After my coworkers pulled a shitty lunch rapture on me on Monday and left me behind to fend for myself, I knew this was my long awaited chance to bathe in the swirling meat vapors of Tacoville in Lakeville.

Tacoville has about the least Mexican or southwestern decor of any taco joint I've been in, but it was clean and tidy. Well, it was clean if you don't count the half-foot high pile of frozen tater tots sitting out on the front counter near the register. I searched the room for a pile of unrefrigerated horse meat but didn't see one, so I decided to plunge in head first. I went for the most expensive burrito on the menu, the Santa Cruz Burrito Supremo. I also added a side of "Mexican Taters" (code for unfrozen tater tots). I paid my $7 bill and shuffled around aimlessly while they prepared my order.

Their logo needs to be on a t-shirt. A t-shirt worn by me.


I tried to take some photos inside, but my cell phone didn't care for the low light, and they didn't turn out. So here's a shot illustrating Tacoville's proximity to, Fantasy Gifts, a sex shop, on the far left of the photo. Unknown stranger burrito or edible panty buffet? Hmm...


After some gentle tickling, licking, and nuzzling, the Tacoville sack got a little wet. Meanwhile, a little man fell out of Mr. Potato Head's ass. Ernie was intrigued.


If tater tots are Mexican Taters then fish sticks must be Lithuanian Lobster.


Sweet Jesus. What have I gotten myself into? There had to be a pint of grease pooled in the bottom of the burrito wrapper.


If I ever need to replace my living room picture window, I'll just buy a Tacoville burrito, remove the greasy wrapper, and tack it into the window frame.


I did not realize it until reread the online menu just now, but this was a 1 1/4 pound burrito. Fucking shit -- that was a 1.25 pound solid mass of greasy seasoned beef, one black olive, and three kernels of corn. It was like walking into a stall in the mens room at work.


"Lord, let the structural integrity of my intestines hold true as I ingest this nightmare of your creation."


I decided to start easy and took a tentative bite of a tater t--er, a Mexican Tater.


No, this isn't me vomiting the morning after a drunken bachelor party. I'm eating a burrito. No, really!


Um... I think I actually was vomiting in this photo.


In a nutshell, it wasn't bad, but it wasn't good enough to warrant consuming 5,000 calories of congealed meat and cheese. I say that if you are homeless and desperate for big, cheap food, Tacoville's the place for you. Tacoville. Eat some, won't you?

I've been Jonny Nopost this week, but I've got a bountiful one comin' for tonight. Promise your ass. As you can well imagine, the attempted break-in at Ang's place the other day has had me a little distracted. The front door was FINALLY fixed yesterday, so I no longer have to get whisked into the building through the rear entrance like a mayor's whore. And work has been crazy but oddly satisfying (mostly non-sexually) this week.

Dear potential thieves thinking of breaking into Ang's place. I've reinforced her condo's door with a metal sleeve/plate, replaced her door chain with a heavy duty door latch, installed rails that make it next to impossible to jimmy her door or split the door frame, and I will be standing guard 24x7 ready to beat you to death with my rage-engorged cock should you venture within 5 miles of her.

Oh... how can I stay mad at you?

Kisses?

Kisses.

I heard the door rattling shortly after I got home this morning, somewhere around 10-11. (I know, that's broad but I'm not feeling well and was resting on the couch and I don't remember the exact time.) My first thought was the mailman, as he had a little trouble with the door on Saturday. It's an old door that's affected by the cold and heat and tends to stick a little, and needs a little extra budge and patience. But it went on a little long and I started to think something was wrong. Unfortunately I wasn't in a position to do anything about it immediately... AKA pooping. The rattling quieted and I went back to the couch instead of peeking out into the hallway. Partly because the whole thing made me nervous and partly because I just really wanted to lay down.

A few minutes later my doorbell rang and the guy on the other end claimed to be a UPS delivery driver with a package for Unit 1. Red flag! This is not the primary residence for the owner of #1. I don't buzz deliveries up anyway because the door release is a little sticky and I hate explaining this people, but I was definitely not comfortable with granting this particular dude access to my building so I just said, "Uh yeah you do... I'll be right down." He was not there, naturally.

One could argue even going down there was foolish but I still wasn't positive something fishy was happening. I didn't see anyone on the street so I reached for the door to peek outside. The deadbolt wouldn't budge, it had totally locked up. I couldn't tell yet from the inside but the door was in pretty bad shape. My only other way out is down the back stairs and out the rear of the restaurant. Wood shards were missing from the door in a pattern that looks like it was chewed on, as well as clear crowbar marks. The lock still had no interest in turning.

"Oh, greaaaat." Now I'm locked outside as my key does not open the rear door to the restaurant. It's an exit but it's not an entrance. That's fine, I'll hang out here on the stoop until someone comes along. It's noon or something so I should only have to wait about 6 hours. Well, luckily for me my new neighbors downstairs were rustling around inside and they were kind enough to let me in to access the back stairs.

Upstairs I called the non-emergency line and reported it. They sent an officer out pretty much right away but he said nothing could really be done without a description and since I didn't see anyone it wasn't even worth it to file a report. I thanked him for coming out anyway and knocked on TSC door, again, so I could back inside. This time, Aaron, one of the owners, said he saw the guy fiddling with our door and operating the buzzer but couldn't be sure he wasn't supposed to be there. He gave the description to the officer so if they catch the little waste of human skin, he can make the I.D.

A couple of points:
1. Let's say I'm stupid enough to have buzzed that fucker up. What would he have done? Broke into one the units knowing that someone was up there and could call the police?! He was oh-so-discreet with the door I'm sure he would have been just as quiet on a unit door.

