I tried to send a photo but my phone is all shite up here. I saw a squirrel.

There comes a time in every man's life when he has a staggering moment of regret. Mine came after leaving the Unique thrift store in Burnsville the other night without bringing home this special little guy. He was curiously stationed in the electronics section nestled snugly between a monotone monitor manufactured in 1982 and a Russian modem that measured bandwidth in bushels and boar tongues. I was immediately infatuated with him, but in my tired, crabby, commerce-worn state, I scoffed at spending yet another $6 for a faded ceramic chimp coin bank. I had taken that photo of him though, and I could not get him out of my head. Oh, shelf chimp, how could I have forsaken you, leaving you to rot amidst frayed serial cables and naked, hairless Barbie dolls macabrely entombed in sandwich baggies? I knew I had to make this right or die trying. What better use of my Friday lunch hour than to rescue my ceramic soul mate?

Shelf chimp (aka "shelf monkey") as I originally found him, coyly tickling his own privates.


The road to shelf monkey was long and arduous. I had to pass a car on the way there. My blinker hand is exhausted.


"Shelf monkeeeeeeey! I'm coming, little buddy! I'm so sorry. So sorry... [sobbing]" (see cell video)


Soon I found myself at the store. I dried my tears, took a deep breath, and rushed inside.


Shelf chimp was no longer in the electronics section at his former post. But I kept the faith, as I assumed that the diligent staff at Unique noticed he had been misplaced and returned him to the sea of random shit in the middle of the store. Like this multicultural paint. One could use this Olive shade to paint a portrait of a Greek fellow eating some pie.


I wandered the aisles for what seemed like an eternity. Oh where are you, shelf chimp. WHERE ARE YOU!!?? Oh, hey, astronaut diapers. Fuckin' A! *throws in cart*


In the very center aisle of the store and in the very center of the aisle, with a florescent light showing on him with a glow like the aura of an angel, I saw him. He looked at me, fingered his pee pee, and I smiled. I had found him. I had found my precious shelf chimp.


Gently, I took him into my arms. He whimpered softly, and I wrapped him in a tuxedo shirt like the sweet baby Jesus in swaddling clothes.


Shelf chimp, or shelf monkey, or whatever the fuck you are, you are mine, and I love you like no other, you crazy, fucked up piggy bank thing, you.

Daddy gots his chimpy. Details to come.

Helmeted fat guy added by Matt.

With all of the time I've been spending away from home lately, The General has been feeling lonely. Her basic needs are met, but she doesn't get a lot of mommy-kitty bonding time these days. I know it's been bothering her, not because I'm a crazy cat lady and take her to cat psychologists or animal psychics or think she speaks to me, even though I'm pretty sure she once called me a bitch, but because she has her little ways of letting me know she's unhappy.

My entire condo is hardwood floors or linoleum with the exception of a 6 sq foot area of my bedroom covered with a pink shag rug. Yeah, shut up, I like it. It's the softest rug I've ever owned and it's wonderful to put your feet on first thing in the morning instead of the cold hardwood. I'm assuming this because it hasn't exactly been cold, but I digress. It's also the most difficult thing to clean if something with oh, I don't know, chunks mixed with liquid, for instance, happens to fall onto the rug. And by fall, I mean intentionally puked on by a pissed off cat. Why do I feel she does this intentionally? She hates that rug, refuses to walk on it and if she happens to accidentally land on it during one of her late afternoon satanic possessions, she will MAUW! exactly like she does when I kick her and run full force in another direction. She does not hairball the rug randomly or often, only when I've been gone for more than a day, or if my brief stops at home aren't enough to keep her happy. Also, there are almost 700 rugless square feet she could be horking on. When I'm around, she barfs on the kitchen floor like she knows she should.

Her second act of rebellion is hairballing my fucking bed. Thank god for duvet covers that can just be tossed in the wash.

Her third, and possibly most disgusting yet, is what she did last night. When I am home alone, she will curl up on my pillow next to me when it's bedtime. As she settled in, I noticed the weird yet distinctive smell of cat urine and figured she must have been curled up in her litter box, as she does sometimes when I'm vacuuming or making a lot of noise. It's not delicious and I wish she'd stop, but it seems to soothe her. It does nothing for me. I checked her out and she didn't seem to have any body fluids stuck to her coat, so I assumed she must have just recently relieved herself. General Mauw's PooPing Palace is only about 10 feet from my bedroom, anyway. Well, what I discovered this morning was her message in the form of a giant, sticky puddle of "you should stay home more often" pee-pee in front of her Palace. Seriously, she has never, ever freed the stream on my floors before. Unfortunately, I didn't give myself enough time this morning to clean it up before work, so it'll be there in all its glory when I get home.

I suppose in some ways I totally deserve it, because I'd be pretty upset if the human I hired to pet me when (and only when) I gave a shit was paying more attention to cute boys than to me.

