"A blessing in disguise plus a pain in the butt equals a blessing in the butt."
     -Ronny Gunz

Abe loves beaverThe sleep beaver and Abe Lincoln still miss me. Since starting my daily regimen of Celexa, I have been getting to bed relatively early and have been able to consistently fall asleep within about 10 minutes of head-to-pillow contact. Unfortunately, I seem to wake up about 4 or 5 hours after going to bed and often have difficulty falling back to sleep. I've pushed back my pill time from morning to early evening, but to no avail. Apparently I'm playing a game of Whac-a-mole with my insomnia. Bonk it over the head at one hole, and it pops out another.

Another side effect of the medication is that my brain feels like it's on underdrive. I'm not thinking on my feet as quickly as I once did. Often when I'm writing or in a conversation, I'm visualizing several scenarios at at once, sometimes even weighing options for the ending of the very sentence I'm in the middle of speaking. Now I think one thought at a time. I guess this should come as no surprise since this medication was prescribed to keep my mind from racing out of control as I try to fall asleep at night. But taking away my brain's parallel processing capacity is driving me up a tall tree.

Regardless of any pharmacological solution or lack thereof, it is clear that I need to do as much as possible to improve my sleep habits and my sleep environment. With that in mind, tonight I bought a new Sealy Posturepedic mattress and box spring for my master bedroom. It will be delivered tomorrow. For the past 9 years, I've been sleeping on a shitty, back breaking queen size mattress I bought right after college. Well, obviously not all of those 9 years. Most of the last couple of years, I've slept on my couch, and in the 2 or 3 years prior to that, I often slept on the double size Sealy Posturepedic in my guest bedroom. Well, no more! I am taking back my own bedroom and plan on wrestling the sleep beaver into submission while the astronaut and Honest Abe suck each other off in the hot tub. All I ask is that they rinse out the tub with some 409 when they're done.

On Friday's drive over to Wyld Times in St Paul, we were at a stop sign when a gigantic 70's era Buick rounded the corner from the left. It was speckled bumper to bumper with rust, dents, and myriad curious bric-a-brac affixed to the body. It looked like an eccentric's art car that sat too long in the salty sea air at the wharf. The 40-something guy driving it wore huge mirrored aviator sunglasses and a grimy, half-unbuttoned plaid shirt. What little long, greasy, stringy hair he had left perfectly complimented his french tickler porn 'stache. The best part, however, was the plastic sign haphazardly affixed to his front grill with twist ties. It said simply, "I love the single life."

It's been quite some time since I've posted photos. I have been remiss in carrying my camera around these days, and for that, I sincerely apologize. I've failed to blog about several musical bingo nights, including one where we moved it temporarily to Psycho Suzi's. I also failed to blog about the Overheard in Minneapolis (OIM) first anniversary party [see photos] at Mac's Industrial Sports Bar where I met Ed Kohler and the delightful Miss Ang, who runs OIM and was coincidentally celebrating her upcoming birthday. There were also too many other entertaining characters there that night to name.

I also failed to take copious photos last night, when I was served a disgusting corned beef sandwich on stale, moldy(!!!) bread on the patio at Wyld Times in St Paul. The poor waitress, who quite obviously was very embarrassed even though it wasn't her fault, was very apologetic multiple times, and my meal was comped. But what I want to know is how the fuck does the person making the sandwich, even if he or she is wearing those food serving gloves, not notice that the white bread in their hands is hard as a fucking rock and mottled with specks of mold? And that seems like a situation where the manager should come out to apologize, as well, instead of throwing the waitress under the bus. But mistakes happen, and I'm not going to completely dismiss a restaurant based on one experience. I've never heard anyone complain about it, so I'll give it another shot.

Thursday night, through a thread over on MNSpeak, there was an impromptu gathering organized by Aaron at Merlin's Rest at East Lake Street and 36th Avenue in Minneapolis. The place just opened a few months ago, but I hadn't heard of it until the other day. The name made me think that perhaps it was one of those places you go to buy Magic the Gathering cards or fancy bongs shaped like wizards and skulls. Or both. Ed was there for a while, but had to leave before I was buzzed enough to take photos unabashedly.

Aaron directs me to wait to take the photo until after he farts and Oliver, who comments here as Teucer, is getting ready to tell a rollicking tale of pitching a massive tent during an afternoon nap at the office.


Ang is about read to spit out her beer after the tent story. Oliver is pleased with himself.


You know I love Summit, but I'm not sure that I agree with serving it in a Guinness glass. Somehow it seems sacreligious, like an affront to the almighty dark draught.




Alie looks innocent, but she just elbowed me in the junk under the table. Oddly, instead of doubling over in pain, I just looked kind of pouty.


Ang smiles gleefully at my ball pain.


If you look closely at the scribbling on the toilet paper dispenser, it says "mmm jazz" for some reason. At first, I thought it said, "mmm jizz" and looked in vain for the glory hole.


I thought it would be funny to take a photo of me wearing Ang's glasses, but it just looks like me before LASIK, completely weakening my bit and my sauce.


In the end, a good time was had by all. Some felt it the next day more than others, but work and life go on, even when you're hungover, which I wasn't, so suck it.

Let me tell you something. I think I am a fucking laugh riot. When God waved his magic wand and pulled the celestial rabbit out of his ass, he boomed, "Let there be Jeremy's humor!" TING! With a puff of smoke and a few billion years behind us, here I am and here it is. I'm hilarious. I often practice being funny in front of the mirror and the ladies I keep in my basement. I laugh, they laugh (though they seem kind of nervous), and everyone sighs with delight. Every single good laugh anyone anywhere has ever had in the last 25 years was completely my doing. I'm currently working on having the same reach with orgasms.