2. It was just before noon, in front of a restaurant and a pretty busy karate studio, on an extremely busy street next to an extremely busy intersection across from Metro State. The door is not at all concealed from the public nor does it provide an entry of any sort for visitors. It is literally next to the sidewalk in broad view of the insurance agency directly across the street.

3. That door is so friggin' loud and yet he still kept slamming away on it.

4. He apparently didn't give a damn about being I.D.'d because he rang the doorbell at the back of The Strip Club and talked to Aaron face to face to ask if he could get a menu. Did he think that Aaron would walk away, leaving this guy access to the backstairs? Thankfully Aaron wasn't comfortable with this guy and didn't allow him inside. Wouldn't matter anyway, he'd have at least two more locked doors to contend with. Real piece of work, this one. I guess his mother wasn't proficient with the clothes hanger.

5. I am so pissed off.

The end.

Ang may or may not opt to recount the full tale herself, but some motherfucker tried to break into her building today through the front door while she was home. Broad fucking daylight near the intersection of two busy streets. Thankfully, one of the guys at The Strip Club, the restaurant nearby, saw the whole thing go down (he couldn't see for sure that the guy was trying to break in from his vantage point, but thought it was suspicious) and was able to provide a good description to the cops.

I don't have the whole description, but if you saw someone matching this description acting suspiciously near the corner of Maria Ave and 6th St in St Paul around 11 or 11:30 am, please contact the St Paul Police Department.

Black male, about 17-20. Grey hoodie with red stripes on the arms. Brown pants.

Please -- I always strongly discourage racial profiling (let us not draw broad and unfair conclusions because of one bad apple), but I encourage fashion profiling. Anyone wearing brown pants deserves a cinder block rubdown (in fact, let's include khaki pants in there just to be safe). It's ok. You have my permission. I'm authorized.

Moblog:

Not having good luck this week with Jimmy John's employees hearing things people didn't say.

Jimmy John's at Sun Ray in St Paul...

Ang: Can I get a number 9 please?
JJ's dude: [eyes practically rolled back into his head] Uh... ok.
Jeremy: [noticing the word "combo" flash by on the register] Wait, did you charge her for the combo or just the sandwich?
JJ's dude: Didn't she say combo?
Jeremy: No.
Ang: It's ok. I'll have the combo.
Jeremy: [glares at Ang, shooting it's-the-principle-of-the-thing lasers into her head]

It was funny the first time (especially when the guy was so good-natured about it), but this time it displeased me.

UPDATE: To be fair, as you see in the comments, the manager of this Jimmy John's contacted me and offered me enough gift certificates to buy a couple of meals at any JJ's location. Regardless of the gift certificates, I do appreciate the apology.

Things got a little crazy.

Aaron likes how smooth my codpiece is. This is what happens when you drive so far into suburbia that you have to stop for an oil change and a haircut on the way.

More photos from Jason's snaptabulous suburban birthday bash from:

-Ang
-Max
-Amber
-Erica
-And the birthday boy himself

As some of you already know, I recently put ceramic tile down in Ang's bathroom (with much help from Ang, of course). This was part of a Christmas gift to her. We started last Friday evening by tearing out as much of the old stained, peeling linoleum as we could and worked on it piecemeal over the ensuing days, as we had a lot of other things going on. I finally wrapped it up last night by sealing the tile, caulking the edges, and putting the toilet and sink back in. We still need to put in a door threshold and some molding or trim of sort, but here is the finished product. And let me state for the record that after touching the disgusting wax seal for several toilets during various projects over the years, that toilet wax, even straight out of the package, is the most vile substance known to man or beast. Scrub all you want, but that shit won't come off of your hands until you've sloughed off 2 layers of skin. If you ever want to piss off a pair of newlyweds, write "Just Married" on the trunk of their car using toilet wax. People will think they just got married until they trade the car in or plunge it off a cliff in a suicidal fit after myriad prolonged, desperate attempts to wash it off.

Dearest United States Government,

I thank you kindly in advance for the upcoming check for $600 that you will be sending me (if I'm understanding this whole rebate thing correctly, anyway). That should more than make up for the thousands of extra dollars I have spent on gas, food, and assorted goods as prices skyrocketed over the last few years. I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but I could use some advice on how to spend this money, United States Government. Some cool computer equipment? A swiggity new gaming console? A hobo leg? Dignity? So many options!

Anyway, United States Government. Thanks again. Oh, and thanks for that even bigger check you're going to cut me in a few weeks after I file my taxes. I think it's great that I unwittingly gave you a loan bigger than one of my paychecks and will be getting it back without any interest.

Love,

Jeremy

P.S. Please give me back all of the money I've paid into Social Security. I've finally realized it's a Ponzi scheme. I'll accept that payment without interest, too.

At Jimmy John's in Lakeville...

Jeremy: Yeah, I'll have a number 16 please.

JJ's Dude: [barking out the order to the sandwich guy] Number 16, no mayo!

Jeremy: Wait, doesn't that usually come with mayo?

JJ's Dude: So you want extra mayo?

Jeremy: No, I just want the mayo that normally comes on it.

JJ's Dude: Oh, so no TOMATO.

Jeremy: No, just the regular sandwich. Straight up.

JJ's Dude: Jeez, man. I'm sorry. I must need hearing aids.

Jeremy: [good naturedly] But you're hearing things that weren't said.

JJ's Dude: So I need a psychiatrist.

Jeremy: You and me both, dude.

