I spent most of the evening laying on the couch, drifting in and out of deep sleep as I pretended to watch tv and fix my stutterfucked laptop, all while I should have been working out, mowing my lawn, and working on the computer I promised my brother I would fix 3 weeks ago. I'd start watching a show on my Tivo, get through about 10 minutes of it, click a few things on my laptop, then find myself waking up with a start with the playback of the program long over and my laptop in hibernation mode. I was tired, crabby, and antisocial enough that I was considering bailing on another cookout scheduled for tomorrow night. This will be the third weekend in a row of cookouts. Am I complaining? Hell, no! This is what this time of year is all about, but I've been partying pretty hard at those things. In fact, I eagerly volunteered to be the designated driver tomorrow night. It's one thing to stay out until 3 or 4 in the morning, but it's quite another to factor a hangover into your recovery time. Not that I get pisspants drunk every time I go out. It's just that these cookouts, rife with good friends, delightfully obnoxious guffaws, and ribald tales, lower my defenses. My brain says, "Drink up, Jeremy! You're amongst friends. They will still love you and respect you tomorrow even if you make a drunktarded fool of yourself tonight." So I obey the little drinking voice in my head, which turns into a thundering tympani in the morning. But not this time! I'm going to go, enjoy watching the stumbling drunks with a smug sense of superiority, then go home and marvel in how rigid my erection is when I don't have whiskey dick.

Oh, and remember my lolcats the other day? Check out the ongoing "thredz" over at MNspeak for more lol-icking fun. Comedy quicksand my ass, Bo. *grin*

It is rather disturbing to walk into a restroom, immediately hear a loud and distinct SPLASH in one of the toilet bowls, then realize you are the only person in the room. I turned heel and walked to a bathroom on the other side of the building. Even I'm not that curious.

Lifetime of solitude and tearful masturbation assured

Washington -- The media horde swarmed the stage as the 2007 Scripps National Spelling Bee kicked off this morning. As each misspelling echoed from the stage, the hopes and dreams of yet another child were dashed against the rocks amidst waves of snorts and laughter. The crowd, unforgiving as always, heckled 12 year old Dustin Hellmann from Torrence, California as he stumbled over "camaraderie." The crowd roared with approval as a gruff male voice called out, "Nice work, virgin! I've got one for you -- Y-O-U-S-U-C-K!" Hellmann then broke into tears and ran from the stage. An unidentified organizer for the event laughed and remarked to a companion, "If you can't take the crowd, you shouldn't dance with Scripps, bitch!"

Check back for frequent updates on disqualifications and backstage suicides, live from the bee!

Karah and Alie

Two weekends in a row of late night partying will probably take its toll, but it was worth it. Granted, I'm feeling much better after a few hours of beers than I did after 12 hours of drinking a steadily increasing quantity of vodka last weekend at my party. Plus I actually slept in yesterday and today. If I can get some sleep tonight, I don't think I'll be quite the zombie I was all last week. Stupid insomnia.

Last night was a little shin-diggity thrown by Amber, Rich, and Jen. It was a hell of a good time, and for the second weekend in row, the weather cooperated with suspiciously perfect conditions for sitting out by a fire and having a few (many) beers on a cool spring evening. This was the unofficial grand opening of summer, 2007. Welcome, shoppers.

Mary volunteered unprompted to act as our designated driver yet again. This despite having driven up yesterday from a business/family trip down in Kansas City. She called to inform me that she wouldn't show up until later in the evening but that we should definitely count on her being our ride home. I owe her dinner big time. And a few evenings of designated driving for her.

I loaded up my wee little RSX to the brim with two full coolers of beer left over from last weekend, everything from Miller Lite, Summit Pale, Smithwick's, Blue Moon, and Stella, threw in a couple packs of hot dogs, then stopped at Byerly's to pick up a cake on my way to pick up Hedy. She was making Mary's pasta salad recipe, which is fantastic. Garlic, basil, olive oil, grape tomatoes, and fresh mozzarella. How can you go wrong? In any case, after I left Byerly's, I noticed my car's A/C was no longer blowing cold air. It still isn't working as of today, so I'll have to call and make an appointment to get it fixed. Perhaps my refrigerant needs to be recharged (I bought the car new a little over 5 years ago -- is that typical for a recharge?).

Hedy was in the middle of making the salad when I arrived, so I helped her a little and acted as her official taster, and incorrectly advised her to be conservative with the mozzarella. The recipe called for a half pound, but she had a whole pound. "Do you think I should put it all in there?" she asked. I thought maybe a little bit more than the half pound would be good, but all of it might be too much. Mary later informed me that my ass was DEAD WRONG and told Hedy never to trust my advise about any topic ever again, even if it's about poop or software development.

