In an early morning ceremony off the coast of a Starbucks in Eden Prairie, MN, the United States Coast Guard launched the douchecutter class ship Carson Daly. The Carson Daly, the first of this new vessel class, will power its way through douche blockages in order to open channels for both commercial and military vessels in the upper midwest. Captain Lawrence Looselabes says he couldn't be more excited to command the Daly. "This ship was designed to plow through tight formations of celebrity douches, boy band douches, lying self-denial douches, tanning addict douches, and bluetooth earpiece douches. Basically any douche you throw at us, we can break up like wet newspaper. I'm honored to serve aboard this vessel." Captain Looselabes didn't have to wait long to put the ship to use. Two minutes into its maiden voyage, the Carson Daly encountered a minivan doing 45 mph in the left lane of westbound 494 and crushed it against a concrete barrier.

One of the side effects of working in a place that loves their acronyms is seeing them everywhere. It's pretty much involuntary.

Example: After several minutes of silence while lying in bed a few nights ago, I giggle.
"What's so funny?"

"I just realized that the acronym for After School Special is ASS."

Sometimes my own level of stupid really kind of throws me. I had forgotten all about that startling revelation but remembered earlier during a response to a comment. And because I love you (though, not as much as spring woodchucks or vodka), I wanted to share.

Jesus, apparently weakened and vulnerable from several millenia of saving former drug addicts and toothless people hanging around in bus stations, was kidnapped from his straw-filled nest on Wednesday evening. After reverting to baby form and turning in for the night, Jesus was awakened by a rustling in the bushes. Before he knew it, he had been stuffed into a duffel bag by an unknown kidnapper and spirited off into the night. Unfortunately for the ill-fated savior thief, Jesus was outfitted with a GPS tracking unit, allowing police to simply cross the street and knock on a door to snatch him back from the unmanicured clutches of 18-year-old Danielle Santino. Santino apparently had run out of wine and wanted Jesus to make her a batch of Pinot Gris. Police arrived just in time, as Santino had become enraged when Jesus announced that he could only make Merlot.

On Christmas Eve, as I drove to Ang's place, I had the radio tuned to WCCO. Between spurts of lo-fi AM band Christmas music, a commercial came on encouraging listeners to "keep your radio and online tuned to eight-three-oh WCCO." This request did not go unnoticed, as immediately upon arrival at Ang's, I brushed past her toward the computer and started fiddling with various knobs and wiffle bat-sized transistors. But damned if I could get my online tuned to anything but the default Google search screen. Does anyone else have this problem with their onlines?

I'm pretty sure that's how that saying goes, but I don't have time to research these things. I wanted to call your attention to the January issue of Mpls St Paul Magazine, which features several dozen local blogs and websites. On page 111, you will find a sidebar about Overheard in Minneapolis, along with a beaming photo of a very familiar face. Ang was interviewed last summer and had the photo shoot a couple of months under the protective gazes of Aaron and Ed, who chaperoned in my stead. They made sure the photographer didn't engage in unrequested honking of her rack (I'm sure he would never do such a thing, but a woman can never be too careful when inviting strangers into her home).

In the feature, you will also find many other familiar links, including Abysmal Chick, Taylor, and MNspeak, just to name a few. However, proving that MSP Mag has somewhat spotty taste, omitted blogs include Jason's DeBlog and most curiously, afterglide. Sumbitches.

Last night we watched a truly terrible movie called Idiocracy, about two average-intelligence people who volunteer for an Army experiment that involves them being frozen for a year. The plot is they're accidentally frozen for 500 years and wake up the smartest people in the world. Everyone on earth is so goddamned stupid that they haven't figure out what to do with garbage so it piles up, and "Brawndo", a Gaterade like drink, has taken over as water so the crops are all dead. Seriously, it's a totally dumb movie but the plot is pretty much already happening. I really believe we are heading in that direction. If you think I'm overreacting, just pay attention to the news these days.

Another person left their dog in their running vehicle while going into the store just for a moment and is now pleading with everyone because the car and the dog have been stolen. And guess what? The vehicle has been found but the dog has not. I really hope this has the same happy ending as the last time this happened, but for the love of god people, stop dragging your pets around if you have errands to run! Leaving them in the car, no matter what the temperature or how quickly you think it's going to be, is and has always been a really bad idea.