JJ's Dude: If you find one, give me his card.

Moblog: "Computing freshness. Freshness emergency. Proceed to nearest escape pod for further instructions."

This afternoon I stumbled upon this diamond in the internet rough. At first, it was totally obvious this guy didn't even have a deck of cards to be short a couple, but after reading it over and over again, his true mission became clear.

Here are a couple of my favorite excerpts:

More advanced than Star Trek technology! - While the show had some influence on ideas and the direction technology should go, it's still important to point out that most of the technology on the show was, um, not real.

Alex Chiu knows what causes you to age and hereby discovered a great solution to stop you from aging. - But as far as I can tell they have left out Alex's age and if he's been using his own product. But the testimonials are fantastic.

You will one day reach PHYSICAL PERFECTION!! It is strong enough to change the shape of your facial bones. - So they can change the shape of your actual bones but do they have guidelines? How do they know what to change my bones to? (heh bones)

It doesn't matter what handicap you have. This stuff burns through everything! - HOLY SHIT. THAT IS NOT A HANDICAP THAT IS MY LIVER. I guess some could argue the liver handicaps your ability to drink as much as you'd like.

Gorgeouspil is the only savior of Earth - Well, why didn't you just say so in the beginning instead of starting out with all those CRAZY things?

The biggest enemy of mother nature is human. We humans reached the top of the food chain and kept multiplying until no end. Stopping humans from multiphying is the only feasible way of saving mother nature. - So, humans are the biggest enemy to mother nature but instead of allowing us to kill ourselves off (because you know we're headed that way) you suggest we all live forever. We should consult with mother nature first.

Then, you get the bottom of the page. This is where you realize what his true mission in life is, and I back him 100%. (it's kind of long, but oh so totally worth it)

And Gorgeouspil can stop humans from multiplying! So spreading the usage of Gorgeouspil can save the environment. Here's why:

[here he explains in crazy talk that souls can't live in old bodies and need new ones to go on...]

So people who take Gorgeouspil don't want kids. A person who takes Gorgeouspil likes to concentrate his soul within his own body and does not wish to scatter his soul on to other bodies. So making babies is not desirable for people who take Gorgeouspil. Gorgeouspil allows a person to achieve unlimited beauty and unlimited youth. Meanwhile, it stops humans from unnecessary reproductions of more human beings.

Help bring this new technology to light. For the sake of mother nature, for the sake of millions of innocent animals, for the sake of your own future. Don't blindly let the unnecessary reproductions of more human beings ruin our home. Spread the word about Gorgeouspil.

As an immortal you have a duty to protect our planet. Let the spreading of words be your first mission.

DING DING DING! This shit makes you sterile or barren! He is doing the world a great service! If you're stupid enough to believe magnetic rings on your fingers and toes can make you immortal, at least you won't be reproducing any time soon.

Sterilizing the stupid. Thank you, Alex Chui.

Topher Grace, who was nominated for several Teen Choice Awards for his role as Eric Foreman on the FOX sitcom That '70s Show, was found alive today in his Los Angeles home. As Grace was forcibly removed from his residence by concerned authorities, a crowd of curious onlookers and paparazzi gathered outside. A Los Angeles Police Department spokesman said, "We were are surprised as you are that he is still alive. No one had heard from him since the premiere of Spider-Man 3 in 2007. Wow, that thing was stunningly bad. Just pure crap."

Police do not know at this time what Grace has been up to these last few months, but pizza boxes and a bottle of ibuprofen were found next to his bed. An assessment will be performed on Wednesday to determine whether or not his career can be revived. Topher Grace is 29.

You deserve my acknowledgment. That isn't to say you deserve my respect or admiration, but your praise has alerted me to your existence. I won't tell people that I know you, and you mustn't ever tell people that you have been graced with my eminence, but you can bathe balls deep in the warm, glorious knowledge that for one brief millisecond, I was aware of you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have forgotten who you are and why I started writing this.

I was overheard in Minneapolis (well, technically St Paul). Yep, I said this.

Ang's bathroom tiling project is still going swimmingly as of last night, but in order to properly remove all of the linoleum and tile the entire floor, I had to remove both the pedestal sink and the toilet. I've replaced both toilets in my house, so I knew full well what I was in for once I wrestled the throne away from the floor. The sight of oozing, dark yellow wax clinging to decades of filth, the hot donkey punch of methane to the face, and the unavoidable splashes of bowl water dripping from the bottom of the base. It's enough to make a lesser man cry. And I am that lesser man.

Since my house has two bathrooms, my bathroom-related projects have been easier on the digestive system and urinary tract because if one toilet is out of order, I can always use the operational backup crapper. Ang only has one bathroom, however, so planning the timing of the toilet's removal and the subsequent project steps were mission critical:

1. Remove as much of the linoleum as possible on Friday night, leaving the toilet in place, and stay at Ang's that night.
2. Take the toilet out on Saturday, remove what little linoleum remains, and scrape the floor clean after one last liberal coating of adhesive remover. Stay at my place and allow the floor to dry overnight.
3. On Sunday, patch up any major gouges, sand down the floor, sweep, vacuum, and lay down the mortar and tile.
4. Give the mortar at least 24 hours to set, then grout.
5. Give the grout 24 hours to set, then seal it.
6. Put the toilet back on, finish up the trim work, borders, replace the door threshold, and bone on the new floor Punky Brewster style, covering it with sexual juices to test its durability.