PETA related disclaimer: no animals were injured during my complete discomfort having to clean up hairballs and puke from an impossible-to-clean piece of fabric, nor am I gone as often as I make it out to be. Also, I don't kick her that hard. So, don't harass me about being mean to my cat or I'll make you spend a day with her.

Willie emailed me last night to tell me of a discussion he had with his son Sam the other night. For twenty minutes, they had a debate about Scooby Doo. Willie was insistent that Scooby Doo defecates, however Sam, wise beyond his years, knew that Scooby was not real and therefore could not poop. Willie's argument was that Scooby is a dog, all dogs poop, so therefore Scooby Doo must poop.

Sam was swayed somewhat by this logic, but after several minutes of contemplation, he still didn't feel like that was the best place to leave the debate. “You know what daddy? Scooby doesn’t poop in the yard he poops in the potty!” Scooby Doo can talk, can walk upright in a pinch (no pun intended), and most certainly wouldn't squat outdoors six feet from the downspout to unroll his coil like a savage beast.

Willie and Sam ended the discussion agreeing to disagree, but I'm sorry to say, Willie, that I tend to agree with Sam. Scooby, while not a monocole-sporting sophisticate by any stretch of the imagination, has both the higher intelligence and physical capability to properly sit on the toilet. I believe wholeheartedly that when Scooby feels the UPS truck knocking on his back door, he exclaims, "Ruh roh! Rotta roop!" and rushes off to the bathroom (again, I never said he had any class). Like a human, he can perch upon the toilet, hind legs dangling, and he can flush the toilet with his front paw afterward. However, I will concede that Scooby does not have the manual dexterity to unfurl toilet paper from the roll to rub on his mudhole. But dogs never wipe anyway, leaving Scooby free social reign to hop off the toilet, hunks of crap clinging to and swinging from the fur of his haunches, to eat a 6-foot high sandwich with Shaggy in a lingering cloud of weed smoke.

Personally, I am thrilled that Scooby can do his doo in the toilet. This has to make life much easier for Shaggy et al. Can you imagine if Scooby shat on the asphalt of every abandoned amusement park they visited? Fred would step in it with his suspiciously fabulous loafers, squeal with horror, and dab at the soles of his shoes tentatively with his neckerchief. Though I have a suspicion that Scooby is one of those thoughtless clods who forgets to flush his fetid turds from time to time, leaving them for Velma to discover and cry, "Jinkies!" This is a small price to pay, as the aforementioned alternative is far worse.

So here's to you, Scooby Doo. But please remember to flush. If you can do it consistently, I'll buy Shaggy some sheep shears to cut the dried crap from your hindquarters.

I spotted this fabulous chimp bank at Unique Thrift Store in Burnsville last night. I would have bought it, but it was $6, and I already spent over $2 there. I'm not Bill Gates over here.


"Hey, you might want to bring a plunger in here. And a camera."


"No, I will NOT give you a hummer in the parking lot, monkey. I got your banana right here, you sick fuck!"

Moblog: It is like they toured my whole house

Moblog: This reminds me of my basement.

Every time I head over to Lake Phalen, I see this ponderously worded sign sitting at the corner of East 7th St and Arcade in St Paul. I'm not sure if I should be baffled by the meandering verbiage or impressed about how they fit it all into the sign. I'm guessing they did run out of letters, though, since the 'A' in "TRAILER" appears to be made from capris Barbie pants. And I need to also point out that their "TACOS" went slightly out of the margins.

"EX OWNERS MADE
ABOUT $5000 EVERY
WEEKEND SELLING TACOS
OUT OF A TR[small pants]ILER HERE"

Five large every fucking weekend? Dude, that's over a quarter of a mill a year! Why would you give that up? Something is fishy here. I call bullshit or at least bullshit by omission. Maybe they made 5k every weekend for about a month in 1994 when some fat taco-craving motherfucker lived across the street. He'd waddle over about once an hour, order a sack of shelled beef, and then slide home on the trail of greasy sweat he left behind. Or maybe they pulled in that amount consistently for years, but the mob's cut was $2500 and a churro. Nobody gives up $5000 a weekend, especially in a cash-based business, unless something went south. Maybe they couldn't make the payments on their taco trailer or the health department caught them putting their beef into used, yellow, crunchy Huggies instead of corn tortillas.

Thanks to Aaron for hosting a great party last night. I wish I remembered more of it and wish I had avoided that gigantic Dixie cup-sized shot that put me over the edge into hangover land. I forgot my camera, but here is a cell video of a little impromptu fire dance out in the yard.

Moblog: Schhhlorp!

