I was in high school the last time I went to ValleyFair, and about 10 the time before that. Still remembering how much I had loved the rollercoaster and those gravity-defying, breathtaking rides, I decided to get in touch with the fearless kid I once was. First stop: Power Tower, the shot upward. As I sat, buckled into my chair, my glasses sitting in a box on the ground, feet dangling free, I clung tightly to the bars surrounding my body and hoped that it wasn't going to be as frightening as I'd suspected. Within a few seconds we were flying towards the sky at over 50 mph, and as much as I tried, I could not enjoy it. In fact I hated it to the point of near-hyperventilation. We came to a stop at the top and started to float down gently when Jeremy asks me if I'm doing alright; I choked out a barely audible "no" while fighting back tears. It was that terrifying to me. Once we were safely back on the ground I began to breathe more normally.



On the ground I thought, "Of course it's that terrifying; you hate heights and you haaate the feeling of falling, why did you think that would be any different?" I had just hoped that it would be exhilarating and awesome.



We walked around a little as I shook off the experience and we spotted some folks with beers in hand. Yes. Let's get a beer, sit for a few minutes and relax. We laughed about it and agreed that if he wanted to go on the downward shot, I would happily sit on a nearby bench and enjoy the view. With most of the beer gone, we discussed what we would do next and settled on Wild Thing. You can probably see where this is going. I was certain that roller coasters were fine! You're more strapped in, you're not as far off the ground and there isn't that feeling of being totally out of control, but what I hadn't expected was the near 90 degree first drop that brought my ass off the seat. That wasn't even the worst part! No. After another 45 or so seconds of fear and loathing we went through a tunnel that was pitch black with the exception of the strobe light effect of the flash while our pictures were being snapped. I don't think I could describe my agony any better than this picture (of the picture, we're cheap) does on its own:



When Wild Thing came to a stop at the station, I bolted down the ramp and into the park. This time I wasn't able to hold back the tears, but only wipe up after them. Thankfully, it was dark and nobody witnessed this pathetic display of wussy. There would be no more rides for me tonight. As much as I had really wanted to be that kid again, it was never going to happen. To quote Erica, "It's hard getting old, isn't it?" Indeed.

Once I stopped shaking we were off walking around the park again. One of the disadvantages of visiting ValleyScare is that not all rides and attractions are operating, so our choices are limited to those with the most "scare" factor. Jeremy hadn't yet been on Renegade and with a lack of many other choices, I was left to hang out at the entrance while he waited in line and took a ride. He apparently encountered quite the character while waiting in line, but I'm sure he can tell you about that. When he emerged, about 30 minutes later, I had completely calmed down, no thanks to him, and was ready for one last attraction before going home.

Carn-Evil is really a fun house set up with zombie clowns, 3-D paint and strings hanging from the ceiling that felt like spider webs. It was good old-fashioned scary fun without fear of death and I got to honk a clown's big red nose.

On the way home we stopped by the Dairy Queen for a couple of blizzards. Despite the realization that I'll never again be that undaunted, spunky youngster who can ride roller coasters, I had a pretty good time. Maybe next spring I'll give ValleyFair another try.

The last time I went out to ValleyFair was almost exactly a year ago. October is the time of year when they turn the park into ValleyScare, a dark, misty, haunted land echoing with tortured moans and horrifying screams. Towering ogres, rattling skeletons, and the spirits of the dead and damned watch over its patrons with glowing red eyes. I've been to ValleyFair countless times, but I was so thrilled by last year's Halloween transformation that I had to return. I suggested it to Ang a couple of weeks ago, and her eyes lit up with sheer delight. "Yes, yes, YES! A thousand times yes!"



The time was set, and at long last, our evening of chills and thrills arrived. Our first stop was the Power Tower. Personally I prefer the towers that drop you, but they were only running one of them, and the line was a bit long. So we did the one that shoots you up like a bat out of my ass. As we strapped ourselves in, we could barely contain our giddy glee. The anticipation swelled and swelled, and just went it was about to become unbearable, WOOSH! We hurtled into the air at 50 miles per hour. I shrieked like a child and laughed maniacally. As we neared the top, I heard Ang nearly hyperventilating. When we were lowered to the bottom and off the ride, I tried to act reassuring, but inside I was livid. What the fuck, Ang?!? How DARE she harsh my amusement park buzz! Was she going to be a complete pantload like this all night?

We walked away from the Power Tower, and Ang seemed to get her legs back a little bit. Trying to keep the edge out of my voice, I asked her again if she was alright. As she reassured me she was alright, I noticed a beer stand. Yes! Let's get some booze in this chick's system and loosen her up a little. The beer might calm me down and make it easier to crack open her panties later. Within a few minutes, it was clear we were both far more mellow. She even agreed to ride Wild Thing with me with a bit of enthusiasm. It was looking like our fun night wasn't ruined after all! Here's a photo of how excited she was:



We finished our beers and slowly made our way to Wild Thing, stopping to gawk at all the various macabre decorations along the way. By the time we reached the roller coaster, she was smiling and laughing, seemingly back to her old self. But the ride was a disaster. She screamed, cried, and did everything short of pissing herself. God dammit! She shit-tanked my fun again! By this point I could hardly speak to her, so I just wandered off to Renegade by myself without saying much more than "I'll be back in a bit."



Renegade is a wooden coaster that just opened this year, and I hadn't ridden before, and I was damned if her sniveling and crying was going to keep me from my last chance to ride it until May. And let me tell you, it was worth every minute in line. That motherfucker was a nonstop twisting, tilting, teeth-chattering adrenaline rush!

After a run through some stupid 3D clown maze thing, we headed to DQ and had ourselves a Blizzard. At least Ang didn't burst into tears over that. I'll never go to ValleyFair with her again.

May your costume not be too cold on the way to the car and between houses. And while we're at it, may it not snow.

May your costume not rip, your greasy makeup not run into your eyes.

May you not be assaulted and viciously robbed of your candied treats.

May your candy be all chocolate and non-gummy, non-fructose, and non-gelatinous. And God have mercy on the motherfucker who puts a painted nickel, pencil, or toothbrush in your bag.

May you not be pulled into a van and touched inappropriately by a bearded man who said he had candy.

May your bags of poo burn on the doorsteps like the Lighthouse of Alexandria.

May you have a happy Halloween comma motherfucker period

Canadians are standing by, ready and waiting for your call or visit for a personal consultation. Want to talk about weather? Canadians can do that! Want to talk about your finances and a secure future for your family? Canadians can do that! Having problems with your internet connection? Pick up that phone and call Canadians today! Your phone can do it. YOU can do it. Canadians. Call some, won't you?

Customers wishing to converse about maple syrup, back bacon, or hockey will incur additional fees.

Back in high school, I never thought I would have much use for algebra or geometry. But today I find myself using both of them yet again for the I've-lost-counteenth time in my career. I'm recreating an electronic signature capture program in a different programming language to make things easier for us to maintain and for our users to use. So I need to capture this signature, translate it and save it as a series of coordinates, and then recreate the signature later using simple geometry when it needs to be displayed again. Such an endeavor requires complicated test signatures to make sure the program works. Here is the signature I captured and saved earlier today.

I can't say I ever see using calculus though. The last time I used that was when I wrote a simulation program in college that given variables such as air temperature, altitude, and body temperature, and volume, would calculate how high of a structure someone would have to shit, piss, or puke off of for the said matter to freeze solid before it hit the ground. I sold it to Microsoft for $15 and a punch to the nuts.

Give him a preview of what's under the hood with this lovely, tasteful pink taco thong. Give one to your mom. Hell, give one to your granny. I don't fucking care. Just buy one. Daddy needs a new mortgage payment.

Stay tuned, as I'm creating a new Zazzle store with more products, more customization options, and even less class and dignity! Wear my figurative shit with shame, bitches!