I've temporarily turned on comment moderation until I have time to change some template settings, hopefully this weekend. Sorry if you don't like. Always remember that I love you like free handjobs. [sincerity]

UPDATE: I've turned off comment moderation again. Comment away, bastards.

I made this for Jen at musical bingo last night.

Hi there. I hate to sound rude, but your appearance is offensive to me. You are a disgusting slob with bad skin. It looks like you were beat upside the head with a burning bag of trash. I'm going to have to ask you to be prettier. Thank you.

deer daddee you shunt tuch momee down there cuz it herts her. i noe cuz she screem loud wen yoo poot yer weener in her liek that. how wood yoo liek it if i poot mie arm in yer but you wunt liek it too mutch no way dood! an yoo shunt poot yer face doun ther eether dadee cuz thats wer momee maeks tinkle and it herts her too agin screemn. an didjoo noe theres a thing in yor drawr that looks liek a weener eksept is a lot bigger then yer weener an it wiggels wen i poosh teh butten liek this an sownds liek VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! wie yoo hav a weener in ther. yoo have too weeners now an thats silleee! daddee luv yoo bie!!!!

I think I should start a service for guys trying to quit smoking. I follow the guy around, and if he lights up, I kick him punter-style in the nuts. Now I know what you're thinking, girls. "That's not fair! What about the ladies?" First off, I'm not hiring office staff or leasing out apartments here for fuck sake, so settle down. But if it makes you feel better, I would also have a service where if a female customer lights up, she doesn't get to see a guy getting kicked in the nuts that day. Testicular pain can be both positive and negative reinforcement.

Guys, do you ever walk up to the toilet or urinal to take a piss and have that brief moment where your urethra's kind of stuck shut in the middle? For a second, you piss two completely separate streams, beautiful, shimmering, and unique like yellow snowflakes. Then your pee hole comes unstuck, and your streams merge together. Or maybe I'm the only one that happens to, albeit rarely. I wonder what causes that. Am I dehydrated? Is it like when your lips become dry and chapped and get stuck together until you open your mouth? Maybe they should make urethral chapstick. Just a skinny little tube, because I'm not afraid to get all up in there if I have to.

What about you, ladies? Does your urethra ever stick shut? Yours is bigger, so I would think there's the potential for multiple stick points. Multiple golden streams shooting every which way like some sort of wacky urine-based sprinkler toy for kids. Except you could use regular chapstick instead of the skinny man hole version.

This note is apparently supposed to be inspirational. But if you read it closely enough to be inspired each day, wouldn't you eventually notice the misspelled word and lack of a question mark?

It's a little hard to make out, but we were eating lunch at Chipotle in Burnsville when about three squad cars converged on the parking lot. Cops poured out, pistols and shotguns drawn, and ordered the occupants of a vehicle to put their hands up and for the driver of the vehicle to exit. In the zoomed, cropped version of the pic below, you can kind of see the dude in the red shirt being put into the back of the squad car. I wish I could have taken a clearer photo, but I didn't want to distract the cops and especially didn't want to catch a stray bullet if the people in the car decided to come out shooting or something.

I've now found out that apparently the kid had bought a truck that had been previously reported stolen. The police records hadn't been updated, and it was all a big mix-up. The poor kid probably expected to crap his pants AFTER eating there, not before!

by Jeremy

My favorite penis is definitely from May, 1976. I discovered this penis before I was able to walk, and it's been number one in my heart ever since! You can just tell that guy's the kind of penis you want to have a beer with. He's also a jokester. I remember him talking about spraying mayonnaise onto a woman's neck in a public restroom in Green Bay. It's my dream to someday meet that penis from May, 1976. I just need to lose another 5 or 10 pounds so I can see it. You can be sure I'll shake his hand vigorously and at great length. I'll never let go!

Each month we ask someone to tell us about their favorite penis. Who's your favorite? Tell us about it. If we publish your submission in next month's issue, you'll get a signed photograph from that penis!

I walked into the men's room today to find the floor in front of the urinal and entire first stall to be covered in a quarter-inch of soupy toilet water. I didn't have to look to determine what had happened, but a quick peek into the stall confirmed my suspicion. Someone had plugged the shitter solid. Having plugged that toilet multiple times myself, I can tell that they had to have flushed it between 50 and 400 times to get the fucking thing to actually overflow the bowl. This is beyond perplexing since there was a plunger not three feet away in the next stall. Perhaps the other stall was occupied, or they didn't want to risk someone walking in on them with the plunger in hand and flushed continuously and desperately to avoid detection. "Oh! I've been discovered! I clogged a toilet with 8 pints of turgid feces and half of a roll of toilet paper, and someone else now knows it! [mortification]" Dude! You'd be getting caught with your hand on a toilet plunger, not your dick. Man up and take care of your own shit literally and figuratively so other people don't have to step in it or look at it.