Ang and I have been talking for a few weeks about trying to head out to Vegas before November. Talk is cheap, so we both have been actively looking for a decent deal without much luck. Last night, the girl who cuts my hair had the fantastic suggestion of trying to book dates for the middle of the week. Well, why the fuck didn't I think of that before? Sure enough, leaving on a Wednesday, and returning on a Friday knocked over $150 per person off of the best deals we'd seen. So we're booked for the middle of October. We leave on a Wednesday morning and return late Friday night. Airfare and two nights at Circus Circus for $250 per person. Yeah, Circus Circus isn't exactly the Bellagio, but it's on the strip, it's CHEAP, and it's not like we'll be hanging out there much. The night we arrive, we're going to see Cirque du Soleil's Mystère at Treasure Island. I saw O at the Bellagio a few years back, and while this one isn't quite as elaborate, I hear tell that it's good. I should have bought tickets for their Zumanity show though. I heard there are painted titties in it. I hear a lot of things.

You may have already noticed the mysterious appearance of pink tacos and blue hot dogs on the posts. If you haven't already figured it out, pink tacos represent the feminine, spicy meat-filled side of Ang, while the blue hot dog represents the nitrate-filled, elongated virility of me. It's a quick and easy way for you quickly determine who wrote what without scrolling down to the bottom of the post and actually reading. Because we wouldn't want you to furrow your brow so hard you squeeze out a hemorrhoid.

A friend of mine has been casually dating a man who lives across the street from her. While on the phone this evening, I asked her how it was going.

N: Oh, it's not going anywhere.

A: That's too bad, what's the problem?

N: Well, he farts all of the time. Not, like, "oh, oops I farted," but more like, "hey, hey, I'm gonna fart!"

A: Whaaat? You don't like that?

N: Uh, no.

A: [laughs] That shit never fails to make me laugh.

N: In private, yes, it's hilarious. [pause] On the crowded patio at the bar? No.

I probably will not have too many exciting work related bathroom stories to tell, as I avoid the public restrooms here like the black plague for many of the reasons Jeremy has already written about in beautifully disgusting detail. No, I don't use the trash can under my cube desk, we have a single unit unisex bathroom on each floor and I will absolutely not go unless it's in one of those. Mostly, it is to keep people from starting conversations with me or having to listen to two women babble on and on and on instead of leaving, like they should have 15 minutes ago. Also, pooping in front of people is hard. (heh) Besides, the world has enough Superheroes fighting Poop Crimes right now.

[...]

It was at this point during my typing that I took a quick, yet unexpectedly interesting bathroom break. The very single stall unit I feel so lucky to have has been tarnished, tainted, abused and I'm afraid I'll never feel the same about it. Here I thought that as disgusting as human beings can be, it's sure nice that I've never had to deal with it at my office. Perhaps the cleaning crew gets to the bathroom before I do, or perhaps the creepy, stainless steel "prison bathroom" feel of it kept people away. Whatever it was, I was thankful to have my fortress of clean solitude. As of this afternoon, that has been violated with our own ass peanut culprit. There are no theatrics involved here as they were resting peacefully on the floor and not shoved into the tampon dispenser or climbing the walls. However, they were not alone. Joined by a couple pieces of corn (yeah. no, seriously) and what looks like a chunk of pizza crust, these two delightful last shreds of someone's dignity stared me down as I entered to take care of my business. (aka, the BBQ burger I had for lunch.) Unlike Jeremy, I will not be investigating to find out who is responsible, but like Jeremy, I have shared some pictures with you. If I can't share my life, what good is it?

This was the first little guy that caught my attention. It truly is corn.


Bringing it in for a close up. You can almost smell it, can't you?


Just in case you weren't sure what everything is, I've been kind enough to show you.


Before that happened, I was going to tell you why I hate elevators.

A reader who wishes to remain anonymous sent me the following email. It has been edited to protect the reader's identity and place of work and has been posted with their permission.

Sorry to hear about your problem with ass peanuts. At my work, we have a slightly different problem. I call it "[Piss] Pond." [Piss] pond forms most frequently between January and late May as a result of urinal users... pissing all over the floor. This is caused by various things, such as reading while urinating or talking on the cell phone or simply just not paying attention. It's very disgusting. We'll also occasionally get pubes on top of the urinal, which is mystifying. How do pubes get five feet off the ground?

I hope you catch this Jimmy Carter wanna-be and punish him properly, which should include much embarrassment.

There is nothing like standing in a puddle of another man's urine (unless you're standing in a puddle comprised of the urine of multiple men). The best part is hitting dry tile as you walk back to your desk and feeling the SCHLICK SCHLICK SCHLICK of your sticky shoes peeling away from the floor with each stride.

Now that you mention it, pubes on top of the urinal are a mystery of nature almost as perplexing as ass peanuts on top of the toilet tank. One can understand how someone could shake loose a couple of stray hairs as he knocked the remnants of dew from his lily, but to get them on top is quite an accomplishment. Either the offender is about 6' 11" and wearing stilts, or he's shaking his manhood with such vigor that hair flies up in the air like a cloud of coke in Britney Spears' nursery. Perhaps urinals need hair nets hanging from the top to keep the pubes at bay. It would be like the nets they have hanging up behind home plate to keep foul balls from knocking a toddler's jaw out of joint and lodging in his nostril. Except it would be for pubes, man.