With the salad mixed to amazing deliciousness but apparently not quite to Mary's cheese ratio standards (I failed you, Mary and Hedy), we hopped in the car to head over to Alie's. Since my back car seats were folded down to accommodate the gigantic grocery-style coolers, we would have to load everything into Alie's big Oldsmobile to fit all of the stuff and asses. We got slightly lost ever so briefly, but we arrived just as the party was starting. Honestly I think the highlight of the evening was finally getting to meet the ladies Bausch and their significant others. Karah, Kevin, Chelsea, and Matt, seemed equally thrilled to meet everyone there, as well. But damned if I have a photo of them. My camera didn't come out until later in the evening after they'd left unfortunately.

Alie and I toast how jealous everyone should be of how great our asses look tonight. Good ass nights all around.


Hey, Hedy, pull my finger!

Rich and Jen fo-evs.


Uh... Abysmal Chick, when you do that fake hands around your shoulders making out thing, you're supposed to face AWAY from everyone.


Elizabeth and Andy fo-shizz.


Mary smiles because she knows she won't have a hangover tomorrow.


Who *IS* this guy in the orange shirt?


As the temps dropped, the fire became the focal point of the party.


But then shit got ugly when Rich demanded Amber's rent a few days early.

Amber: "Rich, it's not due until Friday!"
Rich: "You pay now!!! I want my money! Where muh money, man? Where muh money?"
Amber: "Dude! Seriously, what is your deal?"
Rich: "You pay up, or I chop up your dresser and toss it into the fire."
Amber: "HA! I'd like to see that, buddy boy!"


The fumes! Look out for the fumes!!!


Sure, a lot of new friendships are formed and good friendships become tighter at these parties, but at the end of the day, you show up to be seen with the beautiful people...

Jeremy: "I just peed on the garage siding!"
Abysmal Chick: "I know, dude. I was standing about a foot from you and caught the splashback. Ass."


Alie: "I smoke because it makes me look like a movie star!"


AC: "I saw Jeremy's junk when he peed on the garage. See my little finger? It was that long and just as crooked. I'm scarred for life."


Rich: "I think I inhaled a cloud of burning varnish from Amber's dresser."


The fumes spread to Elizabeth and Andy.


Hedy just kicked me in the groin for giving her bad salad advise.


Jeremy: "Jen, you -- hic -- you know what your problem is? You love too much."
Jen: "Hold onto that thought. I gotta fart."


I'm a contemplative drinker.


Just when it appeared that Jen would be excluded from Hedy and Alie's little Joy Luck Club...


...they brought her into the fold. She won't be a full-fledged member until she kills someone though. Then she gets to wear a pink hat.


Burgers and wieners were served at the party.




Drink up little fella. We need you to get big and strong for the state fair. Blue ribbon, here we come!

Yesterday Alie emailed a link to these meme cats (aka lolcats). These little bastards have been taking the intro-webz by storm. They're a combination of sickening cuteness mixed with gut-busting non sequitur hilarity. I thought I would try my hand at a few, but I don't think they turned out as well as some of the others I've seen. But you has enjoyment?

Part of me wants my family to sit for a painting now, but how could we compete with this?

"I want to get fingered in the shitty shack!"
          -anonymous

Every day on the way back from lunch, we drive by a dilapidated shack on a vacant lot for sale. It has been dubbed the rape shack. Why did they leave this shack there, how many dead hookers are in it, and how do they expect to sell this shitty lot with an even shittier shack peeking above the overgrown bushes and brush? With one of us moving on to another group next week, we decided today was the day to satisfy our curiosities about this eyesore. After driving up a winding dirt path with low hanging branches scraping along the vehicle, we found a hidden cove strewn with mattresses, car parts, and random bathroom fixtures. In other words, it was utterly fantastic.

The rape shack has enough mattresses for a twenty man gang bang!


Girl, you play your cards right, and I'll give you The Treatment.


Poor fucker probably stepped on a rivet while popping one off on a dog's back.


Everything you need is at the rape shack. You want to go Abner Louima on some dude's can? We got you covered!

I just peed a little.

