Moblog: Get lubed in the rear

A hole in the Empire State Building and tracks leading up to it were barely visible in the morning sun.New York, NY - At 7:32 EDT this morning, an Amtrak train bound for Chicago, following a route known as the Lake Shore Limited, was hijacked by several armed men, rerouted along West 34th Street, and rammed into the 57th floor of the Empire State Building. Homeland Security officials have yet to determine how new above-ground track was laid along that route without raising suspicion, particularly given the length of track that rises to a height of nearly 700 feet over a half-mile span, completely closing off West 34th Street for several blocks. At this time, no casualty reports are available. Please check back for further updates as information becomes available.

11:17 am EDT - NYPD claims to have no reports of a train slamming into the Empire State Building. Police officials will not comment on potential casualties.

1:02 pm EDT - New York Governor Eliot Spitzer looks at reporter like he's a raving lunatic for asking about the Amtrak hijacking incident.

4:50 pm EDT - NYPD officially declares "No train has hit the Empire State Building. That's crazy talk, man!" We will continue to investigate this massive cover up.

5:31 pm EDT - We regretfully retract this article in its entirety. Apparently what we saw was a toddler launching toy cars off a Hot Wheel track into a clothes hamper. We apologize for the misunderstanding. Don't be hatin', 'k?

Reports coming from Hollywood indicate that the breasts of Jennifer Love Hewitt are betrothed to Scottish actor Ross McCall's honk-happy hands. Rumors are swirling that this will be a polygamous marriage, likely involving Ross McCall's penis. Earlier this year, the penis denied an eyewitness' claims that she saw him "brutally slapping [Jennifer Love Hewitt's] breasts until they were swollen and bright red." His response was "I am not involved with Miss Hewitt's breasts, and I would never harm that fabulous rack. I bump into them from time to time, often coming across them in posh hotels."

Neither Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts, nor their owner, what's-her-name, could be reached for comment.

Moblog: After a long hiatus, perhaps because he knew the heat was on, Ass Peanut Man has struck again. This time he has gone too far by leaving this disgusting wad of PISSED ON toilet paper a good 5 feet in
front of the shitter. Who fucking does that? Maybe I will leave it on the air intake on his car instead.

My brother Troy's employer has transferred him to their Philadelphia office. I suggested he leave a set of keys to his ginormous house in Savage (they don't plan on putting it on the market until next spring) so I could check in on it occasionally. So big NYE beer bash at Troy's crib, y'all! Don't bother taking off your shoes, using coasters, using the trash cans, or aiming for the toilet. We are going to fucking TRASH that place! WOOOOO!

Oh, and Troy, I'm also going to need the keys to your liquor cabinet and gun safe.

The night before we left for San Francisco, we decided to take a detour through wine country on the way from Sonora. At first, I resisted, because I wanted us to have as much time as possible in San Francisco. In the end, I agreed that we probably wouldn't have a chance like this for all of us to get drunk together on wine right next to the grapes that made it. After a stop for lunch in Napa, we ventured out into mile after mile of grape vines and vans full of drunken housewives.



Grapes grow on vines apparently. I always thought they grew on my ass and could be cured with a tube of Preparation H.


Mom and her boys.


People sure have fancy houses there. This house is up on a hill with a long, winding driveway. I'll bet they built it all the way up there to get away from the rotten smell of grapes permeating the air down below. Seriously, it smelled like someone spilled wine a few weeks ago and never bothered to clean it up. It smells like my living room carpet come to think of it.


I realized that I had no clue where to go, so I sent a text message to Mary. She responded, and indicated we should check out V. Sattui Winery. Our first clue of the clusterfuck to come should have been the fact that their parking lot was full, and we were directed to park in a field along with hundreds of other cars. We couldn't even get to the counter for a tasting, so we got the hell out of there after 15 or 20 minutes.

Our new plan of action was to just randomly select a winery that looked halfway non-shitty, and down some booze. Enter Grgich Hills. It was smaller and nowhere near as busy. Blam. They didn't have as wide of a selection, but it wasn't too bad. Tastes of their 5 wines went for $10, which you didn't have to pay if you bought a bottle. Ang bought one. It was cheap and tasted good. It had hints of oak and warm chest hair with overtones of fish tank water and Flintstones Vitamins. It goes well with steak, pasta with red sauce and Kit Kats (in reality, it was quite good). Here Ang and I enjoy our delicious wine.


Now getting to this delighted, relaxed state wasn't all that easy. I had no problem driving through San Francisco, but once we crossed the Bay Bridge early Saturday evening, I started stressing at the heavy traffic, pedestrians who didn't give a rat's ass about crossing with or against the light, and driving a red fucking minivan up hills with a 5,000 degree incline. Our luggage fell to the roof, and I had to put the van into negative 15th gear. I get nervous in these unfamiliar situations, particularly when we couldn't find where the the parking entrance for the hotel was, so 30 minutes of driving around sent me into a snit. Finally, I had to get out of that fucking van, so we parked in a ramp a few blocks from the hotel and hoofed it with our luggage. We couldn't have looked more like hick tourists, running over toes with our luggage and weaving through crowds, if we had put our belongings in handkerchiefs and hung them from the end sticks slung over our shoulders. But at long last, we dragged our sorry asses through the revolving door of the Westin St Francis, one of the fanciest hotels my uncultured balls have ever rested upon. I mean check out this fucking shower head! You can clean your face and your dick at the same time!