Best of luck keeping dry. Perhaps you need some of those disposable booties on your shoes like surgeons and Intel guys wear.

-Jeremy

I was taking a dump when an unidentified pooper entered the stall next to me (perhaps Ass Peanut Man?). I exited the stall to find these two toothpicks sitting next to the sink. If it were a single, lonely toothpick, I wouldn't question it much. Someone had a toothpick in their mouth, and decided they did not want to chew on it while they were expunging old records from their intestinal filing cabinet. Instead of throwing it in the trash a couple of feet away, they carelessly and slovenly left it on the sink.

But it wasn't just one toothpick -- it was two. Two toothpicks. I suppose it's possible this person was chewing on two toothpicks. The scenario that worries me, however, involves the person deciding to grab a couple of toothpicks from the lunch room to use later. On the way back to his desk, he feels a rumbling. "Oh shit! I gots to shit and shit!" He takes a detour into the men's room, carefully places his precious toothpicks on the counter, and fills the toilet with a priority delivery of bubbling cake batter. All the while, he smiles from ear to ear, secure in the knowledge that his toothpicks will be waiting for him on the wet bathroom counter when he's finished with his business. On the way out the door, without so much as running his hands through tepid water, he pops one of the toothpicks into his mouth. The other is a treasure to be saved for later. He carries it his desk, stows it in a drawer filled with used tissues and weeks-old, half-eaten Snickers bars, and thinks to himself, "Hey, I wonder why I get these Staphylococcus infections and bronchitis all the time! Oh well, think I'll finish off a Snickers bar."

Yesterday I received a very important bulletin from our reporter in the field, Ronny Gunz. If you have followed one or both of our blogs, then you are likely familiar with our ongoing struggles with determining the identity, motivations, and potential medical conditions of a phantom sprinkler of ass peanuts in our workplace. Ronny has apparently caught him red-handed. He directly spotted this person exiting the stall, then went in to drop an even prime of his own. He found the toilet seat littered with ass hair and peanuts.

Or is she actually the sheriff? Miss Ang has expressed a desire for an outlet to express her bawdier thoughts outside of the moral restrictions of her own blog and her much higher profile website. There will be no promises that she will post here with any frequency (or at all), but she can raunch it up here anytime she wants. Could this be a new dawn in the era of afterglide? Don't fuck it up, Angie (no pressure, muffin tits!).

As the hour became wee, and the fire became large, we waxed poetic about our slave, our master, fire.

With Angie and the voices of Rich, Jen, Loren, Kelly, and Jeremy.

I opened up the Pioneer Press website TwinCities.com today to find this provocative image on the homepage.

"Unghhh! Yeah! Hang my beef curtains up on that long, hard rod. Oooooh!"

I'm done washing my hands after I shit or piss. No one else does it, so what's the point? Why bother to scrub my hands raw up to the armpits with hot, soapy water each and every time I use the can? I'm just going to end up touching door handles, parking meters, hand rails, and elevator buttons that thousands of other jerkoffs have touched after having their digits separated from raw feces by a millimeter of wet, disintegrating toilet paper. That should be plenty of barrier between me and disease-ridden, poisonous shit that I squeezed out of my colon, right? Soap and water? I say fucketh thee vigorously! Now let's grab a big ol' handful Doritos from the communal bag.

Important video. This is every millisecond of video I dare post. To post more would violate the sanctity of the bachelor party oath.

"I, [state your name], will not tell a female soul of the things that go on at this bachelor party that could get my friends in trouble with their respective wives and girlfriends. I also will not tell anyone about the gay stuff."

I have no idea if anyone actually watched the live video feeds from the party last night, but I would like for you to please be enjoying the photographic evidence from the gathering. Perhaps it was the cool air (it only dropped to 55 degrees), or perhaps I have grown more lame in the four months since my last party, but things broke up surprisingly early. People started filtering out around 10:30, and most were gone by 11:30. Jen and Rich stuck around for some conversation and the burning of random shit in the fire (it was my big "fuck you" to recycling cardboard boxes). Then Loren and his newly minted bride made a surprise stop directly upon returning from their honeymoon trip before even stopping at home. Now that's party dedication.

Also in attendance, but not pictured, my brother Troy and his wife Danielle, Elizabeth, Ang's friend Justin and his fiancee Kandi, Kristen (who regularly comments here), Chelsea's husband Matt, and Ronny Gunz and his wife Gina.

Amber and Katy get the party started right by showing off their boobyliciousness.


Oh yeah, girls? Check on my mantastic rack! Pretty nice, huh? Hello? Anyone?


Ang from above. This is often the angle from which I see her when I'm trying to fart on her face.


And here's what she sees when it's about to happen.


Erica and Missy pose all pretty-like for the camera.


Ok, ladies, let's take one more shot just to make sure we get a good photo. One, two, th--HEY! Erica!


Chelsea, Karah, and Amber bust out dancin'.


Jen and Rich. Rich swears that's a rugby shirt, but sewing a couple patches on Captain Picard's tunic doesn't fool me one damn bit, Rich. Engage!