A decade ago, I was a bright-eyed (bleary-eyed), optimistic (pissed off) young lad destined for greatness (mediocrity). Back then, I ran a little website on our college web server that was -- surprise, surprise -- about shit. This was the hardcore stuff, as apparently I had a much stronger stomach in those days than I do now. People sent in stories and photos of their unloadings of various impressive shapes, viscosities, and masses, and it all had quite the following. In fact, the average daily traffic to my blog still doesn't match the traffic that crossed my humble page about shit and the shit lifestyle, or "shitstyle" as I've never, ever called it.

Probably the most interesting submission I had came from a reader who wondered if she could send me a sample of a new novelty pen she was trying to market. I had long since completely forgotten about this wonderful pen until I found it while doing a recent top-to-bottom cleaning and reorganization of my belongings. May I introduce to you, the turd pen*. If I remember correctly, her process involved paper-maché and a liberal coating of shellack or other sealant. It's functional, versatile, and guaranteed to be the pen your coworkers won't steal (unless you work with me).


Turd pen is great for writing thoughtful essays about the conflict in Darfur.

Turd pen. Buy one. Love, Jeremy.


*A rudimentary google search came up with a site selling the "Doo Doo Doodler," created by Wendy. The pen looks remarkably similar, and the name Wendy seems familiar. I suspect this is the fruit of her squeezings.

Ah, yes. Musical bingo. It's been quite a while since Ang and I have attended, and it's been even longer since there has been much of a turnout. Obviously we were thrilled to be there.


Now I'm still playing with my new camera, so I hope you'll forgive the rash of weird, shitty attempts at artsy fartsy crap. Most of the photos ended up being unrecognizable blobs.

First up is the color accent feature. You select any color, and then it will filter out all colors but that one. Abysmal Chick and Hedy appear to have been drinking fermented Kool-Aid.


Jen has been chewing on her sweater. She rejected numerous requests from others who wanted to do the same.


Ang is happy that my request was one of those that Jen rejected.


Alie must have taken a photo of my penis. It's not that god damned funny, Alie!


The color replacement feature on my camera gives Alie that special Satanic glow she's always wanted.


This would be an incredible photo if I hadn't turned on the color replace for green. I suppose I could have photoshopped the green back out, but something about Abysmal Chick and Hedy with mold growing on their face while a plate of green vomit sits in front of them -- it comforts me.


Abysmal Chick's face melts when the breeze shifts and crosses my unwashed ass.


Blogging all-stars pose until they're blue in the face.


Tim whispers to Alie that her panty line is showing.


Everyone tries to hide Alie's panty shame with their glasses, but they stop dead in their tracks when she slaps her knickers on the table and punches Aaron in the ribcage.


Lesley gives a long thumbs up to musical bingo. Or is trying to hitch a ride the hell out of there.


Just 5 more of these to go.


I never realized it until last night, but there's a titty on the ceiling. When Ang wasn't looking, I stood on a stool and suckled on it. Fucking sweet.


Alie turns red and cries when she learns they took all of our favorite beers off the menu. I swear they are trying everything in their power to drive us away. Hmm... I might not be terribly far off base.


I drew this guy for you. His name is Action Jackson Jackson Action. He loves you so much that he just peed in your ashtray.


The more I drink, the clearer the beer becomes, and the blurrier everything else gets. I need to drink more.

This story is a couple of weeks old, but this may very well be the most incredible mane of hair I've ever seen on a man in the 21st century. Rock on, brother. Watch the video here.


Photo from KARE 11

Moblog: I like to think that I have a rather active bottom myself.

Once upon a time, there was a very confused little boy named Jeremy. Jeremy couldn't quite get the hang of using the big boy boy potty (or as his mother insisted on calling it, "the big girl potty").


Tired of hosing down the guest bathroom, Jeremy's mother decided it was high time to teach him how to make stinky poo in the grownup toily. Jeremy was ambivalent.


Over the next several years, little Jeremy's mother drilled him 5 times a day about how to properly unload the chocolate freight train to Cleveland. She forced him to read advanced poop theory books until his brain nearly exploded.


With a lot of practice and a lot of support, Jeremy finally got the hang of it. Mommy even let him 'X' his poops on his big boy potty calendar. Though she wishes he would have used a crayon or pen or something.


With his newfound success in the industry of pooping, Jeremy went to college, got his degree, and made a respectable living. And that is why Ang is the luckiest girl in the whole motherfuckin' world. The end.

Ronny stood on my desk to wipe while I was in Vegas. I returned to work today to find my keyboard covered with ass peanuts the size of clown cars. NOOOOooooo...!!!!

Here are some more Vegas photos for your viewing pleasure, which is the only pleasure you're getting so live it up. There is one final home movie; we flipped a coin to help us decide to put it up, but realized that the coin is biased with its heads and tails. Much to your advantage, we decided not to put it up. Boy, it's good.

I can only handle being creative and clever a couple times a day and I already totally wasted those moments on my cat, so you get the following ho-hum, bromidic captions. Enjoy them like warm milk.

The Adventuredome at Circus Circus.


The obnoxious Trump Tower. It'd fit right in if it weren't so ridiculously huge. Just like Donald's ego.


The prettiest thing about Circus Circus; its brochures.


Well, once we left, anyway.


See?


New York, New York. How do all those people fit in there?


Excalibur. I don't remember much about it.


Walking through the pathways outside Mandalay Bay was such a relief from the heat and sun. The waterfalls kept it cool and damp. Oh, yeah, and it's pretty beautiful.


This was the first thing I saw during the cab ride from the airport. I got drunk just looking at it.

Ah, Las Vegas. When you're in a somewhat new relationship and go to Vegas, everyone always asks if you're going to get married while you're there. ROFLMFAO! Now shut the fuck up and listen.

Wednesday morning we woke up a little after 6 to make our early morning flight. My sister-in-law Danielle was kind enough to give us a ride to MSP. We grabbed coffee and pastries from Caribou and sat in sleepy silence waiting for our flight to board.

Ang clutches her boarding pass and her purse as we wait to board the plane.


Normally I check in and print boarding passes online the day before I fly so I can select my seats. For whatever reason, this time I purposely decided to just use the automated check-in kiosk at the airport. Unfortunately the flight was completely full, and I failed to notice that Ang and I had been seated in the same row, but in the seats on the aisle across from each other. All of the people in the seats around us were couples or parents with their child, so we were fucked. We sat through the duration of the flight unable to talk to each other much, save the occasional lean across the aisle to crack wise.

After the in-flight movie, "License to Wed," which I ignored with little effort, the video screens remained down, and they began showing screens of visual puzzles and trivia sponsored by Cranium. This would have been somewhat enjoyable if the dipshit teenager in the row behind me hadn't found it necessary to read each and every question and possible multiple choice answers out loud. In addition to reading everything aloud with unmitigated volume, he reasoned out his answers aloud and was congratulated heartily for his brilliance by his doting mother in each of the rare instances he was correct. I was getting highly agitated, as were several other people around him (judging from the glares in his direction). I felt the urge to turn around and ask that they shut the hell up, but the halting, strained manner in which he read the questions let me to suspect that he was developmentally disabled. He looked normal enough, but I didn't want to chance it. That's just what I need -- turn around and bitch out some mentally challenged jabbermouth in front of his overprotective mother. I surely would have gotten a purse upside the head or a stern lecture. Whatever, lady. Learning disabilities do not necessarily preclude learning simple manners. Stop making me be tolerant and feeling guilty!

The taxi from the airport was pretty uneventful, though I was amazed at how many new structures had gone up since I had last visited 6 years ago. As far as the eye could see, new construction was taking place all down the strip and beyond. But at least Al Phillips kept his starring roll as "The Cleaner."