In other animal-related news, a tiger escapes her cage at a zoo and takes out whoever is standing in her path. Everyone is scared and to avoid any more fatalities, the tiger is killed. The news keeps reporting this "rampaging tiger" and how she "killed" which implies uncontrolled behavior that she should be punished for, but she was only doing what she knew had to be done. You can't cage a strong, powerful wild predator and be surprised when she wants to eat your face because she doesn't want to spend another minute in an unnatural environment that goes against her most basic instincts. Duh.

From the department of Did I Hear That Right?:
"I've been to the real thing. That was pretty cool. This is the next best thing." - Pat Evans on the A Day in Pompeii exhibit at the Science Museum of Minnesota.

Empty promises are the best. You can make up complete bullshit knowing full well you won't deliver. But it doesn't mean I don't have mild pangs of guilt and sharp pangs of gas. The holiday season combined with a looming deadline of 1/1 for a project at work mean I have spent most of my waking hours working, out of town, preparing for the holidays, or maddeningly unbalanced combinations of the three. I will return at some point very soon. My head is bursting with stories and poop jokes. Mostly poop jokes. As always, remember that I love you like spring woodchucks and vodka.

P.S. Perhaps Miss Angie can step up her blogging A game this week. If she wrote down half the shit that tumbled out of her mouth on a daily basis, I could retire from this blog altogether.

Moblog: Ang's younger brother found this in a thrift store and gave it to her for Christmas. Looks like it was made in about 1990. Telling signs (aside from the copyright date) include ads for various local
businesses with phone numbers sans area code and references to Dayton's. Oh and travelers boarding Northwest flights with giant bottles of lotion.

Sorry about the spotty posting this week (and thanks to Ang for picking up some of the slack). I've been busy with my social schedule and work (mostly with work). I shall return bearing cuddles and cartwheels on Sunday, though I may moblog this weekend on occasion whilst having an early Christmas with Ang's family up in northern Minnesota. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to poop.

Even in an animated potty-training video the Japanese have mastered The Cute. I assume some of you already know how to use the potty but don't get distracted before it's over. Put down your chocolate pudding, though.

My favorite moment is the animated representation of a turd. I'd almost like to forget the techniques I've learned just so I can re-learn them with the assistance of this most wonderful video.

(via.)

Unless it's blatantly useless flamebait, I almost invariably regret it when I delete a negative comment. Today I received and impulsively deleted the following comment on my Bottom Buddy post:

"I am the mother of a mentally and physically handicapped child. She can go to the toilet by herself but her arms are too short to reach her anal opening to clean herself. Thus she either has to have someone available to wipe for her or she messes up her panties. This product that you make such fun of is exactly what she needs to become more independent. I hope none of you ever have to face the challenges of having a handicapped child (or aging). I am just about worn out from nearly 19 years of parenting a 'toddler'. Anything that makes our lives better or easier is welcome in our home."

I grew up spending a lot of time with a close family member with cerebral palsey, the effects of which prevent him from wiping at all without assistance. Try nearly 40 years of wiping someone's ass because they can't go to the toilet on their own. And even then, not once have I ever heard his parents complain or lose their sense of humor or irony. In fact, they were inspired to found what is now a multi-million dollar non-profit organization devoted to helping disabled people. So as a grown adult keenly aware of and sensitive to the needs of the physically and mentally challenged, I say, "But it's a stick you use to wipe poop off of your ass!!"

Having said that, since folks use this product, and I am not allowed to make fun if it, I respectfully withdraw my commentary; "it" being a stick you use to wipe poop off of your ass. I also hereby announce that I will no longer make fun of or even mention the following products and activities due to the fact they are used by people to make their lives easier:

Wheelchairs: I don't ever want to see a paraplegic being carted around in a Red Flyer tied to the bumper of a PT Cruiser ever again. Those were dark times. Dark times indeed.

Toilets: We'd have to shit ass-out through the window or squat behind the tool shed. Turds would drop from skyscrapers like a brown, moist hail of the depths of hell. Poopborne illnesses would run rampant!

Sweater vests: Certain people enjoy the warmth of a sweater without restricting the mobility of their arms. Hot, encumbered arms are no laughing matter, friends.

Vibrating eggs: Millions of anus to egg beater contact-related accidents are prevented each year.

Pooping: Can you imagine a nation full of people who are bulging at the waist, not because of over indulgence, but because they haven't crapped -- EVER? Sure, we Americans would look the same as we do now, but we'd have less McGriddle hanging from our schwa holes.