The yard was lit up with multiple forms of fire.


Ang being Ang -- adorable.


We now interrupt this blog post to take a look at some totally awesome beards.

Yeah, that's right. My beard loves you, too.


Taylor's beard has a little more time on mine. Look at him. All smug about his kick ass beard. You win the battle, but the war isn't over yet.


Hedy and Captain Picard #5 admire Andy's rockin' beard.


I tried to talk Taylor and Andy into a beard rubbing trio, but they punched me in the face and left. What, guys? What!

This is the part where everyone took naps.


Someone (it wasn't me, I swearz!) made a hot dog penis with olive testicles and a hamburger vagina with an olive clit. Awesome.


The 'dog wang wants all up in that burger 'gina.


This dude's hot dog wang is pierced. Kinky!


I review the meaty genitalia pics on my camera. HYUCK!


Jen laughs as Rich demonstrates how to fondle the balls of old men. I disagree, Rich. You need to go much lower.


Ok, I don't think anyone's looking, so I'm going to go ahead and just fart quietly to myself. Yeah, this is totally under the radar. Ahhhhhh -- hey, what was that flash?


Lesley, Erica, and Missy like beer.


Jen, Teucer, and Ed discuss how blue my toilet water is.


With huge chunks of ash floating in the air from burning a palette and a chainsaw box, we peer through the haze for a photo.


I like to burn shit.


No, Ang. They are not "devil horns," they are metal fingers. METAL FINGERS. I will not have the devil on my hand, thank you.


Kelly, Grant, and Nichole pray for the party to end, and their wish is granted.

Hope you enjoyed the grainy live video feeds from the party. The low light outdoor camera made it look like half my yard was ablaze from the fire pit. Photos will be posted soon.

I make fix. Yes. You enjoy.

My comment links are messed up due to some changes I made to my template. Just hold tight. I will try to get them fixed when I have time later.

UPDATE: You can still post comments by clicking an individual post title (if you aren't already on the post page), then scrolling down to click "Post a comment"

Today I was busy from wake to nappy naps (at 9:45 am, 10:17 am, and 2:02 pm) and shitted up the blog by not shitting it up (writing on it). But because I love you like autumn badgers, I give you the gift of whatever the fuck this is.

Ang has been helping me a great deal in my efforts to get my house ready for the party on Saturday night. Unfortunately the repairs haven't been made to my screened in porch (they just applied for the permit the other day), so there will be some hanging debris and holes in the roof. Unless it rains, that shouldn't be a problem. There isn't much I can do about the structural cosmetic issues, but Ang and I cleaned up out there last night. She swept the floor and knocked down cobwebs while I cleaned up the tables and chairs. During my cleaning, I discovered that I had left myself little present from the last party I had back in May.

There's nothing like discovering a crock pot of baked beans four months later. Basically the bottom of the crock pot looked like dried pea soup. When I hurried the pot into the house to wash it, the hot water hit the thick layer of mold and send a plume of spores into the air. Not wanting to inhale the spores, I quickly turned my head, held my breath, and rushed to the other side of the kitchen. But now I probably have black lung or walking herpes or whatever the fuck. Is it bad for pee to be extra chunky?

We had a visitor today. He was a very sharp, professional looking chap, all suited and briefcased up. While here, he had to poop. I know because I was in the bathroom when he came in there to poop in a dapper fashion (and also a wet fashion from the sounds of it). Due to the sensitive nature of our business, company policy requires all visitors to be escorted by an employee at all times. This means he needed a poop escort. Unfortunately, this escort usually ends up being our receptionist. So she had to follow our guest to the bathroom and wait outside while he Pollacked our porcelain. I felt kind of bad for her, as I'm sure when she took this position, she did not foresee monitoring people while they shit.

I didn't foresee having to do that when I started here either, but let it be known that for a mere penance of a 0.25% increase in my salary (yes, just a quarter of a percent), I would be willing to act as the company poop escort for male visitors (obviously it would still make more sense for the receptionist to monitor the pooping of female visitors, as she could follow them into the restroom). As charitable as that sounds, I confess there would be an ulterior motive. In following the visitors into the restroom, I would listen carefully to the release of their stools and gases and offer dietary advice. A loud, watery sounding movement like our distinguished visitor had today would prompt me to recommend less greasy fast food and more solid fiber. Significant grunting and struggling would result in a recommendation of less dairy and more fruits like peaches and apricots.

The final portion of this value-added service would be a post-movement bowl check. It is quite possible that my presence will inhibit their willingness to unclench their bowels to their full potential. With great determination, it is possible, though difficult, to have a quiet bout of diarrhea. But there is no hiding the high-velocity spatter that would remain above the water line. That is, unless they are so dead set on hiding their greasy leavings that they stand up and pressure wash the bowl with a stream of urine. If that is the case, then they do not want my help, and I don't want to give it to them. But I don't see why you need to be that way. I'm just doing my job.