When we got back to the hotel, we both took a brief nap. I hadn't slept very well the preceding three nights in a row and could barely keep my eyes open. Even though I only slept for a few minutes, laying down with my eyes closed reinvigorated me, and we were off to grab lunch and walk down the strip.

We hadn't walked but a handful of blocks when we eyed this unknown smear of people liquids. Chunky vomit? Viscous high-pressure shit? Does it really matter?


After a while, Ang needed to stop for a rest. She had forgotten her sneakers at home, and didn't realize how far we would be walking. At least her shoes matched the spray paint on the sidewalk.


This fountain is ostentatious.


Um... and a little homoerotic. Whatcha blowin' there, bugle boy?


No, no. He's BLOWING, not sucking!


Hee hee! Boobies!!!!


Hey! Hey, Ang! You totally have to check this fucking statue out. Come over here and look! See? BOOBIES!!! BWAAAAH HAAHH HA HAAAAAAH!


What? There's nothing wrong with me. Why do you ask?


Take a good look because odds are good this won't be there the next time you visit Vegas. This one's slated to go bye bye.


I love it when we can share our passion for footing card-sized advertisements for escort services.


We stayed at Circus Circus. For $50 per night, it was a great deal. We knew it was kind of shitty, so we weren't surprised about how horribly thin the walls were. Though the air conditioner in our room sounded like a 747 taking off every time it kicked in, and there was no way to leave the fan running constantly. Bunch of ass clowns.


Can Donald Trump build anything that doesn't look like a gaudy, gold-plated trinket dangling from a chain in the chest hair of a 70's-era lounge lizard in polyester pants?


Wednesday night we had tickets to the late show of Mystère at Treasure Island. We headed over early, picked up our tickets, and feasted on a seafood platter at Kahunaville. Ang had a margarita with some sort of court jester thingy in it.


Court jesters remind me of simpler times. Simpler times make me sad.


Hey! Keep taking photos of ME!


The show was fucking amazing. I had been to a couple Cirque du Soleil shows prior to this one, but I think this was the best of them. I had front row seats for O at the Bellagio in 2001, and we had third row seats near the center of the stage for this one. There were people dangling, spinning, and shitting copper directly above our heads. The copper thing took me by surprise a little, but it's art.

We hot and we know it, bitches.


On Thursday, we had intended on taking a bit more leisurely pace. Waking up at 1:30 pm was a good start. First we meandered through the gift shops in the hotel. Oh, Ang, don't ceramic pigs say the craziest things?


This to-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty in front of New York New York is astoundingly realistic. But did they have to take it a step further and make it anatomically correct? I don't need to see lady liberty's mud flaps.


No peeking up her dress, pervert!


Check out the rack on this lion in front of the MGM Grand!


Vegas is just one big collection of phallic symbols. Giant, throbbing, rock hard phallic symbols.


This Sphinx is being mounted by a big, black pyramid.


"I'm concerned about what's going on back there."


You can't walk two feet without seeing ads for chat lines and escort services.


OMG! Barry Manilow is in Star Trek The Experience now? Bad fuckin' ass!


The only reason I have never gouged my eyes out and removed my balls with a dollar bill is because I have never been forced to see this show. And as Ang pointed out, they found the one and only way to make the word "cabaret" gayer -- prepend it with the word "shimmer." And then ruin the gayness by shoving a shitty show about dried up vaginas in there. Why you wanna go and ruin the gayness?


Prime rib dinner made of burned out light bulbs looks delish!


After a stop to take in the view from atop the Stratosphere, we cabbed it downtown to get our drink on.


Ang said that downtown is how she had pictured Las Vegas in her mind. The old school casinos clustered together in close quarters, the iconic neon signs like this cowboy -- other than the fact it's been enclosed by a roof, it really does recall the old days.




Everywhere we went, drunk motherfuckers would see us taking photos and insist on taking one of us together. They all somehow managed to completely fuck up the picture, making the photo dark, blurry, or both. It's set to automatic! How the hell can you fuck that up, you staggering slob?!? (but it was very kind of you to offer to take our photo... jackass)


Ang drinky beer good now.


Mmmmmmmmmm...


Another god-awful photo by a drunken douchebag. (but thanks for the offer -- it was very kind of you... dipshit)


I'm not sure why, but the fountains at the Bellagio gave me an erection and the urge to pee.


This rule holds true everywhere, but is especially true in Las Vegas: never frequent an establishment that ends a gerund with an apostrophe.


Still peeved about having to sit apart on our flight to Vegas, we dropped $6 into a wallet-robbing internet kiosk to check-in and select our seats for the return flight when we got back to the hotel. That included the $1 per page fee to print out our boarding passes. It's cheap to get to Vegas, but it ain't cheap to exist there.

So now Angie and I have both lost our respective life savings, and I type this into a Speak & Spell I found in a puddle of hobo piss. We've moved in together, but it's in a dumpster behind Sex World. We get a new shipment of used lube and spooge-filled mops every hour on the hour. Life is good.

Moblog: Ang is in awe.

Just waiting while Ang gets ready. We woke up a couple of hours ago. These fucking casino hotels are huge. Getting to our room is like taking the subway or bus. We take one elevator, walk through a mile of slot machines, and take another elevator. It took me over a half hour for the round trip downstairs to get us some coffee and doughnuts this morning. I also managed to lose my life savings in there somehow. Looks like we will be hitching it home.

In a little over an hour we will be on our flight for Vegas. The first thing I plan on doing when we get there is hire a hooker to read me passages from the Bible. Then I'll have her smack my dick with it.

Moblog: Graffiti

In the beginning, Ang and I were madly smitten with each other. We were sickening (we are still sickening, but now for all of the usual and correct reasons that we were sickening before we met each other). Last night I knew we had reached a plateau in our relationship, perhaps a crossroads of sorts. I realize now that she is trying to change me. At first, it was the subtle phone calls.

"Hey, Jeremy. You coming over to keep to keep me warm tonight baby?"

"Keep you warm? It's like 95 degrees and muggier than a cow's uterus!"

"I was speaking figuratively, hon. I mean I want to cuddle."

"Yeah, that sounds ok, but I have a blog post I'm working on."

"Blog post?!? You want to work on a blog post instead of spend time with me? Get the fuck over here RIGHT NOW, or I will have your balls in a jar in my pantry!!"

"[whimpering] Yes, ma'am."

Over time, it grew more overt, yet I didn't seem to latch on to what was happening.

"Jeremy, I'd like to help you get more organized."

"More organized?"

"Well, you have all these boxes of papers and junk all over your house, and you always lose things or have a hard time finding them when you need them. I think we should sort through it all, organize your receipts, sort through the things you don't need and throw them or give them away."

"Nah, that's ok. I've got a system."

"No, I really want to help you."

"I appreciate it, babe, but I've got it under control."

"I don't think you understand. I want to help you. In fact, I bought you some folders and organizers to keep everything tidy."

"You did? But--"

"No buts! Get this shit picked up, sorted in these folders and organizers I bought you, pleasure me for an acceptable duration, stop before you come, then start over and do it all again, you sniveling, dickless turd!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's what I thought, momma's boy." [kicks me]

Lately Ang's once gentle, loving prompts for me to change myself for the better have become a little emasculating. She's even making fun of me in the bedroom. Last night, we were chatting as we drifted off to sleep, and I eeked out a snappy little squeaker of a fart. She wasn't impressed.

"Oh, THAT was manly. Pssht."

"You're even making fun of my farts now? Can I do ANYTHING right around you?"

"Well, let's go down the checklist, shall we? Flaccid dick. Check. Terrible in bed. Check. Spineless pantywaist. Check. Drives like my grandma. Check. Disorganized man child. Check. Girly mouse squeak farts. Check. You put on this big show about your massive manly dumps and farts, but the truth is you can't fart, and your shit smells like linseed oil and pineapple."

"You take that back!"

"LINSEED AND PINEAPPLE SHITTER!!!"

