital. They connected her to our doctor, and he advised putting an ice bag on my nut bag and bringing me into the emegency room ASAP. Done and done!

I don't care how modest of a person you are, when your genitals are in searing pain, swollen, and red, you don't even wait for the doctor to tell you to drop trou. You practically take your pants off in the ER waiting room and slap your business on the counter next to the insurance forms. "Look at this shit! This is not right! FIX IT!!" Fortunately that was not necessary. The doctor assessed the problem in the privacy of an exam room and soon concluded this was beyond what our little hospital was equipped to deal with. I was given some painkillers and was told to continue with the ice treatment. He called to make an appointment with a specialist in Grand Forks, a little more than a 2 hour drive from our farm, for the next day.

I slept fitfully that night. The pain meds helped, but it's hard to find a comfortable position to sleep in when there's a plastic bag full of ice cubes strapped to your balls. By the time we got to the clinic in Grand Forks, the swelling had gone down, and the dose of pain pills I took that morning were wearing off. The doctor, a soft-spoken, kindly gentleman of Asian descent, rolled my tender testicle around in his hands like he was examining a kiwifruit for bruises. I winced and shed a few tears, but I didn't want to look like a bitch in front of this doctor (which is funny considering he was freely manhandling my tackle in its entirety) , so I stifled my sobs and whimpers until he wasn't looking.

I don't recall how the news was delivered to me, whether it was from the doctor himself or my parents after meeting with him privately, but it put my heart into my throat. I had a testicular torsion, also known as a strangulated testicle, which means that my testicle had become rotated inside the scrotum, cutting off proper blood flow. If left untreated, it could mean losing the testicle entirely. I would have to have emergency surgery that very day if I didn't want to be known as Jimmy Half Sack. At the tender age of 8, I had never had any sort of surgery before, so the fear of the unknown and my active imagination evoked images of being poked with needles the size of traffic cones and having my nuts torn open with a dull, rusty hacksaw. I was terrified.

We had a bit of time before I had to check in at the hospital, and my parents tried to reassure me. But short of knocking me out with an ether rag, there's nothing they could of said or done to calm me. Since I was having surgery, I wasn't allowed to eat anything for lunch, but it didn't matter. My stomach bounced around like a Florida-bound inflatable raft from Cuba. If I had eaten anything, I probably would have thrown it up anyway.

We checked in at the hospital, and I was taken to my room where I put on the stereotypical ass-baring hospital gown and crawled into bed. I tried in vain to nap as my parents fidgeted and watched tv. It was in those moments of relative calm that my focus returned to the shooting, burning pain in my testicle. I had been so overcome with fear of the cloudy notion of surgery itself that I had completely forgotten about why I had to have it. Right, the ball thing.

Finally they came to put me on a gurney and wheel me to the operating room. A man's voice said, "Jeremy, you're going to feel a little sting in your arm when we put the needle in." Voices, getting fainter, heavy eyelids, fading, blackness. The next thing I knew, I awoke in a haze and was immediately hit with horrible waves of nausea -- I would later find out this was a reaction to the anesthesia. I felt like bed was adrift in choppy waters off of Nantucket. It was unbearable, but I fell asleep again and next awoke back in my room. The nausea was still there, but had subsided a little. This time, however, I noticed my throat was raw. Since I had eaten breakfast that morning, unaware that I would end up having to have surgery, they had to put a tube down my throat to drain my stomach contents before surgery. All of that pain didn't seem worth a small bowl of Rice Krispies and cup of hot chocolate. I should have gone for the tall stack at IHOP or eaten a sundae topped with a pizza.

The next day, the doctor came in to check on my condition and the incision. You would have thought that the sight of my stitched-up, blood-encrusted, purple, mottled, and swollen testicle would be too much for me handle, but my curiosity as too overpowering not to look. Everything was fine, and I'd be able to go home in a couple more days or so.

Up until that afternoon, I'd had the room to myself. But then they wheeled in another kid who would be my roomie until I was released. I don't remember much about him other than that he was kind of a tubby kid with smelly, lingering farts, and he whined constantly whenever the nurses tried to do their jobs. Putting in an IV needle resulted in drama worthy of General Hospital. "Ow!! Oh!! I think you hit a nerve! I'm paralyzed. PARALYZED!!!" The best part was him rolling around and wildly flailing his arms and legs to put emphasis on the word "paralyzed." Somebody get this kid a medical dictionary and some matches.

Thankfully the stitches they used were the kind that would fall out on their own, and I would not have to go through the added torture of having threads snipped and pulled from my man business later on. I healed nicely, and I'm happy to report that not only are both of my testicles in completely operational order to this day, I have had a third testicle added as good measure (the involuntary donor was a guy who picked the wrong night to fall asleep on a bench in Loring Park). Think of it like an extra bottle of iodine in a first aid kit. Except it's an extra testicle, and the first aid kit is in my pants. Who needs first aid, ladies?

Unfortunately we didn't start taking photos until later in the evening when boozier heads prevailed, so Mary isn't in any of these, though Elizabeth and her beau (who we all agreed seems like a really nice guy) made into a shot or two you can see over at Hedy's blog. We'll have to do it again when it isn't raining constantly and we can move the party out to the fire pit in the back yard.

WARNING: There is a photo of a rather NSFW sculpture farther down. Don't say I didn't tip you off. Heh... tip (you'll see what I mean).


Hedy makes eyes for the camera.


Hedy snaps Lesley in repose.


Alie demonstrates how she'd like boys to make better use of their tongues.


Hedy cleans up her spilled beer. I was pissed because the beer dissolved the Jesus-shaped tomato soup stain in my carpet that I was going to cut out and sell on Ebay.


Alie plays with my remote controlled lighting...


...and gives my lighting remote more action than its seen in the 7 years I've owned it.


Lesley learns the wonders of the most comfortable couch ever manufactured.


"No, Jeremy! Counterclockwise like THIS!!"


Probably reaching for a beer.


Mugging with Lesley's disturbing wang and 'gina sculpture (I've been bugging her to see the infamous thing since we first met!)


Hedy gets a hold of my camera.


Alie shows us the gateway to Zion.


Drink up, Lesley!


You too, Hedy.


Give me a 'C'!


Alie shows the ladies how to get their yoga groove on.


Work it!


"I think when you stretched me, I farted a little."


"I said more hip! MORE HIP!"


Alie loves to do it downward dog style.


I'm drunk! Tee hee!


The aftermath...

Unnggghh... It's a little after 2 pm, and I just woke up. The bad movie fest with the Blogger Mafia was a lot of fun, and I swear I will post photos by late this afternoon or early tonight. Right now I'm just zonked and need some food in my system. People slowly trickled out as they sobered up. First Mary left (though she only had one drink and just needed to get to bed). Then Elizabeth and her new guy Andrew headed out. Hedy left around 3 or 3:30 am, and Lesley left around 4 or 4:30. Alie had planned on staying anyway (I let everyone know beforehand that I had more than enough room in my house for people to crash if they were too boozed up to drive), so we kept a-drinkin'. In fact, at 5 am, we were outside drunkenly trying to light a fire with damp tree branches in my back yard fire pit. Yeah, that didn't work out so well. It was about 6 when we conked out. I think she left around 11 or so.

It wasn't a rager, but it was a hell of a good time. Thanks for coming down to Eagan, everyone! Yes, photos soon. I already told you. Keep it holstered, shooter.