More on the weekend and more photos from Ang.

Here the crew of University of North Dakota alumni holding the groom sideways for some reason. I have a crazed look on my face, perhaps from the joy of having Loren's ass against my chest.


I'm cool, but Ang doesn't agree. "Whatever, Jeremy. Keep posing, all you want, it ain't gonna happen, douche."

You caught me, Gunz. I hold my pee in the bathroom when other people are in there. But don't take advantage of that, man. That's just mean. You know why I do it. Certainly you can identify. You walk into the bathroom, and someone is deucing in the stall. You start pissing, and right then, the stall dweller obviously finishes his business. You hear the familiar rustling of wiping, pants being pulled up, a belt buckling, and a zipper being returned to its upright and locked position. Someone is about to walk out of that stall. God dammit. Who the fuck is this in there? Am I going to get stuck talking at the sink with that hyperhappy, overly friendly douchebag I want to sock in the throat with a sturdy brick of depression? God, I hope not.

You pinch your stream, slowing it to a trickle. C'mon, douchebag, fucking hurry up in there! You going to use up half the roll or what? You realize you don't have enough juice to outlast this guy, so you clamp down and stop your stream entirely. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! I want to get out of here, man! Finally he emerges from the stall, but you can't look to see who it is. Turning and accidentally making eye contact while your dick is in your hands is bad protocol. That shit'll get you punched in the kidney in some circles.

He dawdles at the sink, apparently scrubbing his hands up to his shoulders. And what's he doing now? Is he... HE'S WIPING DOWN THE FUCKING SINK!! DUDE! Come the fuck ON! Hurry up!!! Finally you can't wait any longer. You risk looking like you are just standing there quietly holding your penis, so you let the last drops dribble out and flush. You cautiously emerge to find Ronny Gunz, shiteating grin on his face, trying to out wait you to see just how long you'll stand there without peeing. You're an ass, Ronny.

I'm having a little shin-daggity-swig at my place on Saturday. There will be drinking, eating, and if the weather cooperates, a roaring bonfire. If you have not yet received an invite, it's probably either because I don't know you or don't have your email address. Do I know you? Or kind of know you from you commenting here (or me commenting on your blog)? Then don't be shy. Drop me an email, and I'll fire over the info. Again, only if I know you. I don't need random dickslappers wandering through my house, jizzing in my silverware drawer and stealing my porn (or jizzing in my porn drawer and stealing my silverware).

For those who can't attend, won't attend, or live far, far away in distant lands like North Dakota or downtown Canada, I am going to make an attempt to set up a couple of webcams to stream the festivities here on the blog. Guests, fear not, for I will clearly mark them and set them up in a way that will allow you to avoid broadcasting your drunken antics to the world if you so choose. In any case, load up the ol' blog Saturday night to see if I pulled it off. Maybe you'll see a naked booby! I know I'd like to see one. That would rock.

WASHINGTON -- Senator Larry Craig should be allowed to withdraw his guilty plea in an airport bathroom sex sting because he was under extreme stress. "It's tough covering up that I'm as gay as the day is long," said Craig. "Decades of lying to my wife, lying to my family, and enjoying the pleasures of dirty, dirty bathroom sex with men and finally getting caught doing it pressured me into pleading guilty. Therefore, I should be allowed to withdraw my plea."

In addition, Craig's lawyer argues that his client was deprived of his rights. "He was read his Miranda warning and treated in a very discreet and professional manner by the arresting officer, but the officer didn't have sex with him, and that totally bummed him out. My client is sorry for the bad name he has given to gay men everywhere but also says he'd probably want to bang men public bathrooms even if he were straight. It's his trademark thing that he does. A calling card if you will. Some people like to keep to themselves while they're pooping, and others like to poke men in the butthole with their erect members instead of pooping. It's all about personal bathroom choice, a choice that was taken away from Senator Craig."

The GOP said that sounds totally reasonable and would now like Craig to stay. They apologized to him with a card and muffin basket.

(photos to come once I can steal them from Ang and others since I forgot my camera)

This past weekend my buddy Loren (of bachelor party fame), got married just outside of Madison. Miss Angie wasn't feeling too well on Thursday and Friday, so it was touch and go as to whether she was going to be able to make the trip with me. Thankfully she felt better Saturday morning, and we were on the road by 8:40 am. The wedding was at 2:30 in Waunakee, which gave us plenty of time to drive at a reasonable pace, stop for the occasional caffeinated beverage and snack along the way, check into the hotel in Madison, change into our spiffwear, and get to the church with time to spare.