"NOO! Shutup, shutup, SHUTUP!!!" [presses hands to ears and begins to sob]

"Oh, big surprise. Now you're fucking crying. Jesus. Here, I think you need one of these for your cavernous, seeping vagina." [throws a tampon at me]

[sob] "Why are you so mean to me?" [sob]

"Because you're worthless! For once in your life, be a fucking MAN, god dammit!"

[tears turn to anger] "A man? You want a MAN? I am all man, Angie. And you know it."

"Then fucking show me!" [slaps me hard]

"I'll show you!" [closes eyes, strains, and grunts]

"Yes, show me!"

[grunts more] "GNNRRRRRRRRRRGGHHAAAHHH!" [pulls down underwear, bends over, and unleashes a bellowing, wet, 60-second fart that rattles the walls and shatters a vase, then fires out a torrent of undigested strips of red bell pepper and popcorn kernels against the wall]

"Holy shit!"

[collapses to the floor as car alarms wail in the distance] "See? I'm a man... a man... all man..." [closes eyes, exhausted]

[kneels down to cradle my head in her lap and stroke my hair gently] "Ssshhhh... go to sleep, baby. I know. I always knew. I just wanted you to know it, too."

I'll admit, I had a play refrigerator complete with Chocolate Milk cartons and boxes of Spic N Span (remember that shit? Yikes. I'm not even going to touch on that). I'm pretty sure I had a shopping cart and even a tiny little broom and dust pan. That was 1981. If we wanted to fast forward 26 years, we might make the assumption that toys have progressed beyond providing darlings in pigtails the tools to be the perfect housewife and baby factory, but we'd be wrong. Tonight I saw the not-yet-on-YouTube commercial for the Playskool Dream Town Rose Petal Cottage, Hasbro's misogynistic "place of her own" for every little girl who just won't cut it in that college place and would rather bake muffins, crap out babies and dream of the most advanced washing machine for getting out those really persistent grease marks in her husband's dirty chones.

When it’s time to prepare pretend meals, the durable fiberboard stove has knobs that really turn and an oven door that opens! Playing “house” in the ROSE PETAL Cottage lets your little girl build her very own home – and her imagination! – right in your living room!

You hear that, girls? Dream Town Rose Petal Cottage allows you to build your imagination, which you'll totally need when it's time to spice up your life and you're deciding on the next badass pattern for your new apron, that valance above your kitchen window, or you know, how to make your life valuable once your children have grown up and moved on with their own imaginations.

While working on last night's post about odd searches directing people to my blog, I ran a lot of the searches to see where my blog fell in the results. When I ran the search for "sven sundgaard penis," I discovered that Sven's penis apparently has a blog. and thought it appropriate to link to it (it's buried a few paragraphs down... heh... buried!). Looks like the secret's out, and now Perfect Duluth Day and MNSpeak have also discovered it.

At least that's the cover story I'm using for searching for "sven sundgaard penis."

UPDATE: Apparently Sven's wang has linked to my blog now. Either it's just a return link for my link here last night, or this is someone I know behind it. Fess up, you!

UPDATE 2: *sigh* I'm really caring about this way more than I should, but I'm pumping people for information and connecting some dots on the identity of Sven Sundgaard's Penis. And yes, I realize I said "pumping people." *double sigh*

A few days ago, Ang shared a few searches that get people to Overheard In Minneapolis. I realized that I'm long overdue for responding to folks searching for answers but ending up at my blog. And we all know there isn't a single thing of any redeeming value here whatsoever. It's high time I gave back again.

Search: wash hair during period
Location: Malaysia

As far as I know, it's ok to wash your hair during your period. For that matter, I think it's ok to wash your hair during pretty much anyone's period. If it wasn't, no one would wash their hair.


Search: balls testicles fall asleep
Location: Burnaby, BC

So your "balls testicles" fall asleep, eh? When my balls testicles fall asleep, I stick a straw down my urethra and pour in some hot Starbucks.

--

As always, the biggest random search term referral to my blog comes from people trying to find out whether the local NBC affiliate's weather guy, Sven Sundgaard, is gay. People ask the same question, but they ask it many different ways, so I want to make sure everyone gets an answer that is satisfactory to them.

Search: sven sundgaard gay
Location: Minneapolis, MN

As far as I know, he is. But this is all third-hand information. A friend-of-a-friend saw him at dinner with his man date. And a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend saw him with FIVE PENISES inside of him at once! For serious now!

Search: sven sundgaard GAY
Location: ?

Now this search bothers me a little bit. Are you yelling at me? SVEN SUNDGAARD IS GAAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!11111!!!11!! Or are you asking quietly about Sven Sundgaard then getting so excited about the question you're asking that you completely lose control. "Hey, buddy, keep this under your hat, but is Sven Sundgaard...ohmuhgawd GAAAYYYYYYYYYY??///????//???" Or maybe you're just asking if he's really gay?

Search: sven sundgaard sexuality
Location: Minneapolis, MN

Now this is a more respectful way to phrase the question. So many people are very crude with their searches. "That thar Sven Sungerrd like it in the corn chute?" Please! A little dignity and decorum is all I ask. Anyway, sexuality-wise, I hear he's very sexual. Thanks for asking.

Search: is sven the weather guy gay?
Location: Bloomington, MN

See, now this is precisely what I just talked about.

Search: Does Sven Sundgaard have a girlfriend?
Location: Elk River, MN

I seriously doubt it, sweetheart, but keep dreaming.

Search: sven sundgaard is gay
Location: Woodbury, MN

Ok, if you already knew that, then why are you searching for it? Just to impress us with your knowledge of his gayitude? You smug son of a bitch.

Search: sven sundgaard penis
Location: St Paul, MN

Sven sundgaard's penis has its own blog. So quit bugging me!

Search: What is the size of Sven Sundgaard's penis
Location: Minneapolis, MN

Look, this is just obscene. Ask Sven Sundgaard's penis!!

Search: pumpkin fuck
Location: ?

Hmm... this seems like a good idea. I recommend microwaving the pumpkin first. If the pumpkin is too big for your microwave, it's quite inexpensive to buy a small pumpkin at the farmers market or supermarket. If you can't find a pumpkin small enough for your microwave, buy a bigger microwave. If you can't find a microwave big enough for your fuckable pumpkin, then try putting a candle in it. Just put it at the far end of the pumpkin opposite from the hole so you don't burn the tip of your penis.

Search: how do I keep my cat from pooping in my crawl space
Location: Mountain View, CA

Your options are pretty limited on this one.

1. Seal up your crawl space.
2. Seal up your cat's butthole.
3. Seal your cat up in the crawl space. It will poop in there for a while, but it will stop after a week or two.

Search: pepper on penis
Location: Denver, CO

So do you want to put pepper on the penis or in it? I don't have a problem with sprinkling a little pepper on my penis. In fact, I do it every morning before work to keep things fresh down there. But when you sprinkle it IN my penis, I just don't think that's a very good idea. Unless you're searching for an interview with Dr. Pepper about penises. He seems like he'd be a trustworthy source for penis information.

Search: myspace backdoor
Location: Solon, OH

MySpace may have a lot of error messages and system outages, but they do not have a back door way to get into the system. Their software developers did, however, build a butthole into one of the servers. You can't fuck it, but they'll let you put your pinky in it if you make an appointment.

Search: indian pooping
Location: India

I have a search tip for you. If you're living in India and using the Indian version of google, it seems pretty redundant to search for "indian pooping." You can just search for "pooping."

Search: pooping in India
Location: Oakland, CA

Jesus! Does no one know how to use a fucking search engine? Maybe you should talk to that dude from India searching for Indian pooping. Oh, wait. He doesn't know how to poop in India either. You're both fucked.

Search: hamburger vagina
Location: ?

butterscotch armpit

Search: poop on canada
Location: Aurora, CO

For shame! Canada is our friend. Why on earth would you want to poop on Canada. You poop IN Canada. Not on it.