So from here on out, I will not make fun of or joke about any product ever again. My bad. Peace in the crease.

Quantitatively,

-Jeremy

P.S. Your horse seems to be riding a little high. You might want to take it to a farrier and get that checked out.

Moblog:

When you forget several bottles of water in your car for a few weeks this time of year, they tend to freeze solid. Bring them inside, and they melt into interesting shapes (I'll share the phenomenon of the "ice nipple" another time).

This little guy needs to be freed from his plastic enclosure.


"My icy butt plug. Let me show you it."


I am teh sup3r 3xcit3 about my ice turd.


"Step back, boys. I'm about to put on a two dollar show on a 25 cent stage."


Thanks to Ronny Gunz for snapping the pics.

"I love you even though you're frigid."

"I love you even though you're an asshole."

Throughout the month of December, we've been counting down the top 31 cruelest and most insensitive companies of 2007. If you loved Robotic Mohels, Inc. (#29) and BeauCue, maker of extra hold hairspray for chemo patients, you're going to love today's feature, CousCous™ vending machines. New Jersey-based CousCous™ has decided to capitalize on the world's poor and hungry by installing vending machines full of tantalizing food and ingredients for cooking in remote villages in countries all over Africa. CousCous™ places the vending machines in the center of the village and charges outrageous prices. A pound of flour will cost you a staggering $45 US. The machines also dispense condoms for $75 US per dozen, and goats for $500 US. You disgust us, CousCous™. Those chicken legs look pretty good though. Anybody got a twenty?

James Dyson, inventor of high-tech vacuum cleaners that can suck electrons off of atoms (and money out of your bank account), has announced that he has created a full body version of the Dyson Airblade. The original Airblade was designed to dry hands in public lavatories in an energy-efficient and hygienic manner. "I realized whilst toweling myself off one morning that this process is terribly uncivilized and wasteful," said Dyson. "Think of the millions upon millions of gallons of water used to clean our towels each year. I knew there had to be a way we could create a cost-effective version of the Airblade on a larger scale. I also thought it would be a delightful opportunity for Jeremy to have an excuse to Photoshop this gratuitous image of a fat guy and his partially exposed ass crack inside of an Airblade. How droll."

Senator Larry Craig, Republican Senator from the state of Idaho, has issued a much-anticipated report on the use of performance enhancing drugs in the gay male porn industry. Said Craig of the scandal, "I was outraged at what I found during my excruciatingly detailed and comprehensive investigation into the activities of actors in homosexual pornographic films -- but I'm not gay. Countless young, greased up little oven mits take steroids to enhance their rippling, perfectly proportioned, beefcake physiques -- I've never been gay. Hoards of painfully attractive young men even take sexual performance drugs like Viagra and Cialis for extra stamina and a firmer, more throbbing erection, which they use to pound tightly puckered lube holes between pairs of rock hard, tanned, waxed buttocks again and again until they pull out and spray hot, sticky ejaculate all over writhing masses of rippling abs, chiseled jaws, and pouty lips such that it runs down their hardened profiles and pools in their navels and between their pectoral muscles -- but I'm not gay. I am outraged at this behavior and will review these films and visit film sets daily until I get to the bottom of this conspiracy -- for sure I am not fond of penis. In the meantime, I recommend that the executives of the studios shooting these films send me everyone listed in my report so that I may personally punish them in my plushly appointed den. Not gay -- Craig out!" Craig then proved his convictions by taste testing several of the aforementioned drug-tainted erections, wiping his mouth, and shotgunning a Tab soda.

Elfin holiday greetings from Ang, Jen, Rich, and Jeremy.

Jeremy's Togetherness Song lyrics

Christmas! Christmas time is great!
[unintelligible]
Christmas and Hanukkah together!
[unintelligible] great! BOOP!

Moblog: A live report from the floor of stall 1.

Not unlike Rodney Dangerfield, I'm going back to school at a dangerously old age. It's time to up my book larnin', and I can't think of a better place to do it than BSU. But what do I major in? Penmanship? Ninjitsu? I can't decide. Maybe all of their AIDS-ridden students can tell me. I don't know who founded BSU or why it's in Buffalo, MN, but I do know that I'm filling out my application RIGHT NOW! Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the mall to get my glamour shots.

In light of recent postings, there is only one conclusion:

Moblog: This week's doodle from our team meeting. Chief Boxy McLolz gives this meeting a thumbs up.