It came up in a recent post here, but I recently realized that I have never pooped in Canada. Now for our friends to the north, don't take that as me wanting to crap on your fair land. It's just that you've never really visited a place until you've pooped there. Having grown up just 50 miles from the border, I remember many summer trips to Rock Lake in southern Manitoba and an excursion to Riding Mountain National Park when my mom was still pregnant with my brother. But I never pooped there. At Rock Lake, we stayed with a family friend in her cabin. The only toilet available was the outhouse. At that age, I had pooping issues (as opposed to the flagrant but completely different set of pooping issues I have in my adult life) and retained it to avoid touching my bottom to a yucky outhouse seat amidst spiders and creepy crawlies. So, Canada, I think it's high time I visited you and lovingly plugged a toilet or two. Whaddya say? I'll even bring my own plunger (it's collapsible for travel).

UPDATE: I'm serious about my trip. My friend Mary and I talked about flying up to Toronto over Labor Day weekend. For more fun discussion on this topic, go to MNspeak.

UPDATE #2: Alas, a technical glitch at MNspeak apparently ate that entire hilarious thread (fuck!!). They say they will restore it, but does society really want it back? You be the judge.

Ability to wear white or cream colored capris pants month round gained

The FDA has approved Lybrel, a birth control pill from Wyeth that stops menstruation indefinitely. Other pills released in recent years reduce the number of periods a woman has in a year or reduces the duration of periods, but Lybrel is the first drug approved to stop them entirely.

Recent surveys conducted by drug manufacturers and marketing firms indicate that approximately half of women say they would prefer to skip their periods entirely, even given the option of reduced frequency or duration. Women were also asked if they would prefer menstrual bleeding to be replaced with slow, steady Tropical Skittle leakage, but only 4% of women favored that option.

Not all women are enthused about this breakthrough birth control option, however. Paula S. Derry, a health psychologist from Baltimore expressed concerns over the unknown long-term effects of menstrual suppression both physically and emotionally. Meanwhile, Diana Kramer, an office manager in Tulsa, Oklahoma, had other worries. "I work 50 to 60 hours a week, come home to an emotionally unavailable husband and a house in shambles from 3 hyperactive kids. Sure, my period isn't pleasant. I get moody, sometimes bloated and cramped up, but that's the only time I ever feel comfortable telling my jerkass husband and bratty kids exactly what I think of them. It's also the only time anything ever gets done around here. They're too afraid of me to disobey. I storm into the house and yell, 'Kids, get this motherfucking house cleaned up before I flick pussy blood at your head, god damn it! And Gerald, hang up that fucking phone call with your overbearing mother, go buy me some flowers, make me dinner, and start showing me that you care, or so help me, I will rip off your balls and feed them to the dog!' You just can't argue with results."

Hi Jeremy,

This is Dave ------ from ---------.com. I wanted to drop you a quick email and let you know about our website - because I thought “maybe” your readers would be interested in it?

Hi, Dave! Thank you so much for emailing me. I can't wait to hear how my readers could possibly (maybe) could be interested in your website. Oh boy! I'll bet it's some really funny or sick shit, dude.

---------.com has 25k cabins/lake lots for sale throughout MN & WI & 850 cabin rentals available. We are based in Richfield – and we are by far the largest directory for this kind of stuff (and our site is very easy to use).

Not everyone can afford to buy a lake home, but just about anyone with a job can afford a one-week vacation at “the lake.” Anyway, I hope you will take a look – and if you think your readers would be interested in hearing about us – please feel free to let them know!

If you have any questions – please give me a call or shoot me an email.

Thanks very much!

Dave ------
612-xxx-xxxx
dave-@---------.com
www.---------.com

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"life's better at the lake"


Uh... huh. So you got me all excited over nothing. You're just some dicklick who randomly emailed me a form letter trying to get me to post a link to his website selling lake cabins and time shares in Minnesota and Wisconsin. From a glance at my traffic logs, apparently you went to the Minnesota blog index at City Pages and just clicked your way down the list. Is the real estate market really that bad that you need to resort to blindly emailing blog owners in the hopes that one of them will get excited enough to contrive a phony post to sell your shitty cabins? Or am I wrong and you actually carefully read my blog and decided that lovers and casual perusers of poop and vagina talk will go stark raving ape spank over buying a lake cabin. Well, the joke is on you, Dave. Most people who think I'm funny don't even have a high school diploma, think Jeff Foxworthy is a genius, and can't afford a bus pass, much less a lake cabin. Work your sales magic on that demographic, cowboy.

But at least your messed up ASCII picture of a cabin warmed my heart. I sure wish I owned a lake lot.