Unfortunately the biggest snag came, appropriately enough, during item number 2 on Saturday. Diligently keeping our schedule, I pulled out the toilet and gently laid it on a piece of cardboard in the tub to get it out of the way. I scraped away as much linoleum as I could, then coated the floor with a generous helping of toxic adhesive remover. After about 30 to 45 minutes of vigorous floor scraping, I felt a familiar and dreadful pressure in my trouser-covered hindregions. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding me. That's right. I had diarrhea. And not just a mild gurgle. This was a full on sweet-fancy-Christ-blessed-croutons-I-have-to-shit-RIGHTNOWWW emergency.

Ang was soon privy to my dilemma. "What's wrong over there, Jeremy?"

"OOOOOOOH. OHHHHHHHH. AHHHHHHH. EEEEEEEEE. I have diarrhea. Oh God. Ohhhhhhhmuhgod."

"Well, you're going to have to go to the gas station down the street. Go!"

"Can I take your car?" Mine was parked down the street, and hers was right outside the front door of the building.

"Yes! GO!!!"

[Jeremy-shaped puff of smoke dissipates slowly]

I gunned the powerful engine in Ang's Impala, driving over hedges, jumping curves, and plowing through shrieking crowds at poorly-timed Farmers Markets, racing to beat a ticking timer wired to a shoebox full of C-4. "Owwwwww... OOOOHHHHHH!" I sideswiped a bus hauling a wide-eyed high school marching band. "UNGHHHHHHHH!" I sent an elderly man carrying a grocery bag sailing over the edge of an overpass. "OHHHHH MANNNNNNNNN!!!!" I crashed through the display window of a costume shop and careened off its rear loading dock in a tidal wave of monster makeup, feather boas, and corsets. "Ohshitohshitohshit!!!!"

Finally the gas station was within sight. I cranked a hard left at 60 miles per hour, unbuckled my seatbelt, and pulled the emergency brake to catapult my body through the windshield, the gas station window, and a 6-foot stack of Pepsi fridge packs. I picked myself up and ripped the door off the hinges of the locked men's room. In one liquid motion, I bitch slapped the shocked occupant off of the toilet and triple salchowed my way onto the seat. "HUNGHUGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" A torrent of river bed mud filled the bowl and overflowed onto the floor. I was too relieved to care and stood to hover. "UH-GUNNNGHHHHHHHHHHAHHHH!!!!!" A meteor storm of solid remnants pelted the seat, cracking it in two.

And there I stood. I was soaked from head to toe in sweat, blood, and high velocity blowback. My nose was broken, my left shoulder was pulled out of the socket, and a crowd of patrons and gas station employees had gathered near the door, mouths agape, eyes unblinking. I didn't have enough physical or mental energy left to feel shame, so I just pulled up my soggy pants to cover my unwiped ass, stumbled to the cooler to grab a gallon of skim milk, and paid the quietly sobbing cashier with a five-dollar bill covered in smeared russet and burgundy fingerprints. I left without my change and rolled the car back to Ang's on idle.

We learned a vital lesson that day. You can't plan a schedule for the functions of your body and you can't outwit God, so always bring a bucket.

Remember Ang's bathroom tile project? The toilet's in the bathtub, the sink is in the kitchen, and the cat's in the cradle. It took me about 6 hours to get all that shit in there, and I'm exhausted. Tuesday we will grout, and hopefully get her bathroom back in order by Wednesday or Thursday. I'm working on a delicious story from this experience (think about the worst thing that could happen while working in a condo with no functional toilet -- now take about a half step back from that). For now, enjoy a lazy link to photos of the project and this lovely photo of Ang's exposed toilet hole. Now who wants some butterscotch pudding?

Ang's bathroom will be closed for business for about a day starting this afternoon. We will temporarily remove her toilet while we tile her shit room. If you need to drop an even prime, please use the gas station down the street. There is a new restaurant downstairs, but it's a classy joint, goddammit. Save your buttery, walnut-filled dump for Applebee's or Red Lobster.

Solid Gold dancers got your ass covered, chump. 'Stache-jackin' Larry Bird circa '82 will shove a motherfuckin' black dress sock right up your white ass and kick you in the back of the teeth. And don't forget PJ-bottomed tanning bed victim. He'll give you a look so viscious you'll totally forget he's squat-thrusting you in the mudstop. Meanwhile Sheena Twatsplay's gonna bend over and show you where to put out your cigarette, Curly Wetlook will stare you down with hollow coked-out eyes, and Redbodice Bobcut'll fuck your shit up with a double-wristed flutterslap to the nads. Covered and then some, cockstain.

Can a motherfucker get a spotlight up in there?

Moblog:

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Jen, aka jenc17 is this many:

And this dirty little beggar needs to soap up his digits before I let him work in my textile mill circa 1834.

The evening began with tapas, sangria, and fellowship at Solera. As most of my friends know, I get very excited about beverages and fellowship. Obviously Amber does, too.


Alie and Hedy, you call that being fully engaged in the conversation?


Much better.


Amber receives training on the proper camera settings and framing for the perfect shot of the birthday girl. "I want Rich in the frame but not in a distracting way. Now if you set the exposure a little higher, you might capture my natural glow..."


Max: "I swear to God if Jeremy snaps another picture..."
Courtney: "I don't know what you are, little round food thing, but you are getting in my belly!"


Max: "That's it, Jeremy!" [throws down napkin, slides across the table, and smashes a pitcher of sangria over Jeremy's head]


When they know the eyes of the cameras are on them, Ang and Jeremy are the perfect couple.


But when he doesn't realize he's being photographed, Jeremy hurls racial epithets like hookers through a plate glass window.