I was pleased to have the opportunity to be amongst the first patrons of D.P O'Spooginhands at the corner of E. Franklin Ave and Park Ave S. in Minneapolis. D.P. O'Spooginhands bills itself as a "warm family fountain of funtainment," which can be seen the moment you walk in the door. The walls teem with old trumpets, street signs, and pictures of Jesus eating spinach dip. For an appetizer, I ordered Sgt. Curtis Tightshank's Blayzin' Bone-Inz, a succulent, fiery plate of bone-in buffalo wings. If I had one complaint about the Blayzin' Bone-Inz, it would be the sloppy manner in which the bleu cheese was plopped onto the plate. Actually, launched onto the plate would be more accurate. Warm, spattered, chunky, creamy bleu cheese sauce everywhere. Then I made the mistake of rubbing my eye after eating them. It burns when it's in your eye! Teh boo! But things improved when I got my entree. Messiers Leland Stumblebun and Coriander Chundersquea's Apple-Buttered Creme de Salmon Patties with Lord Protector Roques Pierre Bon Florent Marchet's Cheddar-Encrusted Yam Crumbles over Widdershins-Skinned Onion Flutters. God bless America, that was a fine dish! As I leaned back in the booth, my stomach distended with crumbles and flutters, my server returned and asked if I was interested in dessert. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly--" I stopped short when I spied a four-foot high chocolate cake aglow with dozens of sparklers being delivered to the table next to me. "Sweet fancy trash bag, what is that?!?" My server lit up, quite obviously thrilled that I would ask. "Why, that is our Four-Foot High Patriotism Sparkler Cake." Oh. Well, that hardly sounded delicious or impressive. I just asked for my bill, which came to $17.42 with taxes (though I only drank water). After the tip, it came to a little over $21. Not too shabby for the fantastic food and friendly atmosphere. So if you want a mouthful of hot fantastic, be sure to check out D.P. O'Spooginhands.

"I just love what you've shoved into my box!"Well, it's that time of year again, folks. It's finally time to review the best and worst of this year's holiday gift items. Whether you're looking for a tech toy for Dad or the latest fashion accessory for your girlfriend, I've got all the figurative poop on what's bright and what's shite.

Girlfriend or Wife

I've bought Ang a few nice things. But since she keeps a close eye on this blog, I can't really tell you what I got her. But I'll review the items in such a way that won't spoil the surprise.

Gift #1 - My only complaint is that this gift is too heavy. I pulled a groin muscle lifting it off of the store shelf. I can tell you that it's got a quality build, wasn't terribly damp, and that you eventually get used to the smell, particularly if you grew up on a farm or near an oil refinery. Overall I give this gift an A-.

Gift #2 - This one was a little difficult to find. In fact, I had to order it from overseas due to some legal issues surrounding getting caught buying or selling them in the United States. I tracked down a guy selling them online. I gave him my social security number and bank account number. It looks like he took a few thousand dollars out of my account as a deposit. I trust I'll get that back when the item arrives. I can't wait to see the look on Ang's face! B+

Gift #3 - Ronny sold me a couple pounds of this stuff. Kind of looks like oregano. For some reason, he put raw eggs in it. But he gave me a 25% discount and said I was "OK to buy." I'm not sure what that means, but it must be good shit. B+++

Mother

My mom, though she has verbally vowed to never visit my blog again, could be reading this, so again, I can't really tell you specifically what I bought her.

Gift #1 - This one looks pretty good. The box is classy (you could also say that about my girlfriend), and I think there is a button on it. I had to open it up to make some modifications to it, but I think Mom will appreciate that. It also came with a bale of hay. A+

Gift #2 - It's red and shaped like part of my anatomy. I tried to find a purple one to make it more realistic, but the gun shop wouldn't sell it to me. A+

Gift #3 - I bought this one in California. No eggs in this batch, but I was blacklisted from the buy list after I tugged on the dude's tunic. C+

Brother

My brother doesn't read my blog much, but just in case...

Gift #1 - I wasn't allowed to get just one of them, so I had to buy like 5, which is total bullshit. He's getting all of them. I just hope he has enough room in his pants.

Sister-in-law

She reads my blog for sure, so I can't say what it is.

Gift #1 - There was only one of them. There's some sort of button on it, but it didn't do anything when I pressed it (you could also say that about my girlfriend).