Not wanting to stand in someone else's rancid turd water, I pissed in the second stall where the floor remained dry, and the plunger remained untouched. After I finished, I walked back to to sink to wash my hands. After I had lathered up and rinsed, I spotted a roll of paper towels on the counter. This was unusual since there's a towel dispenser above the trash, but I instinctively reached out to grab one off the roll. I stopped short. Something wasn't right about this. I checked the bathroom's regular paper towel dispenser. It was full. Aw, you fucker! So not only do you shit up half the god damned bathroom floor, you try to clean it up with paper towels and leave the rest of the shit-soaked roll on the counter? You fucking ASS! Why don't you just get it over with, walk around the corner to the coat closet, and grab random jackets to mop up your turd-infested mess? "Hey! Why does my Planet Hollywood jacket with leather sleeves have ass peanuts and hunks of bell pepper all over it? OH MY GOD!!!"

God, I hate people.

After nearly a decade of computation by a powerful supercomputer, mathematicians at the University of Florida have solved every possible outcome for the board game Chutes and Ladders. The computer, nicknamed Deep Chute, generated the last game outcome in early June. The university will fly the computer system and several engineers to Vancouver, British Columbia in November to compete against the world's premier Chutes and Ladders players in the 2007 Brown Chute Climb Challenge. The event will be held at Simon Brown Preschool in Coquitlam. Cookies and grape-flavored Kool-Aid will be served.

Apple's wildly popular iPhone, released on June 29th, already has a firmware upgrade available for download. The upgrade allows the onscreen keyboard to be used in landscape mode, improves the efficiency of wireless communications to increase battery life, and ads a new option for the touch screen interface. Users may now use the phone by rubbing their wangs on it. In fact, the multi-touch interface allows multiple dicks to be rubbed on the iPhone at once. iPhone owners may visit the Apple website to order a special penis-friendly squeegee designed to remove pre-cum and gonorrheal pus from the glass screen.

After looking high and low for challah bread without success at Byerly's last weekend, I spotted some there last night during a late night stop for supplies on the way home. Perhaps it helps that I have since learned how to spell "challah" correctly. Only knowing that it was pronounced "hollah" and not knowing what it looked like limited my ability to identify it. I realize now I should have reached out to my Jewish friends in my time of need. Next time I'll text you. Challah back now.

Sometimes I hear interesting things in the men's room. My only regret is that I didn't stick around for the rest of the conversation. I mean shit, am I wasting money flying in girls from Montreal, Brussels, and London when it would be cheaper to just fly myself to the Philippines? I do have a passport now, after all. Eh, but I hate packing and unpacking a suitcase. It's such a hassle trying to get my dress shoes, 14-inch "Thick Dickie" vibrator, and warm sweaters to fit in there. The suitcase, that is.

Some people are born with an innate ability to turn random nonsense into something hilarious. It's about the perfect blend of delivery, vocal inflection, cadence, alliteration, consonance, and assonance. Meaning is unimportant and even mental imagery is secondary to the nonsensical turn of phrase and somehow seamlessly connecting it to the conversation at hand . I am lucky enough to know multiple people brilliantly gifted at turning a series of completely mundane words into comedy gold. I also like to think that I possess some talent in this area, although I would not consider myself to be a virtuoso.

However, if you don't have it, you never will, so I would appreciate it if you would stop trying. You are not in on the joke and never will be. Your attempts are pathetic and embarrassing. And even when you try to drop a load of random shit that has been tossed around by everyone else, you come out sounding like an ass. So I would appreciate if you would just fucking stop it.

And while we're on the subject of not being in on something, let's talk about nicknames. If you have just met me, you address me by my first name. You do not pick up on the nicknames my friends have given me and start using them on me right off the bat. And you sure as hell don't come up with your own nicknames, or call me a shortened version of my first name like "Jer" or "Jerm." Even addressing me by my last name alone is a privilege reserved for college buddies, close friends, and longtime coworkers. Just be thankful I don't punch you in your stuttering cakehole for not addressing me as "sir."

Those were the words that tumbled uncontrollably from my mouth on Wednesday night as I drove toward the exit of the gas station parking lot on my way to musical bingo. In the distance, I had seen a bird swoop down and land on top of another bird as I backed out of my parking space. I couldn't really make out what was going on, but there was a brief moment where I thought it was two birds mating. Eh. I was neither impressed, nor grossed out. Animals do it. So what. But as I got closer to the scene, I realized the bird on top was a large hawk, and the one on the bottom was a large, but still downy baby duck. The hawk gripped the baby duck in its talons, flapped its wings madly, and soared away, duck and all. That's when I let loose my almost girlish shriek of amazement. Cry all you want for that duck, but nature kicks ass.

I dropped two high quality even primes today. These compacted fuckers came with their own gravity and three days worth of food. That definitely cheered me up. At least a little anyway.

Today has been kind of bittersweet. A pall has been cast over what otherwise should have been a pretty kickass day, considering I recently went out a limb, made an uncharacteristically ballsy move with unknown odds, and today got some great news. That is all I will say about that for now. But I have been feeling down because I disappointed a friend that I care about a great deal. I feel like I did the right thing in the end, but it was a situation that in retrospect, I perhaps should have handled differently, or sooner, or... I don't know. I'm torn and confused and just feel hollow inside today. Barf, I know. Sorry for going emo douche diary on you. I'll get back to the good stuff later when my mood improves.

Click the photo to see what I mean.

You know who you are.

And no, assholes, this isn't about delayed ejaculation.

Seriously, what's with this crap, man? Ever since I started taking these pills, instead of being in my normal state of nearly constant low-level horndoggedness with gentle, swaying updrafts of arousal and occasional eddies of sexual indifference, I'm now usually stuck in the eddies with sudden ice storms of carnal thunder (yeah, I think these analogies are pretty awful, too). And when these sudden and drastic upswings happen, it's IMMEDIATE and such that I could drive a lawnmower blade through an oak tree with this thing. And then it takes forever to finish my business. FOREVER! I even have to give up sometimes. I was taught not to be quitter, but honest to God I need to keep some skin down there. And that, my friends, is total bullshit.