Every once in a great while when I'm out for a run, some smartass will honk his horn at me or shout nonsense as they zoom past. "Hey, way to run, douchebag..." or "WOOOO! Muthahfuckaaaaaaaahhhhhh..." Sometimes it startles me and briefly breaks my concentration, but I usually shake it off and continue on my way without putting much more thought into it. Typically they're teenage punks hiding anonymously behind the wheel, secure in the knowledge they were already a block down the road before I could look up to so much as determine the make and model of their car, much less see their faces. One warm summer day a few years ago, I was jogging along the sidewalk, when an older sedan coming down the street from the opposite direction made a left turn onto the street that I was approaching. The driver, a young man in his late teens or early twenties, looked me square in the eye, raised his middle finger toward me, and kept it defiantly extended as he sloowwwly rounded the corner. He didn't hide behind a mask or escape velocity, but laid it all on the line right then and there as if to say, "Hey, guy running down the street. I don't like the cut of your jib. Up yours! Oh yeah. That's right. I'm giving you the finger. I don't have a reason, and I don't have to. I just don't like you. You see my face, see my car, and could even write down my license plate number if you want to be a bitch about it, but I don't care. Fuck youuuuuuuuuuuuuu..." So years later, I still salute you and your gigantic balls, random slow car driving finger giving guy. With all of my fingers, not just one.

Last week was a big week for the blogger mafia (incidentally, I feel silly calling our group that, but the douche quotient is mitigated somewhat by the fact that we didn't give ourselves that name -- I repeat, somewhat). Wednesday was the last night of musical bingo, at least for the time being. Rheo, our bingo master of ceremonies, is out of town for a couple of months. As avid and loyal patrons of the hallowed host of bingo Wednesdays, we all agreed that we wouldn't abandon our weekly gathering there. In fact, we'll take advantage of warm summer evenings and actually congregate (get ready) OUTSIDE. Except now instead of going home reeking of the ghost of fried cheese past, we'll reek of outdoor aerated cigarette smoke. Jubilation! In addition, I had a little outdoor cookout toodleoo for Lesley in honor of her Peru trip. I wanted her to have one last kick ass bit Minnesota in her belly before pooping poison berries and fire ants in the jungle for two weeks. Plus I was overdue in general for hosting a cookout. Alas, in my rush to organize the affair somewhat last minute, I'm embarrassed to say that I neglected to invite a few people who I would have liked to have been there, some of whom are reading this post right now and wondering why they weren't invited. Because I'm an asshole, that's why. I apologize.

But enough apologizing. Let's get to the bingo pics.

Amber leans over to cut one, and Lesley pretends like nothing happened because we all know girls don't fart (between Alie and me there is at least one fart-related bingo caption every week).


Amber, even though it's not on the card, you're looking for "Hungry Like the Wolf."


Lesley has perfected flipping the "pig bird."


Apparently I'm trying to saw one of my fingers off. It was supposed to be a goodbye gift for Rheo, but then I realized he already has one of my toes.


Lesley hides demurely behind a delicate napkin. Once she receives word from her father that the dowry is paid in full by the Sultan of Brunei, she will emerge for the wedding.


I can't tell if the food was going in or coming back out.


"Dear LiveJournal, today a cute boy winked at me in the Tastee Freez parking lot. All I could think to do was squeeze one of the zits on his chin. He rode away on his Huffy and never looked back. I'm so embarrassed I could DIE!"


Lesley Em


Lesley Em's fans throw some sweet white chick gang signs.


And then there was the cookout on Saturday. Unfortunately a lot of the photos I took in my inebriated state could just as well been of a black panther swimming in an ink well, so not everyone at the shindig will be shown clearly. Later, I wisely turned the camera over to Hedy.

Lesley and Amber came a little early to help me set up, and I thanked them both profusely with my words. But their big payoff came later when I revealed that I would be serving NASCAR burgers! That's right! No cookout is complete without NASCAR brand frozen burger patties. Each package comes with a special shaker of NASCAR brand burger seasoning (I'm not making this up). The burgers were delicious, but none of us trusted the seasoning. It's probably flecks of flaking, sunburned neck skin and garlicy mullet dandruff.


The weather was perfect. Forecast scattered thunderstorms never materialized. The daylight hours were warm and sunny, and the evening hours were cool, but not too cool. Perfect for lighting up the old fire pit.


I do believe this is the first photo of my brother and I as adults that I've ever posted here. Look at him. What a tool. A chiseled, handsome, successful tool. God damn him.


Loren has taken to buying shirt and hat combos from General Mills. Here he sports the latest from the Lucky Charms line. Unfortunately pants don't come with the combo. Fortunately the bottom of the photo cuts off just in the nick of time.


Kendra, Andy, Elizabeth, and Hedy warm up by the fire.