Step-dad

I'm still shopping for this gift, but I'm thinking of getting him a CD of trance music or maybe some lavender-scented hand lotion with lilac crystals to keep his hands moisturized when he's hunting deer. I'll bet he'd like that. A+ for my idea and F- for you if you don't agree.

Friends

Mostly your friends shouldn't get gifts if you see them regularly because they get the gift of seeing you so much. I tried to convince Angie that was particularly true for a girlfriend, but then she rolled off of me and told me to go home. She wouldn't even let me collect my trousers and sweater vest first. I don't care: A+

Everyone else

Signed photos of me masturbating. Enough said. A++++++ and a sticky cuddle.

This is what happens when you translate an old post to Japanese then back to English.

After taking more than a month of Celexa, has been the most frustrating experience of the side-effects is not yet exist, but sometimes as much as one has to take meds started. This is disappointing because, remember not sleeping well or this ongoing, this since I was a kid. I still wake up early in the morning though occasionally, and not as often happens. I think my body's adjustment to the actual acquisition of sleep a night.

My problem is the delay spoogtasms, I scheduled a follow-up test today, and my doctor complaining about the drug's side-effects of MASU. "Doc, I have a picture on the wall using about four, five times a day. Think I might have about the possibility of touching my crank, and it is off the record. Wants to shift or slightly my chair and end up with a lap full of custard. Certainly, my girlfriend and the girl's action to obtain the benefit of the side of my action has been so durable, these pill taking, the day anywhere Miss chick you want to unpack my bags and immediately greeted by the chest to obtain extra triple coating thickness Mayo, "he said.

"Jeremy," he said. "You ever anyone's own thoughts?"

I scrunched-up nose confusion. "Who?"

"Other people! Doing other people's feelings on the ground!"

I did not understand. "Fucked to the document, speak English! English! Degree do not have to look at this drug EMASHITA. Machine I work for a living. Now the pressure Could something back to my CHAUDAHOSU? "

He also wrote up procedures weaning himself SEREKUSAOFU transition to a new drug.

"Thank you, sir!" Door to flip over, in retrospect, without casually, and he threw a wadded Jackson over my shoulder up. I whistled a happy tune to walk back to my car, thinking that a particular woman in my life is the possibility of a desire to invest in a new pair of safety goggles.

Today Ronny Gunz posed a question to us: would you kill 10 puppies to cure cancer? The unanimous answer was yes. Then the stakes were raised. Would you kill 10 children to cure cancer? Matt said no way, but I didn't blink before saying yes. Weigh the lives of 10 children against the half-million Americans who die of cancer each and every year and who knows how many people worldwide. Do I get to pick the kids? For the sake of this exercise, let's say that I do not (in other words, no cherry picking of terminally ill children, likely future career criminals, etc). Ten kids die a quick death to save millions upon millions of people, including countless other children, from dying slow, painful deaths. Granted, I'd probably never sleep through the night for the rest of my life, and I'd would likely be spending those sleepless nights in a prison cell or mental ward.

If you would like to participate, I will take it a couple steps farther:

What animal species would you be willing to completely eradicate from the face of the planet in order to cure the following diseases and medical conditions? Additionally, how many human children would you be willing to snuff out? Answer on a per-disease basis.

• AIDS
• breast cancer
• lupus
• Parkinson's
• schizophrenia
• mild joint pain
• a slightly itchy testicle

Given the mandate that you must wipe the following groups of animals from the mortal coil, what disease would you want cured in exchange for their eternal and systematic obliteration? Choose one disease or condition per animal group.

• cats
• dogs
• pandas
• house flies
• plankton
• the 215 most adorable kittens ever
• a cancer boy's companion dog
• the most succulent of the land-based, meat-giving animals (cows, pigs, chickens, and turkeys)

I trust you to be truthful, but your answers will be recorded, analyzed, and sent to the FBI so they can catch you before they find half a hooker stuffed into a barrel in your rented storage unit. You fucking psycho. You already sicken me.

I would like to publicly thank Northwest Airlines for the email they just sent me that did not contain their holiday greetings to me, but directed me to a link where I could find their holiday greetings to me. This is the kind of warm, heartfelt connection with the customer that so many companies have let fall to the wayside. Now that I know Northwest Airlines cares so much about me, I will surely have a happier holiday and a more prosperous 2008. Thanks, Northwest! You could have thanked me by not having shitty customer service, unpalatable, unhealthy, and overpriced in-flight meals, or the worst on-time flight record in the industry, but you sent me a link to a flash file. Bra-fucking-sarcastic-va!