Remember that laptop I ordered from Dell last week? Well, the damned thing wasn't going to get here until well into the first part of August. Apparently the wave of orders for that $480 bargain caused Dell to run out of a few parts. Much like sexual contact with a live partner, that didn't fit in with my stopwatch of instant gratification, so I said fuck it and canceled the order. I'll take care of it myself (still using sexual metaphors).

Friday after work, I did some research online and found a Compaq on Best Buy's website that seemed fairly decent. It was $630 with tax, but it was that or spend maybe $100 less to buy a shitty Acer or so-so Toshiba that would probably fall apart if I sighed too loudly. Ugh. I didn't want to spend an additional $150, but I knew the clock was ticking on Gobot Nolo Poody Toot, the official name of that computer on my network. Yes, I'm a very weird soul.

One of the reasons, aside from cost savings, that I typically build my own desktop computers is that when you buy a PC brand new from a vendor or store, it is inundated with preinstalled shitware. 30 day demo of Norton!!! Would you like to try AOL? No? Earthlink? Sandwiches from Jimmy John's! FR33 P3N1S F0R Y0U!11!!! Motherfuckers, just give me what I ordered and can the fucking ads! I realize these partnerships probably allow the companies to keep the costs of the machines so low, but keep that shit out of my face. Unfortunately I can't build my own laptop in a similar fashion, so I wiped everything on the hard drive and reinstalled Windows so I could start with a clean, shitware-free slate.

Finally last night I had enough time to dick around and finish setting everything up how I like it. But as I was searching around for drivers and other information about my new laptop, I stumbled back onto Best Buy's website and noticed they were now selling the same model for $455. What the fuck?!? Thankfully it a appears that the 'Buy has a price match guarantee if the price drops on a laptop within 14 days of the original purchase. I'm going to stop there tonight and will hopefully walk out with about $150 back in my bank account.

And here's an update on my current situation with the new brain pills I was prescribed last week. After a couple of days, things really settled down. For the most part, there have been no further episodes of twitching or spastic gesticulation. However, alcohol seems to amplify the negative side effects. Wednesday evening's episode may have been exacerbated by the beer I consumed. And Friday night, I went to the Overheard in Minneapolis anniversary shindig at Mac's Industrial Sports Bar and had a Stella. Not long after I finished it, I began to feel very uneasy and downright paranoid. I don't know how else to describe it. Needless to say, I think I will completely avoid alcohol for the next few days and perhaps will try drinking a single beer at home this weekend to see what happens.

Another thing I've noticed is that the effects of caffeine seem to be amplified. On Saturday, I drank two big cups of coffee in the morning, had a couple cans of Diet Pepsi in the afternoon and felt lightheaded and shaky. I had that same feeling today after a mocha from Caribou early this morning and two glasses of Diet Pepsi while out for lunch. On the way back to the office, I felt that same lightheaded, shaky feeling. Perhaps I need to cut my caffeine intake or give up completely again.

UPDATE: Best Buy refunded me $160, which includes tax, on the price difference on that laptop. Sweet fucking ass! This now ended up costing me $10 less than the Dell laptop, and I get instant gratification. Up yours, patience and virtue!

This morning instead of a morning constitutional I decided to take a morning magna carta. Oh. that's bad. Jokes like that could force the state to pull my blogging license. Will you come to the hearing to testify in my defense?

This conversation took place many years ago when we were all young, single, and foolish. Now most of them are just foolish. Me, I'm foolish AND single. I win...?

Friend: "Yeah, why can't we get no god damned poon tang, man?"

Me: "Maybe because we call women things like 'poon tang.'"

Last week I wrote about the City Pages cover story about a trial involving allegations of sexual abuse of a child, a trial for which I coincidentally sat as an alternate juror. City Pages picked up on my response and posted a link to it on their blog, The Blotter, which as of now, is also on the front page of their website. The mother of the man who was the defendant in that trial found her way here via the City Pages link and posted a comment earlier tonight. Read what she had to say here.

It's not really that it's private, I just don't feel like telling you. Maybe it's really mundane like picking lint out of my butt hair, or maybe it's really cool, like picking lint out of someone else's butt hair. Perhaps I'm being coy with you, or perhaps I'm just not telling you things to be a prick. Doesn't matter. I'm not telling you shit.

Uh... ???

Coworker sitting in the car behind another coworker driving us back to the office from lunch, tailgating a pickup, and fiddling with the radio: "If that guy slams on the brakes while you're playing with the radio, and my head goes up your ass, I'm going to bite."

For more fun with my coworkers, read the latest lunchtime tale from Ronny Gunz.

I'm pleased to report that my side effects from my new adventure in Celexa land have diminished substantially. What I didn't explain very clearly on Wednesday was that I had just been prescribed Celexa that very day and had taken my first pill around noon. I also didn't have a chance to explain why I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I felt compelled to move constantly. My right arm jittered incessantly, and my shoulders and eyes twitched like a motherfucker. It was pronounced enough, that I felt I should probably tell my coworkers what was going on so people didn't think I had been smoking meth at my desk.