It was a fine meal. Though there was very little company with all of the text messages, twitters, and games of Breakout.


After dinner, we headed over to 414 Sound Bar which Rich had reserved for a couple of hours for the party.

"Say, ladies. Have you seen my latest play? It's called Max Sparber and His Fine, Fine Bitches."


This is a fairly accurate representation of the atmosphere. Dark, bluish (the lights in the floor can change colors but were blue the entire time we were there). Imagine a DJ making thumping dance music come out of his thingy and random three-in-the-dee animations and movie clips projected on all of the walls, and you're there with us.


"MMMM mmmph... beer... good... om nom nom... mmph."


"Jeremy! How many beers are you going to drink tonight!?"


"Mmmph... glug... I dunno... mmmph... how many do they have?"


"Apparently not enough. You and I are having a little talk when we get home, mister!"


"...mmmph... sounds good... mmmm laldaldllaldllalllaaaaa..."


Oh merciful crap! It's a photographic circle jerk!


This is the part where I accidentally drank someone's LSD milkshake.


Stop laughing at me! Augh! AUGH! The couch just told the table to spit Mountain Dew on my shin bone! I need air! Get me the hell out of here!!!!


No! Get away from me, birthday devil... You're not taking me to Hell. Nuuhhhhhhh UHHHHHHHHH!!!! [strips off clothes and writhes on the floor, sweating profusely]


More and more friends filtered in throughout the evening. And DeRusha was either eating cake with his fingers or looking for a place to dispose of a soggy wad of chewing tobacco.


When fog started coming out of the vents, we thought it was part of the dance club ambiance. But we soon found it was oxygen-robbing Halon 1301 gas. Here is Ang blissfully unaware approximately 20 seconds before she passed out and turned blue.


Ang and Courtney danced like they just didn't care.


Ang and Courtney dance the fucking SHIT out of that dance! Lesley is amused.


"Hey, Ang! Check it out! I'm dancing! I'm really dancing!!"

"That's nice, Jeremy. Can I stop holding your beer now?"


While no one was looking, I pinched Ang's ass. Hard.


Alie acts coy as Ranty starts eyeballing a patch of drywall she'd like to rip out.


Elizabeth, probably the only qualified dancer amongst our group, shakes it with Andy.


"Buy me a couple more of these, and I'll dance even better!"


How many drinks did Alyssa watch Jason down that night? Good question!


Alie tries to sneak a sip of Lesley's adult beverage.


Hey, there's the birthday girl herself. Hey, Jen! How are you liking your party so fa-- Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were squatting on the floor to take a pee. I do appreciate you covering up the hollerin' hole though.


Ang can sing, dance, and drink at the same time. Later, she also juggled 5 bocce balls and a bloody chainsaw.


"No WAY! She did not juggle a chainsaw!! Did she?"


Jen: "Elizabeth, I have to pee again. Care to join me?"
Elizabeth: "Sure! Here goes... Aw, shit! I forgot I'm wearing jeans!"


Even though I was so tired that we ended up leaving around 11, I can say without exaggeration that this was one of the best birthday bashes I've ever participated in. Happy birthday, Jen!

Be sure to check out photos of the entire evening here, here, and here.

You do.

Hey, y'all! I have this dump truck on my property, but I'm not sure what I should do with it. Fix it up? Put it on craigslist? Tear it down for parts? Pay to have it hauled to the scrap yard? Fuck that, that, that, and especially fuck THAT! I'm going to order some explosives through the mail and videotape myself BLOWING THAT FUCKER UP TO KINGDOM COME! YEEEEEEEEEEE HAWWWW!!!!! The boys at the nuclear power plant a mile down the road will get a charge out of that. They seem like nervous fellers who could use a punch of sunshine to the pills.

"Screw my frostbitten baby -- feel sorry for ME!"
Image: KARE 11When committing an act of child neglect -- strike that, child abuse -- so egregious, outrageous, and absurd that it is picked up not only by local media but national news wires, as well, the best thing you could do for yourself is go on television and give a half-assed excuse in a vain attempt to garner the sympathy of the public. Last week, David Mantor of Maplewood did just that when he agreed to an ill-advised interview with Jana Shortal from KARE 11 news. Mantor had been arrested on Wednesday after driving to a strip club, going inside for a few drinks and leaving his 18-month old son alone in an unheated van in the dead of winter.

Mantor claims that he had gone for a drive, trying to calm himself during a time of stress, and happened across this bar, which conveniently housed strippers, at about 10:30 pm.

"Stress got to me after a while. I thought maybe just to calm down I'd have a couple drinks and then leave quick before he woke up and everything would be fine," Mantor said.

Let's break this down. He felt stressed out. Hey, everybody's been there. Bills are piling up, you're worried about losing your job, or perhaps you're having a spat with your wife. You need some quiet time to think and cool off because you're tense as all hell. What better way to calm yourself than to bundle up your 18-month old child, who should have been in bed several hours ago, strap him into your van, and go for a drive.

Perhaps we're still not giving Mr. Mantor the sufficient benefit of the doubt. Who hasn't heard of a fussy, wailing child who refuses to go to sleep or can't fall back to sleep after awaking from a nightmare? It seems perfectly reasonable, even at that late hour, to put him in the car seat and go for a soothing little drive around the block, where "around the block" is about 15 miles, crossing a state border.

