Moblog: Get lubed in the rear
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Terrorists slam Amtrak train into Empire State Building
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?
Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts engaged to be married
Filed under:
celebs,
news,
relationships
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.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Someone is getting a suprise left on their keyboard
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 infront of the shitter. Who fucking does that? Maybe I will leave it on the air intake on his car instead.
Brotherly love
Filed under:
family
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.
Oh, and Troy, I'm also going to need the keys to your liquor cabinet and gun safe.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The San Francisco treatment
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.
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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Bottom Buddy
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.
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.
Please do your part for science
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
I left my fart in Sonora
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...
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...
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