Then there was last night at the Chatterbox. With only Alie, Lesley, and myself in attendance, it was our small scale return after hitting Psycho Suzi's one week and the 4th of July falling on the following Wednesday. Well, Alie and Lesley got quite a show. As the evening progressed, my twitching and spasming evolved into new and uniquely beautiful forms. My right arm continued to be the focus of my nervous energy, and I compulsively rubbed my fist up and down the front of my thigh or on the table. Prior to Lesley's arrival, I was in the middle of saying something to Alie when I realized something didn't feel quite right. "Alie, are my eyes blinking at the same time?" No, she replied they weren't. My fucking eyes were blinking independently of each other like I was a damned brain-damaged gecko or something!

Maybe an hour or two after I arrived at the 'box, my midsection started to join in the festivities. At first, it was a simple twitch that pulled my upper body to one side ever so slightly. It grew worse over time, and by the end of the night, it was as if a small but highly dense planet intermittently appeared at my right side, sucked my chest and head into it's gravitational pull, then abruptly vanished, freeing me from its cosmic grasp. It was probably funny to watch, but it wasn't too fun to go through, especially when I'd hit the men's room and stand at the urinal. We all said our goodbyes around 11, and I walked to my car, spasming and stumbling the whole way. I thought for sure someone would think I was drunk and would call the cops when they saw me get behind the wheel. My right arm was flailing all over the place on the way home, and my celestial torso twitch continued at a happy pace.

Believe it or not, I slept like a baby last night. I was sound asleep by about 12:30, maybe just 5 to 10 minutes after laying down. We'll see if the same thing happens in a few minutes here.

P.S. My thanks to Lesley for the Reiki session. I didn't feel weird Chakras, Cobra Kais, or blue, glittery ribbons shooting out of my butthole or anything, but it was an undeniably relaxing experience.

P.P.S. Check out the August issue of Playboy for a glowing blurb about (and fully clothed photo of) Diablo Cody.

Perhaps I'll never get around to finishing my entire tale of my experience with jury duty back in January. I continue to work on the third installment from time to time, but the truth of the matter is that while I could find plenty of humor in the process of jury selection and hours leading up to the trial, there wasn't anything funny about a child sex abuse case being argued in court. That makes it extremely difficult for me to maintain interest in writing about it. It's heavy, gloomy subject matter.

I hadn't thought about the trial for quite some time and didn't recall thinking of it as particularly groundbreaking at the time (though it was riveting), so imagine my surprise when I picked up a copy of City Pages last night and discovered that the trial was the subject of this week's cover story. Since this gives me that much less reason to continue writing about it, I'll just sum up my assessment of the case based on sitting through days of testimony.

As mentioned in the article, the defendant was found not guilty across the board. I was surprised that it took them three days to come to a verdict (as an alternate juror, I didn't participate in deliberation), but I did agree with the outcome. I think it is entirely possible he could have abused the boy, but I found the lack of concrete evidence from the prosecution to be astonishing. In fact, I thought to myself several times throughout the proceedings, "How did this case even come to trial?" The prosecution also made extremely compelling arguments, but in the final analysis, if the jury was to adhere to the instructions dictated by the court, they simply could not find this man guilty. Period.

I didn't buy into the defense attorney's argument that there was bias created by the fact that that the same government agency that employs the prosecutor provides a portion of the funding for the child advocacy center that examined and interviewed the accuser. I found this line of reason to be intriguing but disingenuous. What convinced me was that there was simply no physical evidence and that the young boy's testimony was shaky. Obviously almost any 13 year old boy is going to be nervous and shy while testifying about such humiliating subject matter in front of a room full of strangers. But there were too many inconsistencies in his testimony, too many simple facts that he couldn't seem to keep hold of. That was unfortunate since, aside from the defendant, he was the one and only person in the room who knew exactly what did or did not happen.

If this boy was truly abused -- and again, I don't deny that the entire scenario is plausible -- it is a horrific breach of the trust he placed in his uncle, an ugly chapter in both of their lives that will follow them to their graves. However, a jury can't say, "What you say sounds like it could be true. I think it's quite possible that might have happened, and child abuse really pisses me off, so I'll go ahead and find this dude guilty." What if you were sitting in the defendant's chair, secure in the knowledge that you didn't commit the repugnant crimes of which you were accused? Wouldn't you want the jury to consider only the actual evidence and weight the witness testimony accordingly?

ADDENDUM -- 7/17/2007: In rereading this post, I realized that this almost makes it sound like my opinion hinged entirely on the young accuser's testimony. That would be a gross oversimplification of the trial. There were many interconnected versions of the events from many family members and detailed testimony from apparently highly qualified experts for both the defense and prosecution, as the City Pages article details. Again, this boiled down to there being enough inconsistencies in the overall story pieced together in front of the jury, leaving reasonable doubt. I also want to reiterate that my opinion of the case does not speak directly for the jurors who delivered the verdict. This post is purely my personal opinion, and I can only speculate about how they arrived at their final decision.

Jesus Custom Tailored Christ, this fucking Celexa has me trying to claw my way out of my own god damned skin! Hopefully this will pass as my body adjusts to it over the next few days. Otherwise, I'm not dealing with this shit for the long term.

For the first time in my life, I'm on antidepressant medication. I'm not depressed, just fucking exhausted. After I tried Trazodone for my insomnia, which worked for for a while but became increasingly and unsurprisingly less effective over time, my doctor decided to take an unusual approach and tackled my anxiety rather than simply knocking me unconscious with sleep aids.