Don't get used to it, Ang. Priceline might put us in the Ax Murder Inn next time.


After a delicious meal and horribly slow service at Santorini Restaurant (I had the Mousaka, and we shared Dolmas as appetizers, almost worth the interminable wait for service and our bill), we retired to our rooms for a good night of sleep. We had a big day ahead of us.

As I showered the next morning, my ass crack was feeling a little buttery, so I decided to use the washcloth to spruce up back there. Hey, I was in a hotel! You gotta live life like it was meant to be lived. And that is by cleaning your ass with a hot washcloth. Imagine taking that hot towel they give you before dinner at a sushi restaurant, dropping your fancy zippered trousers, and treating your chili chute to a pore-opening steam cleaning (don't worry, I won't do it when I shower at your house -- I know the invite is coming). Unfortunately, Ang didn't appreciate the luxury of my self-rooting when she discovered the washcloth on the floor after her own shower. "What the hell?" I heard echo against the marble tile. "Oh, SHIT!" Oops. I didn't expect her to pick up my shitty cloth tucked away in the corner, but I didn't take her neat streak and compulsion to tidy the bathroom into account. When I asked her if she'd found my browned rag, she confirmed my suspicion and told me she first wondered why there was makeup on the washcloth. Good thing she didn't smell it to find out what brand it was.

After the washcloth incident, we headed out for our scheduled tour of Alcatraz. The billowing fog rolling across the bay only added to the mystique.


Warning: Persons concealing shanks betwixt their hairy buttocks are subject to a shower room ass pounding.


Signs of an Indian occupation in the late 60's and early 70's are still visible.


Some areas of The Rock are still closed off to visitors.


Some areas reminded me of the jiggling boobs of Baywatch more than a prison. But I use pretty much anything as an excuse to think about jiggling boobs.


Hey, that looks like my basement bathroom!


This is one of the most brightly lit areas of the prison. Prisoners in this block paid for the sunshine by having to hear the sounds of party-goers on boats in the marina across the bay. On a clear night, the sounds of music, women laughing, and monkeys stabbing each other drifted through the windows. It was a stark reminder of what the prisoners couldn't have. And who doesn't want to check out monkeys stabbing each other? No one, that's who.


Angie follows the audio tour's instructions to step into this cell. She was t3h sad over her brief imprisonment. Also visible is her purse she proudly purchased in Sonora. I think there is the bride of Frankenstein's monster on there and maybe some sort of transient's rucksack(?)


I made the best of a bad situation and perpetrated an undocumented drop-off. I then cried aloud in horror when I realized the prison did not serve hot towels.


The shell of the burned-out warden's house looms over the parade grounds.


Ang, Troy, and Mom heave their Pop Tarts over the railing.


Ang checks out a bird pooping on a tourist.


After returning to the dock in the Fisherman's Wharf area, we had lunch, wandered around and gawked, then noticed movement in the distance. Seals! The horking and barking was unmistakable.


Daylight was getting short by this point, so we took a harrowing cab ride to the Golden Gate bridge with a driver harboring some sort of neurological disorder. Perhaps it was Tourettes or an unfortunate combination of nervous tics, but the man's arms, neck, and head were in constant motion as we approached our destination. These spasms were interrupted by the occasional loud interjection of "HARRRRNNNGHHHHHH!" And when he heard his precious 49ers lose to the Rams on the radio, his tics went into overdrive. "HUHHHNNGUUUUUUHHHHH! UNGH! HOW COULD THEY GRRNNNGGGRRRRRHHH... LOSE?!" He calmed down when an ad for a restaurant came on asking us to try their new wasabi and teriyaki chicken. "GUH-HUNNNNNNGGGHHHHH! WASABI AND TERIYAKI!!!!!" Um, yep, that's what he said dude. After he dropped us off, Troy expressed his fear that he would drive us all off the road to end it all when the 49ers lost. "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! BWUH-HAHHHHHNK!"

The fog made it difficult to see the bridge towers, but this ended up being one of my favorite shots from the trip.


This plaque lists all of the workers who ended up eternally lodged in portions of the bridge during its construction.


That night, Troy and I took everyone out to dinner at The Slanted Door, an upscale Vietnamese restaurant. He had heard of it the last time he had been in San Francisco on business and had the foresight to make reservations before our trip. The food is served family style and the presentation is almost as stimulating as the food itself. I highly recommend it, but it gives you kind of stinky farts as this guy in the park across the street found out. And his buddy was none too happy either.


Near the sculpture there was an ice rink, where we saw the most four-syllable fahhhhh-bu-luh-uhhhsss display of figure skating by a gentleman in a Superman t-shirt. Video will be posted.



The next day, Troy and I relaxed in our respective rooms as the women shopped. Angie almost saw two homeless people get into a race war, and she bought a bunch of shit. We ate at In-N-Out for lunch and flew home. The end. Well, it's not really the end. I have a feeling Miss Angie will have plenty more to add about the flight home and have her own commentary on the pictures I'm awaiting from Danielle. I hope she deleted the one where I had a boner in the lingerie department at Sears.