Again, maybe we're drawing hasty conclusions. A 15 mile, 20 minute drive isn't all that far. One could certainly see a 30 or even 40 minute drive to soothe the child (and himself). But won't this damn crying kid shut up already? Boy, this sure is adding to the stress. I'm going to just pull in over here for a couple of drinks. It will calm me down. It will be perfectly safe to leave my 18-month old child alone in the vehicle, despite countless news reports of vehicles being stolen with a child inside while the parent just ran into a convenience store for milk or to pay for gas. Despite countless news reports of children dying after being forgotten in vehicles on a hot summer day or sub-zero winter evening.

Oh, but somebody found him first. Or "unfortunately" somebody found him first, as he phrased it. Unfortunately they found him before he'd been in the car for another hour and had to have a frostbitten hand and foot amputated? Unfortunately someone else found him before he died of hypothermia out there? Unfortunately someone found him before you came out of the bar, drunk off your fucking ass, got behind the wheel, and drove your child laden van into a telephone pole at 80 miles per hour???

But hey, I'm an alcoholic. I had a relapse. I did something stupid. Feel sorry for me.

Boo fucking hoo, Mr Mantor. You put a child into your vehicle late at night, supposedly under significant stress, and ended up drinking at a strip club 15 miles away while your son got frostbite outside. Alcoholism is a disease that can be treated. Stupidity is not.

50 lbs unpeeled red potatoes, quartered
8 lbs butter, room temperature
1 lb Romano cheese, grated
1 lb Parmesan cheese, grated
1 lb Asiago cheese, shaved
3 cups chopped garlic
1/2 cup salt
1/2 cup dried oregano

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add potatoes and cook until tender but still firm (about 45 minutes or so. Drain potatoes. Stir in butter, cheese, garlic, salt, and oregano. Mash and stir with erect penis. Serves about 100 people, preferably super hot chicks who like dick-stirred 'taters.

...or how I took one for society

Last week, I was getting a Snickers bar out of the vending machine at work when I spied this disturbing product perched on the top row. A Burger King-branded bag of ketchup and french fry-flavored potato snacks? I immediately snapped a photo with my phone and sent it to Ang with the caption, "I think I am going to vomit."



Several times over the ensuing days, Ang and I discussed how utterly vile a ketchupy potato treat sounded. But we soon moved on. In fact, I had forgotten about them until my coworker Matt marched in today and asked if anyone had seen the new product for sale in the vending machines, these BK ketchupped fry monstrosities. We all agreed that they sounded awful. This time, however, the thought of them stuck with me. For the sake of science, I had to try these horrid-sounding "treats." Borrowing change from several coworkers, I marched to the break room for the fries and a beverage. If I was going to bite into one of these things, I was damn sure I was going to have a Diet Pepsi -- or at least a tall mug of chilled porridge -- on hand to wash it down. After pumping in an insulting fee of 70 cents, I rescued a tiny, surprisingly light bag from the bottom of the machine.



Closer inspection of the bag by Mr. Potato Head and me revealed the familiar tagline "Have it Your Way" below the Burger King logo and disgusting photo of the red-speckled fried strips of food mockery. Trust me, if I had it my way, this product wouldn't exist, and I wouldn't be eating it.

Mr. Potato Head says, "You're going to eat this crap, Jeremy?" Softball Lenny does a pushup.


And the listed net weight of 1.75 ounces explains why the bag felt so light when I snatched it from the vending machine. So basically I could liquify 2 entire bags of this shit and get through airport security without so much as a flared nostril.



Turn the bag over, and we find a silver-colored box proclaiming "50 years of perfection" followed by:

"Of course we're talking about America's favorite burger: the flame-broiled, made-to-order WHOPPER®. Accept no imitations." But apparently you have no problem with us eating an imitation of your fries, which already imitate food.

"Because no matter which of the 221,184 different ways you choose to customize it, you can bet you're getting it your way. That's what makes a WHOPPER® a WHOPPER®. Anything less is a massive disappointment." What you're about to eat is not a Whopper, so we're just giving you clear warning of the disappointment you are about to experience. And what the hell did all of this have to do with the contents of this bag?

"What's better than ketchup and fries?" Not having heart disease?

"How about a mystical merge of ketchup, fries, and snack chips? You heard us. Only from BK™." I'm not sure exactly how mystical ketchup, fries, and chips are independently, but that is exactly the word I would use to describe a combination of the three. Mystical.

"A flavor that pairs the yin flavor of your favorite BK™ side with the yang crunch of chip. Keep on chippin' on." Keep on chippin' away at that persistent artery blockage. Let's see if we can pare it back to about 90% blockage from the current 95%.

But all that reading was just a stall. I was putting off the inevitable. I tore the bag open and was drop kicked with the putrid, sickly sweet smell of imitation ketchup and potato chips. I grabbed a chip, closed my eyes, and tentatively bit into it. It actually wasn't bad. Now when I say that it wasn't bad, I mean that it didn't cause me to immediately empty the contents of my stomach onto my desk. I took the bag around to each of my coworkers, and most had a very similar opinion -- it wasn't nearly as awful as it sounds. But it wasn't good, either. Personally my favorite reaction was that of Mrs. Ronny Gunz (she also works here). She took a bite, scrunched up her face, and her neck compressed and subtlety recoiled as if she were tamping down a dry heave. "Oh, it's WEIRD!" It sure is, Mrs. Gunz. It sure is.

Mr Potato Head: "I'm a cannibal!"


Uh... Darth Ernie, this is food. It's for eating, don't put it on your -- eh, whatever.