For as long as I can remember, I've tended to get ramped about things. My mind races, I obsess, and I can't focus on anything else. This is usually what happens when I have trouble sleeping. It's not so much that I'm worried or afraid, it's just that I think of all the things I have to do, unfinished tasks, projects at work, friends and family I want to contact, ideas for things to write, you name it. My thoughts swirl and spin, and I can't sleep. For example, last night I was extremely drowsy by midnight. My eyelids were heavy, and I knew it was time for bed. The moment I laid down, I started thinking about a project I've been working on and that was all it took. I was wide awake, head swimming and heart racing. I didn't fall asleep until 1:30 am.

So now I'm on Celexa, which I'm supposed to try for 6 weeks before checking back in with the doctor. I was originally prescribed Lexapro, but my insurance wouldn't cover it. Celexa is a fairly similar med that hopefully will reduce my anxiety and obsessive tendencies. The problem is that one of the possible side effects, ironically enough, is insomnia. And potential bad news for the ladies, another possible side effect is decreased libido. Because we all know I'm tapping ass like maple trees [derisive laughter from studio audience]. Tom Cruise is rolling in his grave.

Here's a screen capture from an ancient sex ed video I stumbled across on YouTube (ok, so I was looking specifically for ancient sex ed videos, as I enjoy a good angry yank to them). This section of the video outlines what a filly should do during her ruby rain. But what I don't understand is whether these are examples of things you may do while menstruating, or if they are mandatory. I'm not too clear on all that complicated 'gina shit.



DO

• Bathe or shower - Yes, please continue to do this, ladies! Nothing is worse than a crabby, bloated chick who stinks like armpit from 20 rods out.
• Wash hair - I don't understand why you would think you couldn't wash your hair during your period. Even if your gushing vagina turned into some sort of mogwai that will reproduce if you get it wet, you could still just stick your head under a faucet and put a hefty bag on your snatch or something.
  
• Swim - Hey, if you trust that tampon, that's cool, but if you're swimming in my pool, I'm going to ask you to shove a couple sheets of extra absorbent Bounty up there as an added measure of protection.
  
• Dance - Dance like nobody's watching! If you don't mind people staring. You're looking kind of fat today.
  
• Picnic - Absolutely! Nothing says "Let's throw out a plaid blanket on a grassy hillside and snack on cold cut sandwiches and sun-warmed potato salad" like your old pal menses. Hope your picnic blanket is a dark color!
  

DO MODERATELY

• Skate - I'm not sure why you should cut back on the skating. Does all that vibration knock around your lady junk?
  
• Ride horseback - This one isn't so much for you as the horse. Poor Mr Sugarcube can't wash his own back if you spew 'tang blood all over it while galloping down a sandy beach in slow motion.
  
• Play fast games - What, like chicken with a couple Ford Mustangs? Speed sudoku?
  
• Square dance - Now wait one minute! You fuckers just told the ladies they could dance all they wanted! So they can break dance but not square dance? What about flashdancing? Or is that categorized as taking a shower?

I'm astonished they were remiss in their lack of a list of things not to do, so allow me to suggest my own.

DO NOT

• Make bloody "kiss" prints with your vagina on random pages from books you checked out from the public library or borrowed from friends.
• Convince me to give you head by telling me you just washed down there and hid some Rolos up inside your bat cave.
• Do that trick with the ping pong balls shooting all over the place.

I'm constipated. I mean that in every sense. My bowels? Constipated. Despite my valiant efforts, I haven't been able to crap today. Usually I've dumped twice by now. My mind? Constipated. My bits are stale the last few days, and save a couple moments of inspiration, I can't think of interesting things to write. Well, that's not entirely true. But when will I have time to work on them? Do you think I'll be funnier with more bran in my diet?

Tonight I realized it was time to let my poor laptop go into the abyss -- kind of. It's not that the computer itself is too slow. It's only a Pentium III that's logged nearly 7 years of dedicated, but all I use it for is surfing the web and writing, so it's more than adequate. The problem is that my wireless options for internet access have become increasingly limited. First the PC card slots started shorting out, so I could no longer use my wi-fi card. Luckily I had a USB wi-fi adapter sitting around, but after several months of bumping around, the USB adapter kept coming loose. Pinching the adapter with pliers helped, but the fix could only last so long. I soon had to abandon being truly wireless and opt for a shitty ethernet to wi-fi adapter I had discarded in a closet. Because it was shitty. Did I mention it was shitty? Well, it's shitty. It has to be plugged into an electrical outlet to function and is slower than a baby raised in gunny sack fully of bus fumes. If I wanted to wait a couple of minutes for a page to load, I'd stop spending $45 every month on broadband and just yell the address to my neighbor and ask him to tell me what it says. "Yeah, just... No... NO... I said www dot ChicksUsingDildosThatAreActuallyShellackedTurds dot com, not www dot ChicksUsingDildosThatAreActuallyShellshockedTurds dot com. Ok, yeah... what? No, I didn't hear you. It's a picture of what? Sick, dude! Ha ha haaaa! Huh? Oh, sorry, man! I didn't know your kids were standing there. Uh... why don't we try cnn dot com instead."

And with that, I searched for laptop deals online and found a Dell with a dual core 64-bit processor, a gig o' RAM, and an 80 gig hard drive with free shipping for $450 plus tax, which came to just shy of $480. I hate to spend the money, but the old one is next to impossible to use as a true laptop. Plus it won't be put in the graveyard quite yet. I will repurpose it as my home automation server, moving all of that crap off of my desktop and freeing up resources to calculate complex math required for running simulations for potential cancer cures. And 3D butt porn.