Bless her heart, Hedy showed up despite being hung over. But this is exactly how she sat all night.

Jeremy: "Hedy, want a burger?"

Hedy: "Shut uhhhp!! My head hurts!!"

Jeremy: "Got it. One hot dog coming right up!"

(ok, so she was in a good mood and took most of these photos with my camera while I drunkenly teetered in and out of my chair, but buy into my illusion, dammit!!)


Glowing white legs reflect the fire.


Loren offered Mary a sip of his screwdriver, but she misunderstood and punched him in the throat.


Amber: "Should we show these fuckers how we drink Twin Cities style, Jeremy?"

Jeremy: [glug] "What's that, Amber?"


Sandra is in hysterics as Alie burps the alphabet.


Amber uses Herbal Essences, and it shows.


The wind was a fierce mistress that cool May evening. Once the fire spread to Mrs O'Leary's cow, we knew life would never been the same.


Abysmal Chick and Sandra smile pretty for the camera.


Oops! Alie takes a little tumble. I'd laugh at her, but it's only by providence that the camera didn't capture my drunk ass doing the same fucking thing.


And if we zoom in on that shot a little closer, we see that Sandra has some fine, fine taste in outerwear. Available now in the afterglide crapeteria! Please buy something. Daddy has a coke habit to feed.


Amber had the ingenious idea to cook her hot dog over the open flame camp style. I was totally jeals.


Very funny with your camera angles, Hedy. Har de har. Grow up.


I summon the Devil from the flames so he can lick Amber's wiener.


Fuck it. I'll lick it instead. Chompin' down like he's been there before, folks. Hey-ohhhh!


Elizabeth: "Oh God, oh God, oh God! Anyone have another cigarette? This one is about a quarter of the way done, and I'm going to need another right god damn now!"


When wieners appear over her head, Amber hardly bats an eye anymore.


Hedy called these next few photos "Mr and Mrs Elizabeth: A Study in Sickenly Romantic Smoking"










Tiny Sandra tries to puff on Alie's giant cigarette.


Alie opens her mouth, and the trapped spirits of a thousand men make their escape. Sandra smiles knowingly and thinks, "That's why I keep my mouth shut, sister."


One of these chairs is not like the other.


Sandra's kickin' it Old Style.


The aftermath inside didn't compare to the fucksplosion in my back porch (don't even say it, Alie!).


Booze! Get your booze here!


To everyone who came, thanks for making it a raucous good time and for putting up with my foolish drunkardry. And when I left Kelly and Loren, who crashed for a while to sober up, my living room was spotless. When I got up from bed later to go to the bathroom, my coffee table was covered edge to edge in a quarter inch of water, and there were potato chips all over my couch and floor. I can't leave those methed up monkeys alone for 2 seconds! But no harm, no foul. I dried off the coffee table, and the potato chips will just rot away over time. No sense bending over to pick them up.

Pics to come later, but here is a little video from Saturday at my place.

I admit it. I was too hungover today to write witty comments about photos from Bingo or last night's par-tay at my crib. I drank a lot of beer and a lot of vodka. I think Kelly almost murdered Loren in my living room, too. But details are hazy. The photos and video should help my recollection. In the meantime, enjoy this video of Lesley and I coyly playing with an olive together. It is so sexual that you will not be able to stand it! Alie is heard in the background expressing her disgust and Amber is laughing nervously because she can't handle the sensuality radiating from this olive.

I'll post photos Monday (I was going to today, but I'm too hungover to dick around with it) of the final musical bingo night. Don't worry, we're still getting together every Wednesday, but bingo's on hiatus for a couple months while Rheo is working another gig in Asslanta. There will also be pics of an event tomorrow night, but for now I'm spent. I've been cleaning my house for hours and hours. Just a few more things left, but I'm leaving it for tomorrow. Now for the sleeping.

The only time murder ever makes sense is when some old lady leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle at SuperTarget and wanders over to the next aisle without it, forcing you to stop, move her fucking cart out of the way, roll your cart past, then turn around to find her and force the entire contents of a 3 pound bag of store brand Honey Smacks down her throat until she aspirates puffed wheat particulate, collapses, and suffocates. As you secret her body behind the astonishingly dusty cans of organic Wolfgang Puck brand soup, you realize you've just done God's work. Next move: snap the neck of the people who designed the user interfaces for pretty much any touch screen credit card terminal in stores today. Just automatically detect that it's fucking credit card and not a debit card, you piece of shit! Sure, I know I need to press my succulent digit to the little circle labeled "Credit Card" now, but the 5 senior citizens ahead of me each held up the line because your jazzed up machine could just as well be the weapons panel of a Klingon bird of prey. And now you forced a Star Trek reference out of me. A god damn Star Trek reference. Next thing you know I'll be busting out the Wrath of Khan references, and so help me -- ooh, you tricked me. You sly granny-confusing bastards! Consider your necks double snapped!