Moblog: From which twin? Both of them?

Ed Kohler sent me a link to this fabulous product that everyone will be giving as a gift this Christmas. Here comes the Bottom Buddy. Bottom buddy is a real, honest-to-God product. Put the paper on the wand, give yourself the reach around, and wipe like there's no tomorrow.

Here is the product description of Bottom Buddy:

This toilet tissue holder is designed like no other, specifically allowing the user to apply pressure to properly clean the anal area. Notice the curve of the handle and the rounded edge on the head of the device.

Oh, I noticed the curve alright. Baby, I need that curve to hug and clean my anal area like no other wand can.

The soft, flexible head has 3 tulip-petal sections that easily pull back to allow you to insert and grip any toilet paper or pre-moistened wipe securely.

Ok, I need to stop reading this before I starch my trousers. You're offering to rub my anus with a spread-open tulip on a stick? Make it a spread eagle tiger lily, and you've got yourself a deal.

Once inserted the toilet tissue covers the rounded head.

Unnghhhhhh... ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

A press of the button on the back of the handle engages a rod that pushes out the soiled tissue into the toilet bowl. No sticking, no touching, no mess.

I think you've engaged my rod.

The Bottom Buddy is 11" long and weighs 4 ounces. Travels easily in it's own travel pouch.

You can keep the travel pouch. I doubt I'll ever leave the house again after mine arrives.

Then there's the very similar product, EasyWipe.

The EasyWipe extends your reach for better cleaning of the anal or vaginal area after toileting. If you find reaching difficult, this ergonomic tool is easy to use and makes it easier to clean those hard to reach places.

After toileting? TOILETING??? Now I'll admit that I'm fuzzy as to whether that is a gerund or a present participle, but either way, please do not do that, or I'll toilet all over your toothbrush.

Insert one end of a folded length of toilet paper into the recess on the rounded head of the EasyWipe. Wrap the toilet paper around the head once and tuck the other end into the recess. Toilet Paper should not be wrapped over the recess, as that will inhibit the EasyWipe's ability to release soiled toilet paper.

I'm getting visions of the release mechanism failing, causing some poor old guy in the men's room at Denny's after dropping a Grand Slam to have to turn around and grab a handful of shitty toilet paper to get it off the stick. He touches the stall door handle on the way out, braces himself on the wall as he slowly carts his moribund ass to the sink, leaving a trail of shitty fingerprints as he goes.

When the paper is soiled, press the release mechanism on the opposite end. This releases the used toilet paper into the toilet. The accordion style release mechanism can be pushed with a thumb, the palm of the hand, against your hip or the back of the toilet.

Or just keep the used toilet paper on the stick, burst out of the stall with your pants around your ankles, smack a toddler in the face with it, and yell "George Papadopoulos says hello!"

Easy Wipe Features:15" long and weighs 4.5 oz. ; Easy to clean (warm water and soap or a disinfecting wipe) ; Smooth rounded head for maximum comfort ; Travel case included ; Light, durable and strong ; Works with toilet paper or a pre-moistened wipe

I'm sorry, but length and weight are not features. Those are specifications.

The EasyWipe helps a person with reaching problems wipe themselves, eliminating the need for help from others.

Yet another heartless corporation out to deprive us of human contact. We're a culture of isolation. Television, the internet, and now EasyWipe. You bastards.

This holiday season, you can shove all the change you want into those Salvation Army kettles, but are you really giving of yourself? Anyone can write a check to charity, but will you give your precious time to those who need it? Now is your chance to give back to society. Please participate in this very important survey. Do it for science.

On Monday night, we returned to Minneapolis from San Francisco. Our trip started early Wednesday morning with a convoluted vehicle exchange. My mom flew in from Devils Lake, ND on Tuesday night and stayed with my brother Troy and his wife in Savage. The plan was for them to come to my place in Troy's gigantic Yukon to pick up Ang and me. My friend Mary came over, rode with us to the airport, then drove Troy's vehicle, the only vehicle we had access to that could fit 6 people, back to leave at my place and get her own car. It worked perfectly and saved us the cab fare. With an expensive trip like this, every little bit helps. I even hired a hobo instead of a professional bag boy to carry my luggage. That's called making your money work for you.

Sonora is a small tourist-friendly town about 2.5 hours from San Francisco and is home to my cousin Kellae and her husband A.J. This year, we decided to have ourselves a little family reunion in the form of an early Thanksgiving at Kellae and A.J.'s house. We rented a minivan at the airport (a shiny, red one at my brother's special request) so we could comfortably haul the 5 of us and our luggage from SFO to Sonora. And with very little convincing from the rental counter lady, I also rented a nifty Garmin GPS that would prove to be equally handy and aggravating.

Right out of the gate with the GPS, we had ourselves a problem. I blindly followed the hot GPS lady's voice (I'm assuming she's hot -- she sounded pretty hot), which instructed me to go in the ass-opposite direction on 101, a fact we didn't realize until we realized the GPS screen wasn't updating with our location. Suspicious, Ang checked the Google Maps printout and confirmed that we were on the wrong path. Multiple fuckerings with the GPS just resulted in the same command. "Drive ahead and and turn right." Turn right? We're on the god damn freeway you piece of shit! Finally Ang got the thing working by turning it off and turning it on again. Who knew? After that, it was good as gold, and by the time it directed us to Kellae's doorstep, I knew I had to get me one of those things.

