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!