Apparently I have attained a reputation amongst my fellow IT coworkers as being able to make any phrase sound dirty through inflection or the addition of unusual context. Today at lunch, one coworker was trying to remember a poorly received joke he had made the day before.

Coworker #1: "God dammit, that's going to bug me all day. I can't remember what I said."

Coworker #2: "I can't remember either. All I know is that it was some sort of shitty homonym."

Coworker #3: "Shitty homonym? That sounds like something Jeremy could turn dirty."

Coworker #2: "You're right. Say it, Jeremy. Make it dirty."

Me: (growling) "I'm gonna bust a shitty homonym in this chick's face!"

Coworker #2: "No, no, no! Just say it."

Me: (slowing my cadence and lowering my voice) "Shiiitty HOMOnym!"

Coworker #2: "That's better."

All: [affirming nods]

Today was my one year anniversary with the company. This past year has flown by in a flash, due in no small part to actually enjoying my work and my coworkers. Sure there are frustrations, tight deadlines, and periodic pains in the ass to deal with, but that's called having a job and working for a living. I feel supremely fortunate to have found this gig. I suppose being so pumped up about it at the moment was helped by the fact that I had my performance review today, and my boss was full of praise. The jist: solid code, crazy solid documentation, and people seem to enjoy working with me. God damn straight. Critiques: I get too wordy in my emails sometimes, and I need to learn to walk away from a project when I run into "writer's block" and cool down. I tend take projects personally. God damn straight there, too. I also got bump in pay. It won't have me living in a penthouse downtown, but it tickled my checkbook in a good way. And no, I'm not buying you a Prius. You haven't even finished the first one I gave you.

What's wrong with me? Lately I feel too mellow. Something's wrong. I have little to complain about in my daily life. I'm bored. I can't survive without something to bitch about. Help! Maybe I should start a feud with the neighbors. I'll buy an elephant and let it crap in their vegetable garden and kiddie pool. I suppose I could save the money and effort and just crap in the garden and pool myself. I have been eating more fiber lately. Or I could spray paint racist slurs on the garage door of the people who live across the street. "Go home [offensive, misspelled slur]!" Their confusion would be profound, since they are already home, I'm not racist, and they are white. Somebody argue with me or give me a blowjob or something.

Normally I'm Johnny Number Five on the spot when it comes to birthday and Mother's Day gifts for Mom, but this year I just couldn't find anything. My brother and I discussed it, and this year we didn't want to get her the same old flowers (ok, sometimes we get her a nice big gift, particularly if we happen to be visiting home around that time). I looked high and low both online and off and couldn't find anything that screamed "Thank you for passing me through your vernanner and not putting a coat hanger through my head." Mother's Day came and went, and I still hadn't found anything. Yesterday I knew I couldn't let a whole week pass without getting her something, so I ordered her some you-know-whats and a pack of Camels. She doesn't smoke, but she'll probably start once she realizes what shitty sons she has.

My name is Jeremy, and I love my mom.

Some of you were and remain my friends, but shove those emails about not buying gas today up your ass along with some walnuts and pistachios, then wedge a rolled up copy of Vogue up there, let it unfurl, and twist it. How much do you want to bet we'll wake up tomorrow and see little to no impact on the price of gas? This same stupid-ass idea has been around for years. Gas out! Don't buy gas on [insert date here]!! SHOW THEM WE MEAN IT! What in the prune stuffed game cock are you talking about? Not buying gas today won't have done shit because you were still be driving around that same gas guzzling Hummer H9 or even your envirofriendly Prius. You're just going to have to buy that much more gas tomorrow or the day after.

So I protest your protest. Today I filled up my car with gas, bought a 5000 gallon tank, then had that filled with jet fuel. I towed the tank from suburb to suburb with my 4 cylinder coupe, having to fill my car with gas about every 5 miles. Between stations, I filled strangers' cars with jet fuel. Not the tanks, but the passenger cabs. This exercise has taught us all a lesson, that I am a dick.

...can be found here. We're models!

A video just for you. I love you like summer raisins, my kittens.

My date Amber and I pose for a traditional pre-prom photoGeek Prom 2007 was a stellar success. We danced, we drank, we laughed, and totally geeked out.