On Thursday morning, Ang, Troy's wife Danielle, and Kellae went shopping in the many, many stores full of shoes, glittery yarny things, hats, ceramic kitties, and other things that the vagina-laden folk seem to like. Troy, A.J., and I dutifully followed our women around for a while, then broke into a sprint down the street when they suggested we head down the the bar for a few beers. It wasn't quite 11 am.

I was excited by all of the shopping opportunities that Sonora offered to Ang.


A.J. and Troy (background) discuss what excuse to use to get away from all of this shopping.


They couldn't think of anything, so we just went to the bar at the aforementioned suggestion of the girls. In the bathroom there, I was glad to have Protecto watching over my whizzing penis.


Ang bought a jaunty little chapeau and cool purse in one of the shops, and I had to agree that they were just to die for... on me. Better buy some for yourself, too, angel pie.


I'm supposed to say the hat looks better on Ang. But I won't until she gives it back to me (and even then, I'll still say it looks better on me). Give it back!


Danielle has herself a drink at the Iron Horse, aka the "Iron Lung," known for being one of the few bars that have managed to get around California's strict anti-smoking laws. You can smoke in there. For serious and for true. It smells like road work and cancer in there.


Later at the house, we had several (a shit ton) of additional drinks. Danielle shows Kellae a photo that she took. "I just took a photo of you drinking. Should we review all further drinking-related photos before continuing?" Kellae said that wouldn't be necessary, as we'd just spend the rest of the trip looking at photos of us drinking instead of actually drinking.


Red cups are for booze.


Kellae gets all up in there. I think she touched herself in the mind.


Marlboro Lights have one-third the calories of Marlboro Chunky Style.


Aunt Joanie's (Mom's sister) flowery Crocs.


Photos are cool. They just capture the looking part and not the sound and smell part. That way you can't tell that Ang is filling her trousers with shame.


On Friday, we went to nearby Columbia, a town that preserves its history by closing off one street to automobiles and only allowing pedestrians and horses. Why horses need to be wandering through Blockbuster and the superette and shitting all over is beyond me, but whatever the fuck, dude.

This place wasn't what I thought it would be.


Tourist pose #1,559,298,284


I'll tell you one thing the Assay Office doesn't need, and that is goods of the dry variety. I like my goods pre-moistened, thank you very much!


These guys know what I'm talking about. "We fix your cracks." They had just come from the Assay Office with a banker's box dripping with cloudy moisture.


Up in Pinecrest, we visited the lake.


And the low water levels gave me an opportunity to prop my camera up on a normally-submerged boulder to take this photo of all of us.


That night, we went into Jamestown for dinner at Azzo's. If you're ever in the area, I highly recommend it. I can only fault them for putting fucking cucumber in their water. I hate cucumber almost as much as racism and slightly more than unfettered fucknuttery and unrequested diddling.

After dinner, we did a little more shopping and came across Yoda. After he wiped his face down, he yelled at us and used the force to throw rocks at our balls.


Saturday morning, we woke up, and Kellae made us a fitting breakfast. In honor of the theme of the weekend, which was "Poop and Fellowship in 2007," she made us shit on a shingle. It was the best shit on a shingle I've ever had. While she was making breakfast, I discovered she had herself a fresh ant infestation on her washing machine.


I hope it's not because I smeared my P.B. & J. all over it the night before.


Ants also eat corpses.


Kellae has been remodeling her house for about 5 years, and in one fell swoop, much of her work was ruined when a water pipe burst a few months ago. Right up until the days before our arrival, she worked frantically to restore the house to a livable condition. Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. Here is the doorknob and improvised latch on our bedroom door. We were hesitant to bone in there.


Mom and her sis at the hotel. They like doors inside of doors that open independently of the doors they are inside of.


After gathering Mom and her things at the hotel, we bid Kellae and Joanie adieu (A.J. was at work) and hit the road for wine country en route to San Francisco. I was driving, so I would get to watch everyone else drink. Poor, poor Jeremy.

To be continued...

Moblog: Suck it

Sonora and San Francisco were an absolute blast from beginning to end. Sure there was my near-freakout when we couldn't find the valet parking entrance to the hotel near Union Square, but that ended up saving us about $65 in parking fees for the two nights we stayed. I'm right back into the fire at work here, but I uploaded all of my photos last night and hopefully will get a chance to post a few tonight.

The cartwheels,

-Jeremy

Moblog: Found at Alcatraz

Moblog: The Westin St Francis in Union Square is a pretty fancy hotel. Priceline kicks ass. Today we took a detour to wine country before continuing to the hotel in San Francisco. But I god damn near baked a
fanny pie in the driver's seat driving through the narrow, congested, and STEEP streets in and around Union Square while trying to find the valet parking area. Finally I had enough and had to get out
of that damn minivan (hey we have five people so shut it).

Well, I've
pooped in California more times than I can count over the years, but I thought I'd let you know. I just have a couple of minutes, so this is all for now. Poop out.