I know you're not supposed to say Christmas, but I'll say it. Christmas. JESUS! SANTA! RAINBOW BRITE! PANAMA HAT!

Are you still stuck for ideas on what to get for that fun-loving, mentally disturbed person in your life? I have all sorts of new products in my Zazzle store. And don't forget the original collection at CafePress.

These days, I draw a fairly firm line between my work and professional lives. When I'm at home, I think about personal matters, and when I'm at work... OK, I may work from home when a deadline looms or dick around at work here and there, but it all balances out. There is one place, however, where you should never think about work, even if you are at the office. Never think about work in the bathroom. That is your personal time -- ALWAYS. Your time on the toilet is your treasured time to zone out, play a cell phone game, reflect on your personal goals, or reflect on the poop that you are currently pooping. That is why I find it particularly offensive when attempts are made to inject work into my shitter stall. Do not talk to me about work while I am shitting. Do not expect me to read work-related texts while shitting. And you sure as hell better not expect me to actually work while shitting. In fact, don't talk to me at all while I'm in there. Don't even leave a damp copy of the Wall Street Journal on the floor for me. I'm shitting, goddammit. Either work stops at the stall door, or I'm replacing my rolling chair with a toilet on wheels. You've seen how much I roll around from cubicle to cubicle. Do you really want the hallways coated in a slimy trail of peanuts steaming with the hot smell of crushed pepper and cumin? This isn't the French Quarter at 2 pm on the 17th of July. This is the motherfucking MN of A! Liberty!

Angie didn't much care for my Twittered idea for selling afterglide-branded vibrators. She got creeped out at the thought of other women masturbating while thinking of me (though she mentioned no problems with me coating a few dashboards at the thought of other women). Hey, it's not like I'm going to plaster a photo of my tongue on the end of the damn thing. Ladies gettin' their buzz on with my logo embedded 6 inches up their twat is just good marketing, baby. Unless the labels fall off, get stuck in there, and give them urinary tract infections and toxic shock syndrome. How the hell was I supposed to know the manufacturer would engrave the logo into a patina-prone plate of snatch-moistened copper? My private jet is waiting on the tarmac for word of the first lawsuit.

Maybe if Ang doesn't want me selling personal pleasure products, she won't mind if I relive my single days by desperately trying to get random chicks to manhandle my unsweetened yam. No cheating, mind you. I'd just awkwardly flirt up a storm in local bars, maybe talk the occasional peninsula cow into coming back to my special apartment outfitted with video cameras and laser measurement systems, get them to drop their beach blanket-sized panties, then browbeat them R. Lee Ermey-style. "Oh my GOD! You were going to sleep with ME? Let me grab my pad because I'm writing you a prescription for some standards, wrinkle tits." Then I'd tell them to get the fuck out and Ang would pop out of the closet to laugh hysterically at them. After the victim clomped out in tears, Ang and I would get freaky, completely high out of our gourds over the damaged we'd caused to another human being's threadbare soul. It would totally be the bone-ening.

File this under "I can't believe I haven't invented this yet."

Does anyone out there think they have a shitty penis? I'm not talking about a penis covered in shit but a bad, overall undesirable penis. I like my penis just fine. It's given me a lot of pleasure and pride over the years. And a certain someone seems to enjoy it quite a bit too. Sometimes I even use it as a brush of sorts, with the canvas being a wall, computer screen, or random passerby's handbag. But do you like your penis? Do you wish it was bigger? Longer? Girthier? Veinier? Wish your mushroom cap was a portabello instead of a shiitake? On a scale of butterscotch candy to baseball bat, is it a tube of Chapstick? Is it all deformed and bumpy with knots and gnarls like a troll's walking stick? Or like the troll's actual penis? Personally, I think you should like your penis or tie a padlock to it with a rubber band and shut the fuck up.

1. Wait until your girlfriend gets to your house before you do.
2. Log into your home computer remotely from work.
3. Crank the volume on your home computer's speakers.
4. Go to this website and start randomly clicking buttons.
5. Wait for her to call your cell and tell you she's going to kick your ass.
6. Laugh hysterically.

Moblog: Apparently someone took the phrase 'going to take care of some 'paperwork'" a little too seriously. Or perhaps he used the clip to hold up his signed photograph of Larry Craig while he was on a seated outing to the wet firing range.

Moblog: Poor guy