I've been listening to the new White Stripes CD and have found myself uncontrollably playing air guitar in front of my computer at home. The problem is that I accidentally spilled some Mrs Butterworth's on my plastic chair mat when I was eating pancakes last weekend. I've scrubbed and scrubbed, but it's still sticky and syrupy. And I know what you wise asses are thinking. "Are you sure it isn't just all that jizz from wacking off so much?" Ha ha ha! Very funny. But I know my jizz, and pancake syrup is a different kind of sticky. Jizz is a sticky that makes you say, "Oh my God! GET IT OFF OF ME!" and sends you into a tearful and desperate search for wet wipes and 409 (this is why I feel really bad for those porno chicks, particularly when they get spanked on in the middle of a desert, miles away from a shower). Pancake syrup is more of a mild annoyance. "God damn it! Somebody sprinkle some sawdust up in this bitch or something. My socks are sticking to the floor. I'm trying to mimic the guitar stylings of Jack White here!" Plus I can't remember ever getting pancake syrup all over my computer screen.

Twin Cities native son and musical phenom Prince returned to Minneapolis with a vengeance on Saturday, 7/7/07. Prince played three concerts, starting by tearing through 9 songs in 45 minutes in the 8th floor auditorium at Macy's on Nicollet Mall. Prince then moved the party to the Target Center where he played to 15,000 roaring fans. He wound down his musical hurricane at First Avenue, the legendary club made synonymous with his name when it was featured it in his 1984 film "Purple Rain." Not bad for a guy who just turned 49 last month.

After Prince played his last song of the evening for exhilarated fans at First Avenue, he made a stunning announcement for his plans for 8/8/08. "Next year I'm coming back home again, children! Friday, August 8th -- 8/8/08 -- I will be home again in Minneapolis." The crowd roared at the news, but went into hysterics at what followed. "On that day, I will play one song in every single house and apartment in Minneapolis. Tickets are on sale right now on Ticketmaster. $3.21 for each show, baby. Plus a $15 convenience fee. Follow me all day long or just wait until I get to your house. I love you all. Good night!" He then left the stage and played several unannounced shows in locations around the Twin Cities, including the husky girls clothing section at Wal-Mart in Bloomington, pump number 4 at a SuperAmerica in Eden Prairie, and in the drive through lane of a long-shuttered Hardee's in Dinkytown.

Last night I was lazy (for the most part). I watched a few movies I'd Tivo'd off of HBO HD, including A Prairie Home Companion, Thank You for Smoking (I had seen it in the theater but wanted to watch it again), and the dark comedy The Chumscrubber. Then somehow I managed to muster the energy to lift weights and run 3 miles before heading out in search of an ice cream fix at Dairy Queen. Unfortunately it was later than I realized, and they were closed. Fuckers. Make that shit 24x7 or put a soft serve vending machine out front. On the way to DQ, my sunroof was open, my radio was blaring, and I noticed something in the road up ahead. More accurately, I notice something towering 10 or 15 feet above the road. It was an errant sprinkler by the theater going stark raving apeshit. Instead of making it's appointed circular rounds, it was jetting into the sky and all over the road. Shit! My sunroof! By the time I noticed it, it was too late to slam on the brakes. I let off of the gas and desperately hit the close button for the sunroof. It sealed itself shut just in time for my car to be battered by 20 gallons of water traveling at terminal velocity. I laughed maniacally at my water-avoiding reflexes and gave the finger to the world. That's right, fuckers! I'm that good!

But I sure wish I could have had some ice cream.

He thought he'd buy himself something nice. But a twenty-eight THOUSAND dollar diamond necklace? And he wore it to the Taste of Minnesota. And was surprised when some young hoods swiped it right off his dumbass neck. And he owns a trucking company. He's a trucker without his necklace. Why, that's like a grubby biker without his ruby clutch.

Hello there, miss! I saw you bending down to pick up that quarter I dropped and couldn't help but notice you have some tightly wound hindquarters there. Congratulations! Very ripe and biteable. Nothing like feeling my loins spring to life after spying a heart-shaped pair of shapely female buttocks first thing in the morning, I always say! But I musn't prattle on at length about your pinch cushions. I must get to the point straightaway. Forthrightness is of the essence, as I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you, fine lass. My request is simple and may sound nefarious, but I assure you it is perfectly normal and innocent. May I add you to my "chicks I'd like to do" list? No? Oh. Well, I must say I'm rather disappointed, but it's quite alright. I will respect your decision. And we'll just give your ample bosom a good honking... right. Very good then. We'll be on our respective ways. Good day to you, miss!

As you may recall, at Amber's party, Rich, Hedy, and I attacked the Death Star along with the rest of Rogue Squadron. We died a geeky death for you. Freedom isn't free, man.

Amber, Rich, and Jen threw a little pre-Independence Day celebration at their crib last night. Since July 4th had the indecency to fall on a Wednesday this year, a lot of folks (like me) have to work on Thursday, so an actual July 4th bash probably wouldn't have been as popular.

Alie also has even more highly unflattering photos of us all!

Amber had a fantastic time at her own party, as you well can see. It always kicks ass hosting these things because you can drink like there's no tomorrow and fall into bed or down a flight of stairs, and you're set until morning. As I snapped this photo, Amber kept saying something about her tongue changing color from all the water she drank, but I didn't see what she was talking about.


Mary started getting rather annoyed with my random, drunken photo snapping. Then she shoved the camera up my ass. Notice the mild sepia tone on the photos that follow.


Oh, Amber, your snarky quips are just too delicious!