Search: poop in the butthole
Location: Lombard, IL

Who the hell is trying to poop in your butthole? You need to tell your parents right now! Or a trusted adult like a teacher or pastor. Unless they are the one trying to poop in your butthole. Sick fucks.

Search: vagina gina
Location: ?

Vagina Gina, what's your function?
Taking up dick and dildos and hoses
Vagina Gina, how's that function?
I got three favorite cocks.
That get most of my job done.
Vagina Gina, what's their function?
Filling me up with man juice
They do kind of rock.

Search: suck my balls and sacs
Location: Denver, CO

Your sacs? Plural? You have multiple nutsacks? I can't decide if that's a blessing or a curse.

Search: slim shadyemail him
Location: Dulles, VA

I'm sure Slim Shady, aka Eminem, aka Marshall Mathers, would love you to email him. I'll bet you want to send him some of your dopest rhymes, don't you there, home slice? Want to tell him all about how hard it is getting a used Corolla for your birthday instead of the new BMW you wanted? And how you had to eat meatloaf, among other regular meals, that your white suburban mom made for you instead of eating lobster and sippin' Cristal at the club. Yeah. You go for it. You're gonna make it big, sport. I'm hitching my wagon to your star.

Search: why does menstration stink
Location: Dallas, TX

Because it comes out of the vagina you haven't washed since they canceled ALF.

Search: how to mold a vagina using glue
Location: Kalona, IA

Normally I'd say you'd have a tough time finding some chick that would let you fill her snatch up with Elmer's, but I think I found someone for you, buddy. Fair warning, it ain't gonna smell pretty down there.

Search: What does it mean when feces smells like semen
Location: Melrose, MA

*Rubs forehead in serious thought and sighs at the realization that he is actually going to have to explain this*

It means you were fucked in the ass. With a penis. That ejaculated in your ass. With semen.

Search: close up of beef curtains
Location: MI

Oh! You must be redecorating! How fun!! Well, HGTV's website has a lot of good decorating tips, but I think it would help if you sat down, looked at patterns, and decided what will look best with your beef curtains... Oh, shit. THOSE kind of beef curtains! Sorry, dude. Um... I dunno. Pretty much any porno site in existence?

Search: penis singing set me free
Location: ?

Testify! When the sweet song of a penis sets you free, you feel the weight of the world lifted from your shoulders. Now that you've accepted Jesus as your personal savior and heard the penis singing, you are free. You are reborn. Go into the world and spread the love. Spread the song of the penis.

Search: the underside of my ball sack is cool to the touch why?
Location: Canada

Maybe because you live in Canada and sleep with the window and your legs wide open.

Search: treatment for swollen testicle hit by a ball
Location: India

Whoa! Talk about irony. This is the first case I've ever heard where some dude got knee-nutted by some other dude's balls. So did they get all tangled together when it happened? What happened to the other guy? Does he need help, too? Oh, you unfeeling bastard! You just left that guy laying there writhing in pain in the parking lot at JoAnn Fabrics, didn't you!

Search: dry anal
Location: Chula Vista, CA

Try putting some sawdust and a stick of colored chalk up there.

Search: rub my chest pics
Location: Hays, KS

Ok. *rubs pictures of dude's chest* Now what?

Search: "baked beans" OR "canned baked beans" OR "barbeque baked beans" OR "barbeque beans" OR "barbeque baked beans" OR "barbecue beans" OR "barbecue baked beans" OR "barbque beans" OR "barbque baked beans" OR "barbcue baked beans" OR "barbcue beans" OR "bbq baked beans" OR "bbq beans"
Location: ?

WHAT??!? I'M NOT SURE WHAT YOU'RE SEARCHING FOR! ARE YOU SEARCHING FOR BEANS? WHAT?? BEANS? IS IT BEANS? HUH? NO, I SAID "BEANS!" BEANS!!!!!!!! BEAAAANNNNS, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Search: minnesota asses
Location: London, KY

Hoo boy. Have you ever been up here, buddy? Mom ass all over the place. It's like thousands of pairs of frozen turkeys stuffed into jeans hiked up over the tits up here. Or maybe that's what you're into.

Search: friday asses
Location: France

I'll bet Friday asses in France are a lot hairier than Thursday asses in Maple Grove.

Search: you pooped
Location: UK

Damn straight. Look out, buddy. I'm coming to your house next.

Search: symptoms for a puppy when he screams urinating or pooping
Location: ?

I think you pretty much described the symptoms right there. He's screaming while he's urinating and pooping. Stop feeding him jacks and G.I. Joe helmets.

Search: pooped during sex
Location: Fairhope, AL

Wow. Just... wow. I'm so sorry. Did she know you did it? If not, there's still time. Just sneak into her house and flip over her sheets. Problem solved.

Search: my cousin showed me how girls pee
Location: San Jose, CA

I'm not sure if you're really grasping the purpose of a search engine, kid. You use it to search for information. Google is not to be used for making announcements about every new discover you make about the female body. If I see a "I got to touch a boob" search from you in ten years, I'm coming over there and beating you with a bookend.

Search: butthole dishes
Location: ?

urethra tea cups

Search: casting penis
Location: Saudi Arabia

Actually this is a pretty good question. How do you cast for the growing number of penis roles in Hollywood? And how do you cast them fairly? And as a penis actor, when do you risk being typecast as a certain type of penis? I think this is why Sven Sundgaard's penis chooses to be jobless instead of being an actor.

Search: losing a testicle inside
Location: ?

Inside what? A Cracker Jack box? The playground? The mall? Help us help you find your testicle.

Search: how to relax poo
Location: Australia

Give it a glass of wine, light some candles, play some soft mood music, and give it a back rub. You're going to need to wash your hands afterward though.

Search: penis wearing out
Location: ?

Give it a little Gatorade and a pep talk.

Search: horrid farting
Location: ?

Oh, wait. Google was right to direct you here.

Search: pain beside scrotum
Location: Chicago, IL

Beside your scrotum??? Like where, the coffee table?

Search: best testicle implants in florida
Location: Miami, FL

Look up Terry Rosenbaum in Tampa. He's won the title of Mr Florida Testicle Implant every year for the last decade. If you give him a call, he'll let you cup them.

Project "Throw Shit Away" continues at the Eagan facility, and I'm coming up with gems from the past several times an hour. This one is from 1993, the beginning of my senior year in high school. My satirical skills are highlighted in this delightful romp titled, "You Bet Jurassic!" There is no scientifically possible way I could have been more clever. Now if you'll excuse me, I still have about a decade worth of gas station receipts and Playboy renewal notices to go through. I think I found a sock full of dried jism, too. I'm not sure if it's mine, but it's a keeper.

Click an image to make it all big n stuff.

Not only is this one of the most fantastic news stories I have ever watched in terms of the news reported, but the reporter's choice of junior high references to the acts and their results make this story an instant classic. Jason DeRusha, you may have met your match.

Read the story or watch the video.

I spent last night sorting through maybe 15 years worth of papers, records, receipts, and random tangles of wires, cables, and adapters for computer and stereo equipment I haven't had or used since the Clinton administration. For some reason, I also kept notebook after notebook of notes from my college computer science classes. After I graduated, I thought they might be useful if I went back to get my master's degree. But in looking through them, I realized most of them are academically useless because my bored ass ignored the professors and doodled for hours on end.

February, 1996 - Here we find evidence of how far back we can trace my obsession with poop-related humor. It is also apparent that I was painfully aware of how ridiculous I was.


February, 1996 - Late that month, I drew a newly discovered species of bird, the silver stitched crap eater. Note the look of joy on the bird's face as feces drips from his beak. He apparently is also quite chummy with a hungry hungry hippo. I'll bet that's where he gets his crap.