Further research (reading more of the bag's labeling) found that this small bag of crispy affronts to humanity was made by Arizona-based Inventure Group. Not surprisingly, these are the same people who make a line of snacks based on T.G.I Friday's appetizers. Cheese Quesadilla Chips, Cheddar and Bacon Potato Skins, and Hot Pepper Jack Cheese Fries. Oh, but it gets worse. Much worse. I came to find that not only does this company make tomato-free ketchup-flavored snack crisps with the Burger King brand, they also make Burger King Flame Broiled Potato Snacks. You have got to be fucking shitting me. Hamburger-flavored potato chips. The greasy taste of a hamburger mixed with potato chips. There's your mystical merge. How do these people from the front page of the Inventure Group website feel about it?



They feel like dancing. But with swollen tums full of soggy potato squeezings and spice extract, I have a feeling they'll be breaking for a nap soon.

Do you like spicy meat in a tortilla? Or maybe some veggies in a tortilla? Or the feeling of a warm tortilla squeezed between your eager buttocks on a frigid January day (hey, cars with heated leather seats are expensive, man)? Then may I present for your consideration Tacoville in Lakeville. Their slogan, "The biggest, Baddest, Mexican in Town" may have one too many commas and curious choices in capitalization, but if you can find a better Mexican joint behind a truck stop, just a few doors down from a sex shop, then I say you are a liar with a mouthful of inferior wet meat.

Tacoville's website, designed in 2001, informs us that if "you are looking for a great evening of wonderful Mexican food, consider TacoVille this week." So pretty much anytime this week is good for them. No hurry. Take your time. Finish what you're working on there. It looks important. They'll have a burrito or taco hot and fresh for you whenever you're ready. Sometime this week. Actually, do you mind if they put this off until next week? They really want to make it spicy for you.

If you click on the menu link, you will find Tacoville's prices to be very reasonable. I am a tad concerned, however, about their assertion that their "Seafood is an Alaskan Whitefish" An Alaskan whitefish? Have they been using the same whitefish since 2001? "We keep it in a duffel bag under the counter next to the tomato." Regardless, I look forward to dining at Tacoville and reporting my findings (and leavings) very soon.

UPDATE: Peter's review of Tacoville has ramped up my enthusiasm for trying this place!

"Tacoville is on the outskirts of cities - where suburbia, truckstops and farms collide.

"The food is well priced and better than Taco Bell... it feels like you're eating in a room that was a laundry mat...with strange, cheap plastic chairs that might remind you of sitting in that uncomfortable chair for 3 hours during Drivers' Ed. I will go back - well prices and it feels like authentic food... probably just because it's not fast food.

"Checkout their web site for a coupon."

Peter paints a picture with his words, and I stand corrected. Tacoville does not only have reasonable prices, they also have "well prices." I'm glad their prices are well. I've been concerned about their health.

Also, if you go back to their menu, scan through the taco, burrito, salad, and nacho sections. After that, they announce, "If that is not enough try our popular items." Wait, your tacos and burritos aren't popular? Is it because of the duffel bag whitefish?

I don't care. Don't laugh at their enthusiasm. I'm eating there come hell or high water. Just you wait and see.

A child model recreates Georges Seurat's Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte as the 2000W bulb slowly roasts his tender flesh.There is no shortage of high-falutin' gee whiz electronic googaws here at CES, but it seems like and overwhelming amount of floor space is devoted to home entertainment and communication -- televisions, audio components, mobile phones and accessories, etc. That's why yesterday it was so refreshing to stop by Hasbro's booth and see a re-imagining of an old friend. That's right -- Lite Brite is back, and this time it's in high definition. Hasbro's literature says the new model will be full 1080p resolution, or 1920 x 1080 pixels. Though I surmise they are still tweaking the hardware, as the sample model on display appeared to have a 4:3 aspect ratio rather than the 16:9 ratio a 1080p display device would have.


Lite Brite HD pegs shown next to quarter for scale.The new Lite Brite HD isn't all sunshine and lollipops, however. The rumor swirling around the show was that the child model hired to play with the beta unit was rushed to the hospital after he swallowed a handful of the nearly microscopic, needle-like pegs required for high resolution images. In the emergency room, it was also discovered that he had suffered third degree burns from the Lite Brite HD's 2000 watt lamp. You'd think they would have used cooler, more energy efficient LED bulbs. But this is CES, where the illusion of a finished product is crucial to capturing the attention of the press.

More CES 2008 coverage here.

Some of the biggest buzz here at the Consumer Electronics Show centers around an offshoot of One Laptop Per Child (OLPC) called One Laptop Per Senior (OLPS). OLPS takes the OLPC concept several steps further, making an even simpler user interface and a vastly streamlined set of hardware features. OLPS spokesperson Tanya Saylette said of the project, "A minuscule donation of $120 can give a senior citizen access to the internet and a closer connection to their family, their friends, and the world. They can watch a game of automated cribbage, click buttons, scroll up and down, and even get plain text email descriptions of YouTube videos that their friends with real computers saw." OLPS is currently taking donations and has already distributed over 127,000 laptops, most of which were returned by confused elderly recipients who thought they had ordered diabetes medication.


More CES 2008 coverage here.

One thing is clear at this year's Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas -- thin televisions are so 2007. The running theme of the upcoming crop of high definition televisions is that thin form factor is no longer a high priority for discerning consumers. When asked about this dramatic shift in thinking, Jacob Winford, spokesman for Samsung said, "What is clear from our consumer surveys is that buyers are mostly concerned with diagonal screen size, features, picture quality, and wood grain cabinets for their televisions. Thin televisions are viewed as effeminate and weak, whereas unwieldy, massive televisions are sturdy, powerful symbols of status and quality." Samsung, Mitsubishi, and Toshiba all say they plan to have televisions with cabinets at least three times as deep as the screen size (a 60-inch set would have a cabinet at least 180 inches, or 15 feet, deep) for sale in 2009. Sony, on the the other hand, claims they will have a 72-inch set with a 30-foot deep cabinet available in Q4 of 2008.