Tomorrow morning, my mom, brother, sister-in-law, Ang, and I leave for a trip out to California to visit my cousin in Sonora for a few days and do a couple days of sightseeing in San Francisco. I just got off the phone with Mom to confirm the plans for tonight and tomorrow. She flies into Minneapolis from Devils Lake, ND late this afternoon (it still floors me that you can fly out of DVL to MSP).

Me: We'll plan on meeting at my place tomorrow morning at 6:30. Mary will take us out to the airport. Then we can have plenty of time grab some breakfast, and have a cup of coffee.

Mom: That sounds perfect. We can just relax that way. Oh, I'm so excited I could just crap myself!

Me: I already have! But I don't think it's related to the trip.

When I moved in back in April, I noticed one of the cupboards was full of aluminum foil, ziplock baggies, wax paper and light bulbs that the previous owner left behind. I didn't really know what all was in there so this morning I decided it was time to organize. Back behind the above items was this:


And this is what was inside:


Honestly, it looks like potpourri from 40 years ago mixed with mulch, but it's much cooler to imagine that someone's been storing their weed in grandma's quaint, bird-house adorned tin cannister.

Usually I don't like talking to strangers. Let me rephrase that -- usually I don't like being forced into awkward, uncomfortable conversations with strangers. Dude in the elevator, shut up, or I swear to God I'll fart in here. Checkout lady at the supermarket, make another comment about much toilet paper I've purchased, and I'll explain to you loudly and in detail why I have purchased it (wait, I already have done that one once). Of course, there are rare exceptions to that rule, like the elderly gentleman from Holland who chatted up Ang and I about his extensive world travels while we rode the Mandalay Bay-Excelsior tram in Vegas.

Then there are those rare gems in the craggy rough, the horrid encounters that are so stunningly disturbing that you actually don't want it to end. It's the ubiquitous car accident analogy. You don't want to look at the stomach-churning carnage, but you can't look away. Sometimes, you even walk right up to the crumpled, overturned car, poke the headless driver's torso with a stick, then fuck the glistening, crimson hole where his arm used to be. I had just such an experience during our last visit to ValleyFair.

As Ang and I detailed in our wildly differing accounts of that evening, I ended up going off to ride one of the coasters on my own. The Renegade, a wooden roller coaster new to the park last year, had the longest line of any of the rides we had been on earlier in the evening. While standing in line, I couldn't help but notice the massive dude in front of me. He had a good half a foot in height on me and was a relatively hefty guy to boot. Add a tangled mane of White Snake-era hair halfway down his back, and he couldn't fade into a crowd any more than giant fire-belching penis robot shooting lasers out of its chrome urethra at a church bake sale.

After maybe 10 or 15 minutes of standing in line without any forward movement, Chucky Chrome Shooter turned around and asked me if any of the other rides had lines this long. I had barely finished answering when he began telling me about a dream he had involving one of his friends. I found this to be highly unusual and uncomfortably inappropriate to be standing there listening to a guy referring to his friend by his full name (as if that would mean something to me) in a rambling tale about the vivid dream of riding with his friend driving a car like a bat out of hell toward an oncoming truck on a remote highway. He bails out of his friend's car, and it smashes into the truck, killing the truck's driver. I'm sure it was quite the traumatic dream, but it certainly was not worthy of an attempt to regale a stranger trapped in line with you. But it definitely was the most cohesive tale I would hear for the next half-hour.

Without stopping for a breath, he segued into a spacey tale about a dream that involved him following electricity through a series of corridors. "Because you know how you can follow electricity?" Uh, no, but you have my full attention, I can assure you of that, Timothy Leary. At the end of the corridor, he came to a room full of desks. On the far wall there was sheet metal covered with scribbled notes. The next day, he started a new job in a new building, walked down a corridor, and came to a room with sheet metal on the wall where engineers had scribbled measurements and notes.

By this time, I thought I had reached my tolerance for this space cadet's glassy-eyed tales, but then it took a turn for the delightful and fantastical when he revealed that he could astrally project himself during dreams. "I must sound totally crazy, but it's real!"

I blurted out "No, no, no, man! I totally have an open mind about stuff like that!" Which was my way of saying "Fella, I don't know where this is going, but if this is going to tickle me in the places my instincts tell me it will, then I say go the fuck on!"

And go on he did. Eventually it became impossible to tell when he was talking about things that really happened and when he was talking about his "astral projection" dreams. He drifted between the two as if the barrier between them didn't exist, likely because for him, there was no distinction between the real world and the misty land of magic toad stools and butterscotch raindrops that shimmered and swayed in his overclocked brain.

"One time I was floating above my body and saw myself bathed in the light of the LED on my stereo. Then I floated through the ceiling -- you can float through walls like a ghost when you astrally project yourself -- and I floated up and up and up into outer space. But then I petered out and came back down. I told my friend about it, and he said you need to have a goal when you astrally project. So before I went to bed the next night, I wrote a note that said 'I will leave my body tonight,' signed it, and put it on the night stand. You see, my goal was to get to the seventh level of heaven, so I floated up there, and there was this bright place with blue lights and green lights and yellow lights. Then I was in this cubical chamber with two giant columns, and I saw this woman with long hair who looked like an angel kneeling down. [At this point, he actually knelt down to the ground to demonstrate] I floated toward her, and when I got close to her, she just looked up at me like this. [Still kneeling, he dramatically jerked his head up gave me a crazed look like Ozzy Osbourne at the end of the video for "Close My Eyes Forever."] It freaked me out, so I floated backwards away from her. Then she said, "Here, let me give you a shot of adrenaline" and moved toward me. Then her body merged with mine."