There are, however, actual notes in some of these notebooks. You can tell I was quite interested in this class because there was not a single doodle to be found. It was just page after page of notes and diagrams like this one. Man, I actually used to be smart. What the hell happened to me?

You may have heard of French entertainer Joseph Pujol, aka Le Pétomane, who worked in the late 19th and early 20th centuries farting on stage, but it is far less likely that you have heard the story of Anatole D'Aubigne. Born in 1902, D'Aubigne rose to international acclaim with his magnificent penmanship. If you struggle to understand how someone's penmanship, regardless of its perfect spacing, height, and skilled flourish, could possibly bring them fame the world over, take into consideration that Anatole D'Aubigne wrote with his anus.

As a young man in Bordeaux, Anatole discovered his strange talent after accepting a drunken bar bet. The bet was that he couldn't write his name legibly if he used a fountain pen sticking out of his anus. Placing the pen betwixt his hairy man cheeks, he knelt down and carefully wrote his full name in cursive using a combination of hip swivels and well-timed sphinctoral clenches. After he stood from his crouched position, the bar fell into stunned silence. When Anatole turned around, he realized the reason for the reaction -- his signature was perfect. In fact, it looked better than his regular handwriting. With realization of his newly discovered power, a single tear rolled down his cheek as he tossed the shit-soiled pen into the now-applauding crowd. His prize? Five francs and a handjob from the gruff but well-manicured bartender Francisque.

For nearly a year, Anatole made a living winning similar small bar bets in and around Bordeaux. As weeks passed, his penmanship grew more skilled and flowery. Women swooned when he wrote their names with his hypnotically waggling hindquarters, and men guffawed with approval when he wrote profane words in his intricate, borderline feminine cursive style. But Anatole knew that if he were to make it big, he had to move to the City of Lights, Paris. Using the penmanship money he'd accumulated, he opened a small music shop in Paris so that he could continue to earn money while he tried to win over the notoriously picky Parisians.

Working his way up from bar bets to appearing on stage in small cabarets, Anatole finally hit the big time when he was scheduled to appear as the main act at Odéon - Théâtre de l'Europe. On opening night, amidst his clanging nerves, Anatole rushed to the theater only to find he had left his most important prop at home, his pen. Desperately he asked stage hands and others back stage for a pen, but no one had one. He thought of asking for a pen from the audience, but surely they would laugh him off stage over such an amateurish mistake. Alas, he had no choice.

The curtains rose, and Anatole, as alone on stage as he was in the womb, cleared his throat, dropped his trousers, and took a breath, intending to announce that he needed a pen from the crowd. It was at that moment that he realized he didn't need a pen at all! He pushed, grunted quietly, produced a few centimeters of a firm turd protruding from his anus, and swiveled and puckered, using the feces to smear "Welcome to my show, gay Paris!" in perfectly formed cursive on a piece of canvas. The crowd went utterly insane. They realized they were witnessing a moment of historical genius.


Girl I Painted With My Ass
Anatole D'Aubigne, 1967Throughout the rest of his life, Anatole continued to develop his act and his art. He added still-life drawings and eventually full-blown paintings to his repertoire. His paintings consisted of oil-based paints, water colors, and invariably a partially ejected turd. Many of his works hang to this day in the Louvre in Paris, though in the early 1950's, the museum had to shellac all of them due to complaints of the rank stench of feces wafting from the canvases. Critics complained this move ruined the symbolic nature of his art, but one curator responded, "Symbolic or not, I wouldn't put up with a wealthy artist framing his revered waste on our walls any more than a homeless man shitting in our atrium trash cans."

Anatole D'Aubigne died in his sleep in 1974 at the age of 72. He was posthumously awarded the Legion of Honor, signifying his rank of Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur. In a speech at the ceremony, then-President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing declared D'Aubigne "...a hero of France. This man and his talented posterior have opened a window to the French soul and have opened our collective eyes and hearts to the love and appreciation of beauty. For this, we shall forever treasure our countryman, our brother, Anatole D'Aubigne."

This post dedicated to Griz.

Earlier tonight I received the following message on Flickr:

Hey there-
We noticed today while looking at the excellent photos from
yesterday's Zombie Pub Crawl that you've tagged about what
seems like 50 photos with "zombiepubcrawl2007" that are
really nothing more than photos of a plate of nachos and a
stuffed dog with fake blood splashed all over it. I mean
sure, throw a pic or 2 of your "zombie dog" on there, but
there are seriously a dozen pics of nachos in the photo
pool and it's just a little annoying to have to click
through them when we're trying to look at pictures of sweet
zombies. Can you take the zombiepubcrawl2007 tag off all
the pics of the nachos, Miller Lite cans, and your ugly
zombie dog? People looking for pics of freaky zombies
don't give a shit about that stuff, to be perfectly honest.
It really gets in the way to have to look at a dozen
closeups of greasy nachos.

Thanks,
Everybody else looking at the zombie pub crawl pics

I responded to her polite request with the following uncharacteristically reserved message:

[Name removed], I removed those photos from the zpc photo group, but I'm not removing the tag. Next time say please.

I had uploaded the whole set of photos and assigned that tag, among others, to them en masse. On the one hand, I can see her point about the nachos and beer can photos -- which added up to maybe a dozen photos -- not really being ZPC related, which is why I removed them from the ZPC group (I hadn't intended to add them there in the first place). However, has sending a stranger an alternately sarcastic and snide email ever accomplished anything? Well, perhaps it has, but not with me. You don't like it? Tough shit. I will add whatever tags to whichever the fuck photos I wish. In fact, I think I'll upload some photos of my spread open ass, a Midol, and a toothbrush holder full of Kalamata olives and tag them zombiepubcrawl2007, as well. Welcome to flavor country. Population: suck my dick.

You didn't think I was done, did you? Not by a damn sight, son. Zombie shit, hot, fresh, and waiting at the window. Come get some.

Ang buying cheap toilet paper to use as the base of our zombie wounds. Oh, and she has to poop a lot. And wipe the poop off of her butt with the toilet paper. You use toilet paper to wipe poop from your butt.


Dawn of the Living Jeremy



Ang prepares to wander off into the world in search of brains.


Say, Courtney, that looks infected. A little H₂0₂ ought to clear that up.


An 85 degree, muggy-as-fuck day in October is the best time to slather yourself in makeup, liquid latex, and fake blood.


Zombie pet owners are a negligent lot.


Zombies sharing a fishbowl at Sgt Preston's? Eat off an arm, gnaw off a testicle, just do something uncooperative! You're zombies for the crying out loud!


Om nom nom nom. Flesh!


ARRRRNNGGHHH!


Arm rip tastes oh so good.


Ang and I rip into our once-treasured pet.


Nnnnrrrrrghhhh....


This guy waiting for the light near St Preston's was thrilled by the shenanigans going on a couple of feet from him.


Ang was in the photo next to the City Pages blurb about ZPC in last week's issue.


*slurp*


Zombie lovin' is the best kind of lovin'.


Oozing flesh freshly torn from the still-living body of its tortured victim...


...or just a plate of nachos at The Corner Bar.


Zombie Ang is too cool to deal with this shit.


Hey, check it out! I'm going to ride a motorcycle and smoke those drugs the kids talk about so much!


Zombie Zoolander is late for his modeling gig.


This wound is fresh.


Ang's neck wound still pulses.


Mmmrrrrghhh....


Zombie pups need cheesy flesh, too.


This is where beer comes from!


And this is where it goes.


Ooooooooooohhhh, man! I wants me some brains!


I said BRAIIIINNNS!!!!!!!


Or maybe you have something else you can offer me, cowboy?


Ungh? What you talk 'bout.


Are you dense? I'm coming on to you, you blood-drained hump!


Still no unnerstan'.


Jeremy: "Oh, now get it."
Ang: "Too late, jerk off. You had your chance."