More CES 2008 coverage here.

Stay tuned this week as afterglide reports from the Consumer Electronics Show in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. Not to be outdone by Technology Evangelist, Jeremy will be roaming the booths and bringing you what's going to be hot in 2008 tech. But mostly he'll be going to strip clubs and hanging out with minors wise beyond their years (and miner's wise beneath their years).

December 14, 2007 to December 31, 2007

I arrived at work this morning to find a very special belated Christmas gift from my coworker Phil. Fresh off his trip to Cincinnati, Phil brought us back some canned chili that must have some sort of magical powers or something, 'cuz if there is a man who knows his chili, it's Phil.



Skyline chili, all the way from Ohio. The chili so nice, you shit it twice!


Wow! Now that is some fine lookin' chili, son. I smacked my lips as thick, glistening globs of browned meat dribbled down the inside of the lid.


Usually I think of chili as having huge, gelatinous chunks, but this chili was special. It was like looking at a calm, glassy lake of raw umber glimmering in the sun.


I schlorped the whole can into a bowl and awaited the sound of the microwave timer with bated breath.


Now chili just isn't complete without some hot and fresh brats waiting for a good, thunderous slatherin'.


Unfortunately the chili made a mess of my microwave (I should have covered it)), but oh heavens yes! How can you resist that hot, saucy meat snap? You can't, that's how.


And fire rained down on the valley of the meatened frank, dislodging it from its tenuous grasp on the igneous plane. The towering, roiling, living wall of liquid and solid flesh swept clean the valley floor on its fateful path to sunless core of the vaporous acid mines. There, where meat and ground sinew met a cataclysmic, polyprotic demise, a ghastly mephitis spewed forth, scorching animal, mineral, and vegetable alike. There was not a scream. There was not a gasp. Not another breath was drawn. This was how it ended. This was how it began.

Hedy invited us to a New Years Eve bash at her friend Sarah's place in Minneapolis. Given her building's proximity to the douchey club scene, I had visions of swerving to avoid head-on collisions with drunk drivers and installing a cow catcher on the front bumper of the car to scoop up and cast aside stumbling drunks congregating in the streets. But we arrived a little after 8, found a free parking spot on the street about a block away. We also left the party a little before the bars closed at 2 am and completely avoided the crush of taxis and high-heeled, short-skirted girls leaving steaming sprays of chunkless vomit in the frigid snow.

They handed out party hats, but mine was a little small.


I felt even worse when I realized I could fit my entire penis in it.


Ang and Loops were all like "Fuck you, tiny hat that Jeremy's penis can fit into!" They showed that hat what for.


Ang taught me something that night. Apparently her eyes are "up here," wherever the hell that is. I told her that I didn't care because her rack is "down there."


Alie stands guard while the wine bottle borrows my penis hat.


About an hour before midnight, I felt like such an idiot. Those tiny hats aren't for the penis, they're nipple hats!


Don't cross the streams. It would be bad.


The Good Scientist and Ang smoked a thinny.


Ang, no! If it isn't my cock, you shouldn't be suckling at it so provocatively.


I caught Hedy off guard and unposed. Did you know that this is how she normally looks?


As the clock quickly ticked toward midnight, Hedy frantically filled our champagne glasses.


Everyone who's anyone was at this party. I was there. Ang was there. Hedy was there. Even Kevin from Minneapolis showed up! We were quite thrilled that he finally showed up to an event. Amber is now double pissed that she didn't come.


Lesley, Ang, Kevin, and Ice Cube are happy that it's finally 2008. I'll bet Kevin from Minneapolis and Ice Cube have never showed up to YOUR party on the same night, you fucking losers!


The evening ended with a safe, sober ride home for a very drunken Ang, as well as two more of Hedy's friends. Just call me Mr. Responsible (though I drank during the last half of the drive so I would be drunk by the time I parked the car). And there you have it. Happy 2k8, fuzzy dick. I'll be back to lint roll your scrotum in 2009.

Now that it's just barely 2008, I thought I would share my personal favorite posts from 2007.

In January, I grew a beard and shaved it off over the course of several days, creating characters for each stage.

Prior to meeting Ang this past summer, I was still in the online dating game. Those Russian chicks are a persistent lot. Or at least the dudes that pretend to be Russian chicks are persistent. I think they like money.

2007 was also the year that I discovered the joys of drinking while coloring in my coloring book, defiling respected comic strips, and telling people how to be better parents. In addition, I learned how to be a better driver, learned about how lady parts work, and learned about our wonderful language.

Writing about all of these strange topics led to poor, disturbed people searching for satisfaction for their fucked up predilections and finding my blog instead.

Not only do I write about my exploits, I also document my life in videos. This last year, I probably should have visited a urologist, several of us died in a dogfight in space, we learned how to dance, and Ang and I were resurrected as zombies.

In 2007, I was an alternate juror in a federal trial that was later the subject of a City Pages cover story.

And it wouldn't be an afterglide-approved year without copious stories about shit, technical analysis of inappropriate shitting techniques and shit consistencies, and the worst places to put your shit.

There are so many other posts that I personally cherish, but I think that's more than enough for you to wade through. Here's hoping that 2008 will bring more poop stories, less stories about delayed ejaculation, and lots of unbloggable and bloggable boning. Happy fucking new year.