The mercifully short ceremony was at a Presbyterian church in the middle of corn fields. For its rural setting, it was quite a large and modern looking building. But like I always feel when I set foot inside a house of worship, I was waiting to be struck down by lightning or pointed out and screamed at by a blind congregation member overcome with a prescient waking dream of the Rapture. I imagine that vision would be of me trying on the suit coats and gathering the wallets of those who had disappeared. "I'm not sure where everyone went, but this is pretty fuckin' sweet! [shoves a gold necklace and credit cards into his pocket]"

Back at the hotel in Madison (we managed to get a room in the hotel where the reception was being held, despite the Ironman Triathlon going on that weekend), we rested up briefly, evacuated our internals, and headed down the banquet room where some o' them there whore dervs were being served (hors d’œuvre is just too fancy to spell). The hotel had a pretty nice setup, though Ang and I agreed that it was all a little flashy for our tastes. It was around this time that she pulled, "Well, when WE get married..." out of her hat. I played it cool, knowing that she was joking, but I now admit that I did have a microsecond of sheer panic. Angie, you can't do that shit to me. I have weak and spastic bowels.

(to be continued...)

Moblog: "Man there is nothing like ear fucking a jack-o-lantern."

Taken at Cracker Barrel in Madison, WI.

Perverted penis molester!I've informed Ang that I intend to file a sexual harassment lawsuit against her cat Spaz. I awoke at Ang's place this morning to find Spaz perched atop my junk, vigorously patting the head of my penis through my underwear with her front paws. I was violated and humiliated, and I am afraid I will not be able to perform sexually for some time to come. I have also advised Ang that she should file suit against her cat for loss of companionship. If you have been sexually harassed, touched, or otherwise intimidated by Spaz, please contact me immediately. We may be able to turn this into a class action lawsuit.

P.S. By "perform sexually" I mean shooting ping pong balls out of my ass on stage at Deja Vu.

I can't remember the last time I grew my beard this long (in terms of both hair length and temporal duration). My beard last winter was weak in comparison. If the two beards were to fight to the death, my current beard would snap the old beard's neck, tear its head off, and drink of its furry blood. Could my beard kick your ass? I'm not sure. How strong are you, tough guy? Personally I don't think it matters. My beard isn't above simply kicking you in the nuts, running away, and hiding. And if you're a woman, it would telepathically induce your menstrual cycle early and smack you about the titties. Hard. Man, my beard is an asshole!

Or you could just take your hat off when you are driving your convertible you douche.

Moblog: Whatever you do, do not listen to your friends unless they can lend you some "Luberderm."

Dear guy on the phone within earshot of me,

Please discontinue the following practices during phone conversations:

-Alternating between calling a woman "miss" and "ma'am" in the same conversation. She's either married, or she isn't. She can't be both. Pick one and stick with it, or stop addressing her by anything other than her name. The only way you could sound more ridiculous would be to address her as "sir" and "ma'am" in the same conversation.

-Raising your voice at the end of every sentence and phrase, including declaratives and imperatives, in a manner that makes it sound like you are asking a question. "Hello? Thank you for calling [company]?? My name is [name]??? ... You need to contact someone in our [department] group???????" Have some confidence in what you're saying for crying out loud! Or at least simulate confidence.

-Using the word "guesstimate." It's never appropriate. Ever.

-Ending each call with "Have a great rest of your day!" Aside from the awkward phrasing, you seem to imply that they should only enjoy the rest of the day. "From the time you woke up, to this very moment right here, I hope you had the shittiest day possible. And I hope you were anally violated by an anteater's nose."

[concern for our language and for you]

-Jeremy

Is it gay if you get your own spooge in your own butthole? How about if you put it there on purpose?

I spent this past holiday weekend in North Dakota. My brother Troy, his wife Danielle, Ang, and I piled into Troy's gas guzzling, yet mercifully roomy Yukon for the trek to visit Mom and her husband. Troy had his 10 year high school reunion, and since my original plans of flying up to Toronto this weekend fell through, I decided this was a great opportunity to visit the family, otherwise I probably wouldn't see many of them until Christmas.

We finally hit the road around 5 on Friday, agreeing that we would stop to eat at the Subway in Monticello. Unfortunately we arrived to find that it had been torched by an arsonist. Perhaps some pissed off former sandwich artist wanted to see myriad posters of Jarrod and his crooked smirk melt into a pool of oblivion. With our first choice at risk of structural collapse, we ate at the DQ Grill & Chill next door. I haven't eaten an actual meal at a DQ in years, so I thought I would use this as an opportunity to try one of their Flamethrower Burgers they've touted on television so much. I love hot and spicy food and hoped the grease and spices would loosen my stubborn stools that had been backing up for a couple of days. The burger was tasty, but I'd rate its heat somewhere between black pepper and a moistened towelette on the Scoville scale. Unfortunately, it loosened up nothing more than my noxious gases. The rest of the ride to Mom's place, I filled the Yukon with the most horrid cloud of ass imaginable. It smelled of fried meat, spoiled eggs, and a trash can topped with fruit-filled vomit on a hot summer day. Poor Ang attempted to retaliate later with her own contribution, but there simply was no comparison to my putrid colorectal emissions.