Zombie Claudia/Abe Lincoln rips into a burrito -- I mean flesshhhhhhh...


Zombie Chuck want some?


Gimme! Mmmmmrrrghhhhhhhh... P.S. Anybody got some change?


The blood splattered like bacon grease in the night.


Even zombie dogs sniff each others' asses.


Aw yeah. Hot zombie on zombie girl action!


Meanwhile, at the Nomad...


The life of the undead is a blur.


A zombie sailor celebrates the end of WWII with his sweetheart. Hey, bub, did you hear about the new war we're shipping you off to?


Life and death pass before zombie Ang's sunken eyes.


Brains? Please?


"Believe"


At the end of the night, even zombies have to drive home (sober, responsible zombies, of course).


Video to come...

Zombie Jeremy likes to think thoughts.


Zombie Ang is puzzled by this camera thingy.


Riding in cars with zombies.


Zombie Ang and her seeping neck wound in Gold Medal Park.


Arrrrghhhnnnggggghhhh!


Erin is Zombinet Ramsey.


This poor couple were bitten on their honeymoon. Now they hand out gelatinous brains to children and the elderly.


Rockin' an undead heater.


My dead, chewed up puppy.




Somehow this Zombie couple wandered into Minneapolis from the suburbs. It must have taken them days and countless brains.


Zombie Abe Lincoln doesn't want your motherfuckin' five-spot, chump. Give him brains!


Zombie transvestites need brains too.


Dude in the background on the right is trying to look down their shirts to see some zombie titty.


This old dude with the walker was bitten while bitching about the firmness of his tapioca at the assisted care facility.


Courtney's gaping cheek and nose wound at Grumpy's.


Max just had some ribs. Human ribs. Somebody get him a wet one!


Gnnnnrrrrrgh. I didn't die for your sins, but I died in the middle of one.


This zombie at the table is sad about being undead. Emo zombie?


Does my neck look torn to shit to you?


Naw, baby, you look fine. Now shut your ass and eat some brains with me.


You like my turkey buzzard baby thing?


Noooooo!!! Stop picking at my wound! Or at least share, you greedy little bastard.


I wanted to do something with missing eye(s) like this dude, but it had to be a bitch seeing anything after dark.


Brain juice.


*sniff* Remember that smell. Is not brain. Gnnnnuh...


You know you want to hop on this undead cock baby. It's hard with rigor mortis!


Stay! Good boy.


The crowd at Sgt. Preston's.




This wedding party was a little surprised to arrive to a bar and patio wall-to-wall with flesh-eating cranium suckers.


Peter is oh so pretty! Kisses then, dolls.


Teucer (seated, left) and Jenn (standing) were at Town Hall Brewery with Teucer's brother for a different event. You guys couldn't have at least chewed on a liver or baby lung or something?


Hey, Mom! Yeah, it's me. I'm on a phone and I'm dead! What the fuck?


Zombie Michael Jackson leads a crowd of the undead in a rousing choreographed dance to "Thriller" playing on some guy's boombox.


This pile of intestines was literally vomited upon by one of the drunken zombies. Some guy spotted them and was going to put them in his mouth for a photo op before a girl warned him. He was half a second from having a mouthful of zombie puke.


The Corner Bar was full of the stench of death.


Ain't no party like a zombie party.


Mmmrrrghhhh.... flesh!


No, undead puppy! That's OUR salsa! *smacks puppy on nose with a detached arm*


Yeah, I just want to get up in there and lick it.


Dead sexy.


Ang had her period on the table.


What's up, my bitches?


The sidewalks and streets along the path of the crawl were covered in trails, splotches, and splatters of blood.


Video to come!

Remember Chewels? Chewels were pieces of gum with a liquid center that squirted in your mouth when you bit into them. I'm not sure what the thought process was in releasing Chewels and similar products, but if you want a piece of gum to squirt fruit-flavored jizz in your mouth so badly, you might as well get it over with and suck a dick dipped in cranberry juice and pectin.

I know it's been done so many times before, but going through search terms that people actually use never gets old for me, especially if they're good. Consider this like a public service announcement, sort of how you'd view the list of pedophiles in your neighborhood, unless you're using that list to find a date. These people are out there, in your internet, searching for things they probably don't tell their closest criminal friends about but don't realize they're telling me about. And now I share some of them with you because I care about you. I really do. I'm only looking out for your best interest.

Here is a two month sample.

i like you minneapolis - Aw, isn't that nice?

i like me, mpls - Yeah, well, I'm starting to not like you.

rub down minneapolis - All of Minneapolis? Someone's going to chafe.

tits state fair - What? I didn't see any tits at the State Fair. Maybe that's why they had to Google it.

5 year old boy dressing like girl - I wonder, do they need to solve a problem or figure out a better way to accomplish this?

8 year girl porn - Even I have a hard time finding something to say about this. Well, out loud anyway.

a.marriage.built.on.love Apparently, it's so rare one needs to look up examples on the internet. Also, why the periods?

bulimia at minnesota state fair - Was there a whole booth? I totally missed it.

can you snort coffee? - You can, but Folgers is not responsible for any bleeding from the eyes, ears or nose.

elevator sex in minneapolis - This search must not have been very fruitful, eh, Senator?

fine man ass - Look no further! Um, wait...

fucking in crowded bus - Hey Oh!

fun things to do in minneapolis when you are a hipster - God damn, this is the saddest thing I've ever read.

gay massage late night in minneapolis - This needed to be searched for?

girl shit on bus - People are doing everything on buses except what they're supposed to be doing.

hot milfs in pittsburgh - Ever heard of a dating website?

hot milfs minneapolis - When Pittsburgh doesn't produce results...

how to beat the shit out of a preppy girl - Do these instructions exist, like making a bomb or the perfect tortellini?

middle aged milfs - Man, this guy does not give up.

minneapolis underwear party - OH SHIT WHERE?

old man fucking 20 year old girl - You people make me sick. Or maybe turned on, I haven't come to terms with it yet.

soft porn girl on girl - Does searching for porn really require one to be so specific in their search terms? No.

talk to you later really means - If you're looking this up it probably means whoever says that to you never actually talks to you again because you're a whiny turdbump that looks up retarded shit on the internet.

twin cities psycho women - Have you checked out the blogosphere? We're out there, buddy. Don't lose hope.

what happen when you blow with viagra - Your lips turn blue.

what happens when a girl goes home with a guy from a bar - If you cannot answer this question, turn off the internet and get your ass outside and meet another human being already, you sad sack.

which stall in msp? - Don't bother, it's bad luck now. Try the elevators.

It's not every day that you go for a walk around lake Phalen and bump into a guy with a literal monkey on his shoulder. A monkey wearing jeans no less. My cell phone camera didn't take worthy photos in the waning sunlight last night, but here he is in all his glory. The monkey's name is Michael, and he likes to pull off people's glasses. The guy said he's owned Michael for about 10 years. So here's to you, dude carrying a monkey wearing pants. You made my fucking day. For real.

Lady and gentlecock
Photo by YanniIf you read this blog regularly, you know that I am a refined man of distinction. You also know that I am a true gentleman at heart. I care a great deal about the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex, particularly my dearest, the lovely Miss Angela. I feel it is imperative to protect proper ladies such as Angela from the more offensive reports and odors produced by the manly bottom. For this reason, fellow gentlemen, I pass along this maneuver so that you may use it with your wife, significant other, or paramour. No, it is not a sexual maneuver (please, this is a family blog!), but it is a maneuver that will be cherished and appreciated by your bed mate once they realize the suffering from which you have protected them. When you feel a particularly noxious emission of gas pressing for release from your anus, hold the sheets tight to your torso with the arm farthest from her, throw your free arm around her chest to form a tight seal with the sheets against her body, and push in such a manner as to fart. This move will protect your fragile lover from your ass vapors and could very well save your relationship.