Well, don't stop now, motherfucker! Keep going! I wanted to draw more out of him, so I related my issues with insomnia and how I tried meditation with little success due to my now-medicated racing mind. "Oh, you need to eat a lot of raw fruits and vegetables. It just opens up the electrical paths in your body. You know what Tibetan monks did? They took a crystal and focused on the facets of the crystal. I did that. I focused on the crystal, put it by my bed, then floated out of my body toward the crystal." No, sir. I did not know that.

Maintaining his pattern, he drifted into his next story without a moment's pause. "One of my coworkers makes trophy mounts for deer horns. He had this black dog with a long tongue that pointed down to hell [I realized he was now talking about one of his dreams again]. I went to work the next day and told him about that, and he totally has a black dog! Then his girlfriend called him and told him his dog had died." You don't say!

As we edged toward the front of the line, he mused about such academic topics as Azteks, pyramids, ancient astronauts, the lost city of Atlantis, and the origins of the Bible. By this time, he could have hovered in the air, removed his human mask to reveal his true lycanthropic form, and pulled a small green alien mid-autopsy out of his ass, and I wouldn't have blinked.

Finally we were next in line. Since we were both solo, I suggested we ride together. Why break up this perfectly delightful discourse? As we waited for our turn, he continued to espouse his views on motorcycles, synthetic oil, and how best to correct bigfoot's underarm odor (ok, not really the last one -- I mean, this guy does have STANDARDS after all).

The only time he had nothing to say was during the roller coaster ride itself. Afterward, he started right in again, but I absolutely had undoubtedly had enough by this point. Ang had been waiting for me nearly 45 minutes, and I seriously needed to float out of the astral plane and plop ass-first back onto solid ground, or surely my head would explode in a shower of meditation crystals, Crystal Pepsi, Crystal Gayle, and almost certainly crystal meth. On the way out of the ride area, he suddenly stopped and continued yammering. Dude, why do we need to stop walking for this conversation? I want to leave now. Finally I convinced him that I really did have to get back to my girlfriend, then he hopped the rail for some reason and disappeared into the man-made fog. He was just gone. As if he had never existed. Had I completely imagined freaky astral guy? Maybe he's the other side of my personality. I have the feeling that someday I'll receive an anonymous package containing a memory card holding a security video of me riding that roller coaster by myself, chatting away happily to a massive figure who doesn't exist. Then there would be a lot of video of me masturbating on the bus and then a photo of a burglar with my toothbrush up his ass. I just can't tell what's real anymore, and I'm not sure I want to.

Moblog: Cup cakes. Now in single servings.

In brief bursts, I've spent the last few weeks clearing my house of clutter. The seven years in my humble home in Eagan have been the longest period of time I've spent at any residence since I moved away from the farm when I was 18. Living alone in my three-bedroom rambler, I haven't exactly been wanting for space, which hasn't given me much incentive to get rid of shit I don't need. Pay stubs from my minimum wage job in college, boxes from computer peripherals I threw away or sold years ago, gas station receipts from 1997 -- I have no fucking clue why I've hung onto any of it, and the growing collection disorganized boxes and chaotic piles of junk have made it nearly impossible to find the things I actually need when I need them. I'm tired of living in my own (non-biological) filth.

Phase I of Project Make Shit Go 'Way Now was to drag every overflowing box and drawer from my master bedroom and office and sort through every last scrap of paper and loose screw. That phase resulted in the disposal of an estimated 60 to 90 gallons of trash at the curb and 10 to 20 gallons of financial and other sensitive documents burned in the fire pit over beers and booze. The small percentage of items I wished or needed to keep were sorted into several piles in my living room. Financial documents, house-related documents and receipts, insurance and medical documents, photos and keepsakes, tools, computer parts, adapters, and cables, office items, and other assorted shit stayed in these piles for several weeks. The other day, I finally started putting these items into several stackable plastic drawers, folders, and other items purchased to aid in organizing my whatnotteries and bric-a-shit.

In addition to the trash, there are a lot of perfectly useful items for which I no longer have a need. These will all go to Goodwill. The most useless of these items are the boxes and boxes of toys I have collected over the years. Some I compulsively purchased, foolishly thinking they would increase in value. The following is a small but shameful sampling of unopened Star Wars toys that I took to Goodwill yesterday. Most of these items are worth exactly what I paid for them -- or far less-- in 1998 and 1999. These do not include the toys I opened and used for the purposes of interior decorating until I came to in a rush of snap maturity -- at age 27. Since then, these toys have accumulated dust in my closet.

Bear witness to my shame, bitches!