Ranty's husband and Aaron take a break from standing around, looking cool. Aaron also takes some time out from getting me good and liquored on strongly mixed screwdrivers.


Hedy, Rich, and I prepare to attack the Death Star along with the rest of Rogue Squadron. Twenty minutes later our X-Wing fighters were blown to ashes by Imperial Tie Fighters. Mourn us, motherfuckers!






Hedy checks on a sleeping Elizabeth. Jen doesn't give a shit. And Elizabeth, don't come crying to me about this photo being unflattering. I cropped the hell out of it. The original contained your ass in a prone position. I didn't think it very gentlemanly to post photos of your ass when you were not conscious to give permission to have it photographed. I'm classy like that and shit. *hocks up some snot and spits it on a kitten*

Happy 4th of July, one and all. I have a few photos from the festivities at Amber, Rich, and Jen's party last night that I will post right here before the night through. Spurtastic!

I'm surely not the only one who is annoyed that July 4th is on a Wednesday this year. On the bright side, I get to party into the wee hours of a Tuesday with Amber and the rest of the blogging crew. July 4th will be a day of recovery. But not from alcoholism. Just alcohol poisoning and hot dog-induced diarrhea.

My apologies in advance. I have a feeling my time for posts and responding to comments will be spotty at best this week. I'm trying to get as much done as possible at work this week, despite having Wednesday off for the 4th of July (Independence Day should just be observed the first Friday of every July). I decided not to waste any vacation time this week since I want to save it for the still-tentative trip to Toronto over Labor Day weekend and a trip out to California with my immediate family for Thanksgiving with my cousin and her husband.

Just so you don't feel like you're missing out, I had diarrhea at work today. But it was thick, viscous, and chunky diarrhea. The volume was so copious that even though I flushed before wiping, the toilet plugged solid. That's a lot of diarrhea. Boy fucking howdy.

In the summer of 2004, I went on a date with a girl who I had met online, since that apparently is the only way I'm capable of meeting women for dates (unless I'm getting felt up by relatives of the groom at weddings, but that's a story for another day). We met for bubble tea at the Tea Garden in Uptown. I had never heard of this concoction, but she sold it hard, and I was intrigued.

For the uninitiated, bubble tea is an eponymously bubbly fruit smoothie of sorts with little flavored tapioca pearls settled at the bottom of the drink. These tapioca pearls are the consistency of super balls that have been left on the dashboard of a '63 Impala that was wrapped in aluminum foil and parked in the sun all day. Wiggly super balls that are supposed to taste like fruit but taste like wiggly super balls. I enjoy bubble tea, but I find the pearls to be mildly unsettling in ways I still can't put my finger on.

Despite exchanging several messages prior to our date, I had somewhat of a difficult time getting a read on this particular woman. Alicia was an a creative type in every sense of the word. She was a black sheep of sorts, the only sibling who chose not to work in her wealthy family's astronomically successful business in New Zealand. Instead she studied music, and became a professional opera singer. So how was it we got to this point, the farm-raised computer programmer with a penchant for juvenile toilet humor and the Kiwi opera singer from a well-to-do family meeting for a fruity cup full of chewy fruit-flavored super balls? Perhaps it was simple curiosity over someone completely outside of our normal realm of experience. She had never even met anyone that worked in a cubicle before. She was floored that I could work in such an environment and seemed interested in how I came to choose my profession. I thought her accent quite adorable and found her tales of life as her days performing professionally enthralling. However, despite our interest in one another's lives, it was clear there was an unease in the air. We were just so different.

Not surprisingly given my ongoing struggles with insomnia, in the nights leading up to this date, I was unable to get sleep in any sort of quality or quantity. I had jacked myself up as much as I could with caffeine prior to my arrival, but I felt like a damned zombie. As sincerely interested as I was in what she had to say, I soon found myself zoning out. I stared into space and for a few seconds, I was gone, floating in a white abyss, devoid of sound, feeling, or substance. I quickly snapped out of it, but as I reconnected to my senses, I became aware that my eyes had drifted downward in a most unfortunate way. While I was gone, my eyes had fallen directly to Alicia's breasts and were practically burning a hole through her floral dress and the center of her chest. I gasped quietly to myself and corrected my aim to her eyes. Her eyes which were now locked directly on mine. She pursed her lips subtly, shifted uncomfortably in her chair, pulled her sweater closed, and buttoned it to the very top button. Busted!

Dammit, dammit, dammit!!! I was equally mortified and disgusted. I was mortified for being caught red-handed staring at her tits and disgusted that none of said bosom-gazing had registered in my zombified state. It was like getting slapped for accidentally grabbing her ass when I was reaching for an apple that was next to it. Sure I grabbed her ass, but I didn't get to enjoy it!

Strangely enough, this was not the end of our date. In fact, she packed me into her tiny, cluttered car and drove me to an Indian restaurant she wanted me to try. After more pleasant conversation and a tasty, but diarrhea-inducing meal (the diarrhea waited until I got home thankfully), she dropped me off at my car and we bid each other good night. The next day she sent me a very polite email saying that she didn't think we clicked and that she hoped I found Miss Right. I wasn't surprised, given our wildly different backgrounds and personalities, but the thing is, her email wasn't the least bit phony or contrived. I got the feeling she truly wasn't interested in me for all the right reasons and that my inadvertently staring at her rack was a mere trifle. That made her pretty cool in my book. And it made me wish I'd paid more attention when I was staring at her headlights because now I'll never know if they were worth it.