P.S. Don't make my mistake. A few moments later, I always forget and lift the covers ever so slightly to excitedly sample my wares. This releases a potent, high velocity stream of methane straight up both of our nostrils, causing her to shriek in horror and knee me in the nuts.

Matt's response to my mustache:

I hate that varmint!

Driving back from northern Minnesota in stony, uncomfortable silence forced me to entertain myself with all means at my disposal. This included sinking to reading the owner's manual for Ang's car. But the more I read, the more enthralled I became. I learned so much about cars and how to drive them that I am now invincible on the road and shall drive that way forever more. Look out, Johnny Left Lane, I'm driving up your tail pipe and spritzing you with lavender!

First, we are introduced to a very important symbol that is used throughout the manual. This circle with a slash through it means, "Do Not," "Do Not do this," or "Do Not let this happen." For example, an artist's rendering of your ass being gang raped prison-style might have one of these on it. Note that I said "might."


This diagram warns that if the seatbelt is not properly buckled, passengers with particularly veiny penises could find their members irreversibly entangled in the straps.


Warning: electric ottoman!


I wasn't really sure what this one meant. Science geeks with snow-capped slopes on their heads ahead???


In the event of a rear-impact crash, a metal rod will impale your baby via the rectum.


This either means that boogers picked while driving should be wiped under the seat or illustrates the proper hand signal for requesting sexual favors from a back seat passenger.


Please, please, PLEASE do not jill off while driving.


Driving is the perfect time to contemplate what a douchebag you've become.


The following three photos illustrate the horrible truth -- auto manufacturers use paralympic medal winners for crash testing purposes. I think I'm going to be sick.






Exhibition of gang signs while buckling of seat belts is strongly discouraged.


Seat belts can be useful for the restraint of particularly raging erections.


Dry humping of steering wheel may cause pregnancy.


When driving by attractive women walking down the street, yell "Unggghhhh... I smell that sandwich baby! Check out my pickle!" while making a jerking motion on the seatbelt.


Children under 12 should never ride in the front seat, particularly if they have no soul.


"We see you when you dream. We know you didn't finish your almond pudding. We see. We know. You die."


Seat belts are useful for restraining step-siblings from exploring each others bodies out of burgeoning sexual curiosity during long trips.


If you have to give your buddy's stoner girlfriend a ride, keep the shoulder belt undone so she can give you road head in exchange for sizzling beef brisket.


This is what it said in the manual word for word: "That's what you get for adopting a brown baby, bitch!" Once again, this car manual has brought tears of pain to my eyes. Love, don't hate, you stupid auto manufacturer!! This car was built on racism, and I'm getting out of it RIGHT NOW! *sound of car door slamming and angry footsteps*


Children in car seats must be monitored at all times, but may be looked at with contempt and disgust.


"God, I wish you had never been born."


Warning: children are anchors that will sink your life to the bottom of an ocean of responsibility and despair.


If gigantic ball appears before you while driving, speak to it calmly in soft tones and ask it to please move aside so that you may see the road.


Air bags are not for practice make out sessions by business men.


"Mmmph! Ohhhh... yeah, daddy like... mmmm... smack."


When purchasing old iMacs at pawn shops, it is recommended that you secure them in the trunk or back seat.


When you no longer love your wife, it is best that you make her ride in the back seat.


Vehicle is not recommended for transport of World War II-era naval mines.


When using car exhaust to commit suicide in garage, please ensure someone will find you within 48 hours to avoid damaging the upholstery. This will retain maximum resale value at the estate sale (which will consist entirely of your death car and the shoe box full of Garbage Pail Kids in the linen closet).


Leaving keys out for children to find, start automobile, and accidentally roll into a lake and drown is pretty indicative of your overall parenting skills.


*glug*


Brace head before using back seat for rough sex.


If you must leave your child alone in the car, trips to the casino on a hot day in July are best. This gives the child time to think about your family history of heart disease and incarceration.


"I have so little to look forward to. And can a motherfucker get some water or a moist towelette over here?"


Should your penis become entangled in the controls, step on it repeatedly.


Driving is complicated!


Please do not operate automobile in prevailing westerlies.


Press middle button to launch heat-seeking missile at the asshole on the phone who just cut you off.


This is how many drinks you can drink and still be ok to drive.


In case of unavoidable impact with deer, turn on your windshield wipers to prepare for the initial gush of blood.


If the deer runs away, accelerate. You may still get to run that fucker down.


Breed.


Breeeeeeeeeeeeeed.


Car comes equipped with everything you need to dismember and dispose of a body.


No, that isn't "the shocker." You're missing a pinky. You know, for the stink.

Aaron: Jeremy would be proud of the fart over here in my office

Ang: Was it you?
Or just an aroma wafting by your face from an unnamed assailant?

Aaron: sweet tones of gourmet cheese and hints of garlic - it also has a bit of an oak flavor
oh, it was me.

Ang: That was a beautiful description. I feel inspired.

Aaron: it was full bodied.
like a fine wine - it goes through about 3 flavors before you swallow

Moblog: Thanks for not reaching over and grabbing the plunger just a couple of feet away, you lazy asshole, whoever you are. At least it's all paper and no shit (I draw the line at shit photos, believe it or not). Did you just unfurl the whole roll and dump it in there like an unsupervised toddler, or did you really drop a deuce that greasy? Might be time to check up on your stall manners and eat an apple. Click the photo for more details.

Ang and I took a little trip up to northern Minnesota this weekend. That part of Minnesota is known for its vibrant colors during the autumn season. I would like to share with you a few photos that summarize our trip.









That is all.

Despite my many and varied disgusting personal habits involving hygiene and sexual pleasure, I pride myself in drawing a line in the sand over the activity in which I will engage in public. You will never find me caught in the beam of a cop's Mag-Lite cranking away on some butterspread ass on a primary school merry-go-round at 2 in the morning. Nor will you ever find me purposely forcing a prolonged, yet snappy fart in front of others in public. That shit is low class. And you know I'm all about the class up in this sopping 'tang rag. That isn't to say I won't fart in public at all. Sometimes you accidentally let one go, or the gas pains are so intense that you just have to shamefully and quietly slide a hissing butt whisper under the radar. And if there is a place to release the quivering shame, it is in the aisles of a Wal-Mart.

In the summer of 2002, I stopped by Wal-Mart in Eagan on the way home late one night to pick up a few things. As I wandered the aisles, I was overcome with the urgent push of a massive gas pocket roiling about my innards. Being the polite, classy motherfucker that I am, I turned my head an quickly scanned the aisle, felt assured the coast was clear, and unleashed a cacophonic trumpet blast that would have made both Dizzy Gillespie and John Cage proud. As I spun around to move to the next aisle, I nearly tripped over a small boy directly behind me. The look of terror in his saucer-like eyes told the tale. You see, this poor young lad was precisely ass high to a 6-foot Jeremy, far too short for me to see in my hasty pre-fart search for human life. I had released every cubic milliliter of my triumphant ass symphony directly in this child's face.

I took advantage of the boy's stunned, horrified silence (he likely did not dare speak, lest he accidentally inhale and taste the dissipating remnants of my vapors), and hurriedly exited the store before he could cry and run screaming to his mother. His look of shock and fear will be forever burned into my memory, but he is the one that must live with the image of my denim-clad man ass and the rush of warm, moist air flowing through his sinuses and down his throat. He will either grow up to never play in the marching band for fear of being placed next to the tuba, or he will overcome his fear by growing up to enter a twisted world of underground fartatoriums, paying strange men to pass gas his face. And as his tearful mother clutches him to her bosom each night as he cries himself toward restless slumber filled with nightmares of hurricane-force flatus burning, my eyes well with tears. Tears of uncontrolled laughter at the thought of the poor little shit who got a faceful of my thunder.

Moblog: My mouth looks like an upside down vagina. Awesome.