If ever there was a justly propagated stereotype, it is about men and their difficulties maintaining proper targeting while urinating. I like to think that I'm relatively careful, but even I have problems. I'm not talking about getting dropped off at home half in the bag, stumbling into the bathroom, and pissing into the trash can by mistake. I'm talking about day to day peeing. The very nature of the standing pee means there will be splashback. Within 24 hours of cleaning a toilet in a penis-laden household, there will be dried, yellow pee spatters on the rim. There will be pee splashed onto the floor around the toilet and the wall behind it. Even with mitigated pressure, this is unavoidable. Try pouring a glass of grape Kool-Aid from an 2 or 3 feet above the lip while standing over your brand new seersucker pants, and you'll see exactly what I mean.

Ang lives in a cozy condo in St Paul, just north of downtown. Her bathroom is comfortable, but is small enough that storage space is at a premium. This isn't at all unusual for buildings of a similar age. Unfortunately not long after we started dating, the cabinet above her toilet fell right off the wall. We discovered that the previous owner had quite obviously half-assed the installation. Not a single screw holding it up was anywhere near a stud, and it was only a matter of time before it came crashing down.

Now with even less shelf space for her makeup, hairdryer, curling iron, and other items typically found hovering a torso and head's length over a vagina each morning, Ang took to storing these items in an overnight bag next to the toilet. This immediately concerned me, given the splashy nature of the male pee. Despite my concerns, I kept quiet and simply made all the more effort to relieve myself with diligence and vigilance. But it bothered me. Each time I stepped foot in front of the toilet, I stared at that bag. That dark, red bag. Its darkened canvas would never readily reveal its regular exposure to a fine mist of pee. It was if time would slow, and I could see each minute, glistening droplet raining down into the bag and onto its contents. Then I would picture her waving these items around her face and hair, covering herself with an invisible powder of dried urine. Inhaling it. Breathing it. Digesting it. Knowing my imagination was getting the best of me yet again, I would shake off the thought (and my penis) and leave the bathroom without further concern.

As we got ready to go to bed at Ang's place the other night, I went into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and proceeded to rain down my pre-slumber liquid fury into the commode. Within moments of unclenching and reaching full flow, a sudden movement above the toilet rim caught my eye. I soon realized the toilet seat was falling back down. Shit! Instinctively, I hurriedly reached down to grab the ring so it wouldn't cross my stream. Unfortunately in the rush to reach the toilet seat in time, I lost my footing for a moment, causing a solid arc of yellow liquid to land squarely inside of Ang's overnight bag.

From the horrific bellowing coming from the bathroom, Ang immediately knew a urine-related incident had occurred.

"Alright, what happened in there?"

I hesitated for a moment, sizing up the situation. "Um... I peed in your bag next to the toilet."

"Aw shit!"

By this time, I had finished my business, flushed the toilet, and washed my hands. I opened the door to let her assess the damage for herself. Before I could say another word, she had grabbed the bag and was emptying its soggy contents into the bath tub.

Jesus! I just pissed in her bag. The least I could do was clean things up. "Oh, God. No, let me--"

"It's alright, I've got it."

I paced around in the hall for a few moments and returned to find her scrubbing the floor. Again, I offered to clean it up, but she responded, "Well, I'm already elbow deep in it anyway." She finished cleaning the floor and moved on to the spattered wall. After several minutes of furious scrubbing, she stood, apparently satisfied that the job was done. It was at that point that I noticed that a significant amount of it had sprayed into the cubby in the wall where the toilet paper roll sits. "Um..." I pointed to the cubby. She looked, sighed, scrubbed dutifully, then inspected the toilet paper roll itself to find it miraculously unscathed.

With her having completed the disgusting task of soaking up and cleaning my pee, I felt safe divulging the fact that if it had been her that had peed all over my house, she would be the one cleaning it up, not me. She laughed, so I'm not sure how serious she realized I was being. I didn't ask her to touch my pee. She volunteered. I wouldn't.

So now sitting beside Ang's toilet is a tightly zipped plastic freezer bag full of her peed-on beauty products. I still question the placement, since it doesn't solve the issue of external splashback, but at least the risk of filling the baggie with several inches of hot, steaming piss has been mitigated significantly. I only pray she doesn't find out it's been me shitting in her hamper and not her cat.

You are not my boyfriend
You are not my girlfriend
You are not my dead end
You are not my imaginary friend
You are not my brother
You are not my great-grand-daughter
You are not my sister
You are not my favorite mistress

So stop fucking calling me and leaving like 50 messages on my voice mail every day! Expect to be served with a restraining order tomorrow, music.

http://www.mikewang.org/images/chimgam9.swf

[I removed the embedded flash file so the stupid game sounds don't play each time you load this page. Click the link above for a game you won't believe I didn't write.]

This poster has been hanging in our break room for a while, but I never paid it much mind until today. It's for a big gala Christmas show at one of the area megachurches in Lakeville.


What really jumped out at me (aside from the tasseled cowgirl giving the "cowboy power" salute) was this breathless quote shouting the wonders of the show to the hills and villages beyond.


Well shit, son! If it's good enough for dude from Waseca County Tours, then I'll take 3, please. I heard Les Mis limped anemically between various community theater groups until Waseca County Tours gave it a glowing review. Then it was gangbusters, baby!