We rolled into Mom's around 11:30 pm. More accurately, we shuddered into Mom's. It was no surprise that driving the many miles of heavily traveled, winding gravel roads leading to her house was like rolling over a washboard in a Radio Flyer on triangular wheels. This, however, was the worst condition in which we had ever found these roads. The roads lead to several popular fishing spots on Devils Lake. Add to that a new lake home development, and it makes for an excessive amount traffic for a gravel road to handle, regardless of how often it is graded. Smooth the road, and two days later, it's a washboard again.

We were all exhausted when we got to Mom's, so after staying up briefly to chat, everyone went to bed. Ang and I retired to one of the very private spare bedrooms in the basement, but there wasn't even any boning. Now that's pretty damned tired!

On Saturday evening, after spending a lazy day relaxing and catching up with Mom, we headed to Cando (pronounced CAN-doo), about 60 miles away to catch up with our cousin Ryan and check out the drug and alcohol rehab center where he works just outside of town. At the center, Ryan cooks meals, takes residents on outings and leads various activities, and in typical Ryan fashion, is a general smartass. Afterward, we had a beer at a local bar, after which Troy and Danielle left for the reunion. Ang and I drove separately in Mom's car, so I drove her around town. Five minutes later, we were done. Actually, we tried to track down my uncle, but he apparently was out riding his Harley with his wife.



Before leaving town to drive past the farm I grew up on (Mom sold it about a year after Dad died), we realized we were starving. Dining options are limited in Cando, so we stopped at yet another DQ. Across the parking lot from the restaurant is a faded sign shouting Cando's quarter-century-old motto, "You Can-Do Better in Cando." I've taken issue with this slogan from its inception. First, why the dash in "Can-Do?" "Can" and "do" are two completely distinct, unhyphenated words last time I checked. I would accept it if the slogan was "We have a can-do attitude in Cando!" But it's not, so I must stamp it as WRONG!



Also, I would like more specifics in that motto. What is it I can do better in Cando? Can I play the piano better? Be better in bed? Run faster? Increase my fire-to-kill ratio? I'm not making any plans until you provide to me in writing a bulleted list of things I can do better there. I don't want to quit my job, rent a U-Haul, pack my shit up, and drive 7 hours just to find that I can knit 5% faster and improve my dried cow shit tossing accuracy.

Not being in any particular hurry, we took the meandering back roads running past our old farm to get back to Devils Lake. Not that Ang didn't believe me, but I wanted her to see just how far in the middle of BFE I lived throughout my childhood. We chatted with Mom and her husband for a while and were in bed by 11. Since my phone was roaming, I had turned it off, so I missed a series of text messages from my sister-in-law that are amusing now, but would have been progressively alarming at the time.

12:07 AM: Where aree you guys? You're not doin it are you?

It's distinctly possible we were.

2:14 AM: I think troy is getting a dui. I'm not even sure what I should be doing. I'm sitting in the car while he's in the cop car. Should I get out?

State patrol officers and cops in general love it when the plastered significant other stumbles out of the car toward the squad. They enjoy playing a guessing game as to whether you are coming over to shoot them or not. It adds unexpected spice to the situation. And as the saying goes, spice is the spice of life. Um... no, wait...

2:28 AM: Just in case, we are fine. Troy blew ok. Cop loved it!! Well be home soon.

Whew! I should also note that I simply can't come up with a better joke than she did there. It turns out that Troy was pulled over for having a tail light out. He had enjoyed several spiritous beverages throughout the night, which he admitted to when asked (though "a couple of beers" were actually "a couple of six-packs of beer"). Thankfully he had slowed down as the evening progressed, and was under the limit. The lesson learned is that if you have a tail light out and KNOW you have a tail light out (he had known it was out for quite some time), it's probably not a good idea to be drinking any amount of alcohol and getting behind the wheel, particularly at 2 in the morning during Labor Day weekend. Or anytime for that matter.

Sunday was yet another lazy day of visiting, reading, and watching TV. Troy and Danielle took off for another reunion-related event and returned in time to head into Devils Lake to meet our uncle Doug and his wife for dinner at Pizza Hut. Just what I needed to calm my quivering, quacking sphincter. But first we stopped so Mom could pick up a few groceries. I realized I need to wander through the bulk aisle more often.



Monday night we arrived back at Troy's place around 9 pm, far later than I had anticipated or hoped. By the time Ang and I got back to my place and took care of some pressing business, she didn't get home to feed her lonely kitty (her literal kitty, not a euphemistic kitty) until 11 or so. It was great to see my family, but I was relieved to sleep in my own bed (well, in my own home -- I fell asleep on the couch again). And next time, I'm bringing some matches for the car ride.

Sorry about the low quality and quantity of posts the last few days. As I mentioned, I was back in North Dakota over Labor Day weekend. I'm working on a post with a couple of photos of the weekend and should get it up tomorrow. In one, I'm wearing a shirt, and there's a guy with a pen. I'll bet he stole it from my man purse.

P.S. Boobies

P.P.S. I twittered this yesterday, but the most romantic way in which to touch a booby is the honk.

Moblog: Click the photo and find the error.