The evening started with a drive with Mary from my digs in Eagan up to NE Minneapolis. Mary is Sally Goto Girl when it comes to being a designated driver, and she volunteered pick up my platonodate Amber (I keep identifying her as a "platonodate" because I want you to know that if you are a single, hot woman, you can date me without fear of Amber scratching your eyes out of your head), her roomie Rich, and his girlfriend Jen. We posed for a few dorky dude-picking-up-prom-date photos and group shots (note that I even brought Amber a corsage!) and headed to St Paul to meet up at Cossetta's with Abysmal Chick and Alie. Hedy would join us later, as she had to pop in at a friend's graduation party and was still in a mild last minute panic trying to find something suitably geeky to wear.

After stuffing ourselves with pasta, we went over to The Liffey for a couple of drinks before walking to the Science Museum. It was geek central! This was a scaled back version of Geek Prom compared to last year, and I think it worked for the best. Last year the dance floor and cash bar were right in the lobby, with different booths and activities spread through a good portion of the museum itself. Since you're dealing with geeks, giving them open space to roam means they will probably avoid congregating and socializing. This year, while there was still a stage for a talent contest and other activities elsewhere in the museum, the dance was in a smaller banquet room, and the cash bar was just outside. I think herding the geeks into a smaller area created more opportunity for social interaction. Unfortunately it also created more opportunity for sexual molestation. More on that in a moment.

For all of the fruitless running around town I did last weekend (ok, not totally fruitless), my outfit turned out way better than I ever could have hoped. After resigning myself to wearing another a geeky t-shirt with yet another bad jacket, same as last year, I found a t-shirt with a built-in battery-powered EQ that actually lights up and reacts to sound. It could not have been more perfect. It worked incredibly well, and one set of batteries lasted through the whole Geek Prom and beyond. I lost count of how many people came up to me wondering how it worked, congratulating me on my awesome shirt, and wanting to yell at my chest. Even one of the guys from the band came over during a break to ask about it. Here is a typical exchange:

Fellow Geek: "Oh my God! I saw your shirt and just wanted to come over and tell you that it rocks! Does it actually react to sound?"

Me: "Sure does! Check this out. [singing] La la la LA LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

FG: "NO WAY!" [yells at my chest] "AUUGGGGGHHHHH!!"

Me: "AUUUUGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

FG: "AUUUUUUHHHHHGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Together: "AAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!"

In a few of those conversations, particularly if it was a woman, as the person leaned in close to yell at my chest, I jokingly pointed to my groin and said, "No, no. The mic is down here!" I stopped making that joke after one apparently intoxicated guy butted in and said, "Down here?" and RUBBED MY FUCKING DICK THROUGH MY PANTS!!! He did not cup. He did not pat. He rubbed. In a vigorous and circular motion. On. My. Fucking. Dick. Quite honestly I didn't know what to do. I was too shocked to be outraged. Then he said something about me having a lot to show off and that I should join him and a few others in the long held tradition of streaking the dance floor later. Still stumped for words, I declined, and motherfucker went in for another rub! This time I physically blocked him and said, "Dude!!!" Yeah, way to lambast him.

Feeling dirty from being molested, I returned to the table to join the others. It wasn't much later that a line of several pale, translucent streakers came bursting from the restroom, circled around the ballroom, and made their way to the dance floor. Not much later, some of the girls came from the dance floor and were complaining their throats and eyes burned a little. Apparently the streakers disobeyed an order by the police to stop, and the cop(s) launched pepper spray at them. In a crowded fucking ballroom. For streaking. Really. My throat felt a little raw, but I had been yelling about my shirt a lot. But Rich, who had been nowhere near the dance floor pepper spray fiasco, complained his throat was irritated, as well. The streakers made it back to the restroom, where the cops blocked the doors so they could get dressed without sneaking away. The guys emerged and as the cops confronted them, the crowd gathered 'round, chanting "FREE THE GEEKS! FREE THE GEEKS!" Coincidentally, we bumped into some of the streakers after the prom and asked them what happened. They were issued citations for indecent exposure and were kicked out of the Science Museum. My guess is that incident will put the kibosh on the streaking tradition. Not that I'm complaining. Who wants to see dangling, hairy geek balls clanging around near their drink?

Close to the end of the evening, the band played a couples only dance, and Amber took me out to the dance floor. It seemed only fitting that I have at least one geeky, awkward dance with my glowing date. Then the band picked up the pace and closed with Boston's More Than a Feeling, Mary and Abysmal Chick joined us, and we danced our dorky hearts out. It was midnight, and we closed a magical evening with more drinks at the Liffey, then headed to our respective homes to dream of Star Wars, clothing that lights up, and the many digits of pi.