But it gets better. Not only has the most prestigious tour company in Waseca County, Minnesota given it the thumbs up -- brace yourself now -- the website says this show has been named a 2007 Top 100 Event (PDF link) by the American Bus Association. Yes, THE American Bus Assocation! You can double that ticket order knowing this show is perched amongst national entertainment treasures like Quilts in a Material World: Selections from the Winterthur Collection in Winterthur, Delaware and the Des Moines Arts Festival in Des Moines, Iowa. And let's not forget the World Chicken Festival in London, Kentucky. As if we COULD forget!!

So wake the baby, dig up grandma, and kennel the dog, folks. This one's gonna be a barn burner!

Real headlines from the Star Tribune:

"Paul Bunyan Log Chute remains closed at Mall after a 2-log collision"

Only 2 logs? Shit, I had a fucking 5-log collision right after lunch. Well, they weren't really logs so much as healthy dollups.

All throughout this morning and early afternoon, I was utterly miserable. I had horrible gas pains, but several trips to the bathroom proved fruitless, not even producing so much as a fart. I felt as though my gut were distended as I rocked back and forth in pain in my chair. Two o'clock rolled around, and I realized I hadn't eaten lunch yet. Neither had a couple of the other guys, so we decided to head out for a bite. We all decided we needed a power cleanse. Taco Bell it was.

I had a big ol' beef burrito and a beef and potato burrito. By the time the meal was over, I knew these faux Mexican monstrosities had done just the trick. We hadn't been back at the office but five minutes when my fecal Confederacy decided to secede from my colonic Union. I didn't just Pollack the toilet, I Picasoed it. I redefined cubism in a hurricane of spattered beef juice and fibrous remnants of lettuce. My colon, battered and heartbroken as it may be, is a forgiving soul, and I'm sure shall it will offer generous terms of surrender at yon porcelain Appomattox Courthouse.

This series of laborious poop analogies brought to you by The History Channel.

People think unicorns are pretty gay. I would argue they need to increase their gayness by a good 85 to 115%. On a scale of Monday Night Football to Liza Minnelli, I give unicorns a Quentin Crisp. Better luck next time, unicorns.

Somehow, they've taken my college nickname and turned it into a product. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Batter Blaster. Spray your batter right into the hotness. Stay tuned for the upcoming version for children, Baby Batter Blaster.

From the Product Information page:

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Do I need to refrigerate Batter Blaster?
A: No. Batter Blaster blasts out batter at a sticky, steaming 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

Q: Can the can/packaging be recycled?
A: Um... I guess, but I'd only recommend filling it with more batter. Any volunteers?

Q: What is the best way to cook Pancakes?
A: We're talking about hot, shooting batter here! We can talk about your breakfast questions after the press conference.

Q: Do I need to grease my pan/griddle/waffle iron with butter or oil?
A: You have some really goofy euphemisms for your penis there, dude.

Q: How do I know when to flip/turn my pancakes?
A: Oh! I get it! I'm sorry, man. Before I thought you were just talking about cooking actual pancakes. Your pet name for your girlfriend is apparently Pancakes. Why else would you have capitalized it? Then again, you reversed course and made it lowercase in this question. Whatever. Just pull out and roll her over.

Recipes

Money Shot Salad

6 oz. Batter Blaster
1 chick's face
$50 bill

Cover face liberally with batter, throw $50 on dresser. Drive home to wife.

Do you have Restless Legs Syndrome? Perhaps you need to talk to your doctor about Requip. Requip can take those torturous creepy crawly feelings in your legs and turn your thoughts toward more productive activities.

"Prescription Requip is not for everyone. Requip Tablets may cause you to fall asleep or feel very sleepy during normal activities such as driving; or to faint or feel dizzy, nauseated, or sweaty when you stand up. Tell your doctor if you experience these problems or if you drink alcohol or are taking other medicines that make you drowsy. Also tell your doctor if you experience new or increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges while taking Requip. Side effects include nausea, drowsiness, vomiting, and dizziness. Most patients were not bothered enough to stop taking Requip."

So basically this medication will first give you the symptoms of being morbidly obese, causing you to get all faint and sweaty when you perform simple tasks like standing. Note how they didn't say "when you stand up too fast." Just stand up, and you'll ralph on your burbur. And it might make you want to gamble and fuck??? How specific is that? "My legs feel fine, and I'm sleeping through the night, but I've lost about 60 grand on craps and keno. And I'm betting on anything I can think of. I even bet my best friend he couldn't get my wife to sleep with him, and then he did it. I'm losing my house, hiring 5 hookers a day, and I'm getting divorced. But did I mention my legs feel fine?"

For most people, increased horniness might not be an issue. In fact, they might welcome it. In my case, however, it would be a nightmare. I'm horny enough, dammit! Poor Ang would eventually become so raw that she'd refuse me further entry, and I'd end up ruining half my socks.

And the more I think about the gambling side of it, the first thought that came to mind was casino gambling, but maybe they're talking about taking gambles in general. "One of these parachutes contains a couple bags of Snickers bars and a broken MacBook. I want you to randomly hand me one, and I'm going to jump off of Jennifer Love Hewitt's cans and see if I can get her to ghost whisper into my scrotum."

But my legs feel fine.