Jeremy, Amber, Rich, and Jen before heading to Geek Prom



Amber was thrilled to meet the dude dressed as the berries and cream guy! She had even been singing the song as we walked to the museum. It was providence.


When about to be attacked by a polar bear, drink a martini and shit your pants.


Auuugggghhhhhh!


Jeremy and Hedy are shy geeks.


Hedy and Mary


Sometimes footwear makes the outfit.


If I had known I would be sexually molested for real later, I wouldn't have jokingly posed next to this bronze casting's penis. I am scarred for life.


Alie and I are going to the Geek Power rally later. Who is with us?


Gnuh! It's in there somewhere. Just a little further.


Hedy wants a boogie, too!


Now Alie wants in on the action. I prove that you can indeed pick your friend's nose. Take that, fuckers who made up that stupid saying!


Mary and her Swatch shirt.


Ok, we'll pose for a photo, but we're really uncomfortable with it.


Hedy!!! Good librarian girls do not flip the bird!


Abysmal Chick wants you to have a close encounter with her chest.


Hedy and AC, two of the sexiest geeks on the planet.


Shake what yo' momma gave ya!


Ok. Um. Maybe shake it a little less than that. Bring your shaking quotient down to about a 7.4.


Amber and me on the dance floor. Booty Pop ratio: 99%


"Rich and Jeremy, let's get a photo of you cats together." What? But men aren't supposed to pose for photos togeth-[snap]. Hey!!!


Miss Aliecat, pretty, pretty princess (with a sailor's mouth).


I just invented gravity.


And close the evening with more dancing, star wipe, and we're out...


Check out more Geek Prom fun from Hedy, Aliecat, and Abysmal Chick has more here, here, and here.

Photos to come...

Wednesday night musical bingo made history this week when three other guys showed up. Amber's friend Dave came (along with Amber herself), as did Hedy's friend Brian. And completely out of left field, we got a visit from Boof, who Alie has known since blogs were delivered by paper boys on bicycles. I'd fear the competition, but what competition? Like I had a shot in hell of bagging any hot blogger mob tail anyway. I could just as well be a powder-wigged eunuch to them. [insert downtrodden, tearful masturbation].

Alie has more from Wednesday.

Amber's main lady Katy paid us a visit. Alie secretly tried to get a shot of her chest.


At first, I was thrilled that Amber wanted so badly to lick me, but then I realized she just really likes old school Nintendo controllers.


Boof tries to smile casually for this photo, but he sees me back there and can't help but think "God, what a fucking douche that Jeremy is. All wannabe America's Next Top Model back there. Just put some high heels on and get it over with, nancy boy."



Brian draws some cool shit. Here's Rambo with Krispy Kremes for nipples.


Where's his line of site in this pic? Hmm...


Alie just finished laughing so hard she made ammonia gravy.


Concentrate, Jeremy! I'm winning that keychain!


Amber's got some sweet cans--er, I mean guns. No, really. I meant guns. Dammit.


Rock on.


Thankfully Rheo could no longer shit through Brawny paper towels after being sick last week, and he showed up to man the sound board.


No! I'm over here! Pay attention to MEEEEeeeeeeee!


We interrupt this musical bingo photofest for an embedded mini-post.

Jeremy and Beer Coaster Schlub: Curbside Story

Jeremy has been coming to musical bingo for a while, and has always wondered about this pasty, puffed up stranger who keeps staring at him from below.


On this night, Jeremy let go of his inhibitions and paid the stranger a visit. "Hello, friend. May I caress your floppy jowl?" The bespectacled visitor looked away demurely and nodded.


One thing led to another, and starlight danced on shimmering mugs of lager and ale.


Before they adjourned to the privacy of the men's room stall, the stranger nodded in approval at the package he was about to receive. Not ground, not overnight, but same-day and in the eye.


THE END

Boof and Elizabeth wonder what the noises coming from the men's room are.


Hedy makes me lick her armpit hair. "It's natural, Jeremy. You're such a prude. Get in there, bitch!"


Hedy's hygiene is impeccable, but I had to get the taste of 'pit out of my mouth somehow.


Not wanting to be outdone by Brian's killer Rambo fighting a flower, I drew a unicorn with long balls and a wheel instead of rear legs (with help from Hedy on pretty much everything that wasn't balls, a penis, or the wheel).


Hedy and Lesley are heterosexual life partners.


"You are the anchor that gives my spirit license to soar."


Back off, bitch, he's MINE!!!


The evening