Aside from a handful of overtly disgusting pigs squatting over our shitters here, I think a lot of the crime scene that is stall two can be attributed to poop shyness and embarrassment. Typical soft-spoken, Minnesotan men of stoic, Scandinavian stock are going to want to skulk away into the anonymous mist after plugging a toilet solid. Once they learn that eating an entire wheel of Jarlsberg, wax and all, will result in voluminous and dense shit with an inescapable field of gravity, you'd think they would alter their diet. But these Lutheran Swedes are a stubborn lot. They like them some Jarlsberg, and that is what they will eat, cock suck it! And if it results in a regimen of daily double deuces that clot the porcelain, so be it. But they would be utterly mortified for another human being to discover that they consistently power squat a tawny log of knotty oak the size of a healthy skunk, so they go out of their way to hide the evidence.

Keeping the secret of a dirty ass could mean quietly sweating while hovering over a bowl of swirling wicker, trying to out wait the guy in the next stall. "Please leave, please leave, please leave!" And at long last, he hears the rustling of toilet tissue, the clinking of a belt buckle, the running of a faucet, and the echo of footsteps out the door, trailing down the hall to silence. Not wanting to risk being caught, he can nary afford nary a moment to unplug the commode by furiously plunging at it like he's churning butter. He's already churned enough butter for today, thank you very much. No, it would seem the best course of action would be to open the stall door just a crack to double check the clearness of the coast, then high tail it out the door without so much as splashing tepid water on his shitty digits.

As you can well imagine, I have no such embarrassment. I have zero qualms about vigorously pumping a plunger amidst cacophonous splashes of fetid water in a busy office restroom. But I prefer not to plunge if I can help it. I find it to be a thrilling game to keep flushing until the water is just below the rim, let it slowly drain through what little space is left around the compact mass of crap and soggy toilet paper, and begin flushing again. In fact, I was engaged in just such a battle last week when someone entered the mens room and situated himself in stall one. I kept flushing and flushing and flushing throughout his entire movement. Just as he wiped, buckled, and zipped, I gave the toilet lever another firm press, and WOOOSHHHH! Down went the remains of the day in an explosive denouement worthy of a film in the Die Hard series. I pumped my fist into the air in victory, and shouted "YES!"

As I was washing my hands, the anonymous porcelain jockey from the next stall exited. He looked at the floor, doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact. But he couldn't spoil my victory. Before he could saddle up to the sink, I looked directly at him, caught his gaze, and declared, "I win."

"The color of the hair on my head matches my pubes, does yours?" I decided to be a little more daring in my quest for a one night stand and got the shit slapped out of my face. Fuck, lady, I knew it was a bold question, but I thought for sure the personal spin would soften the blow. Guess not. Maybe she thought I was asking if her hair matched my pubes. I have a feeling it wasn't my question though; I'm almost positive it's because the color of her hair was ridiculous. It was sexy, don't get me wrong, but there is no way in hell that shit was natural. Not unless she grew up on some nuclear testing grounds out in the desert somewhere. I guess I was hoping for a yes from her though, because atomic pubes would be stunning.

She did end up slapping a crazy question into my head though: Could the style of the drapes match the carpet? I never tried feathering my pubes to match my hair, but there may come a day when I might give it a try. It'd be mint! Feathered hair makes me look like there's a fan blowing on me all day long. Thing is, the only person I would trust down there with anything sharp is me and I don't know how to cut hair. I don't want any other guys down there, obviously. And when a lady is down there I just want lips and tongue, man. Any sign of something sharp scares my goods -- that includes teeth, ladies.

I wonder if any trashy chicks grow pube mullets. This could be done one of two ways as far as I can tell. Everyone knows the mullet slogan, "Business in front and party in the back." Because the hair is short and professional in the front, but the back is fucking long and crazy -- like parties should be. For the ladies, the party end of it would fall like a curtain in front of the mud flaps, while a shaved peach, or business effect would be at the top, the part of the pubes closest to the belly button. Pubic hair sculpted into a mullet on a guy would be amazing if he could get some length. The penis would lie on a healthy bed of wiry hair -- the party in the back part -- which would abruptly meet the top pubes on the lower part of the stomach; these would be meticulously trimmed for, you got it, the business part of the mullet.

The second pubic mullet scenario could involve keeping all of the pubes up front neatly trimmed and then growing out the fuzz in the taintal and asshole regions. This may be a more purest variation on the mullet, because the party would truly be in the back. Any true mullet fan will tell you the mullet slogan over and over again. I've been to plenty of field parties where there was at least one crazy son of a bitch who couldn't stop talking about his or her mullet. They don't think anyone without a mullet understands the upkeep. Next time one of those motherfuckers corners me I'm going to ask if they've spent the time growing out their taint hair, because if they haven't, I don't want to hear them bitching.

Wade Swafford often leaves pubes on the lips of urinals and skanky chicks and may or may not be the immaculately conceived child of Eda Cherry.

I just wanted to let you know that my level of importance in life jumped several levels as of Sunday. That's right, I know someone who knows Oscar® winner Diablo Cody. In fact, I know several people who know Diablo Cody. Of them, I know Amber the best. And Amber is a bit of a celebrity in her own right. So let's break down my various celebrity connections to show you how important I am.

3 degrees:
Jeremy -> Jeremy's grandfather -> Jeremy's grandfather's cousin -> The late Phil Hartman

2 degrees:
Jeremy -> Amber -> Diablo Cody

1 degree:
Jeremy -> Jason DeRusha

0 degrees:
A sandy ejaculation problem

I've been telling people this week that now that I'm two degrees of separation from Diablo Cody that I need to print new business cards. They chuckle nervously, deeply embarrassed over my desperate spotlight seeking and pandering humor. But I wasn't joking. My card, let me show you it.

Check out my Blogebrity profile!

Moblog: This is discrimination by Target against human shoppers. Total bullshit, man. Total bullshit.

I think Ass Peanut Man was someone who left the company recently, as I haven't seen peanut nor ass hair of any magnitude worthy of mention since he left. But a rotating cast of diet-challenged characters continues to parade across the warped stage of stall two with startling frequency and proficiency. In fact, I believe we have added a new character, who I call Pumpkin Pie Ass. Every few days or so, Pumpkin Pie Ass will splash down what appears to be a bushel of pumpkin pie filling sprinkled with a healthy dose of nutmeg. It's as though he stepped up on to the seat holding a couple of pumpkin pies fresh out of the oven, raised his arms high and straight above his head, and released the pies into the commode. The result is a bowl spattered up to the rim and beyond with a thick, glistening coat of harvest ochre, the sight of which would spur Martha Stewart to drop in a pine cone and a handful of toasted pecans and deem it worthy of a blue ribbon at the state fair.

Dear family members and friends, please stop emailing me video files. Seriously, is this fucking 1996? And not just little video files but 10 and 20 megabytes worth of long-dead chimpanzees peeing on Big Wheel-riding toddlers who have since graduated from law school. HA HAAAA -- stop it! If a video file is sent to you as an attachment, I guaran-fucking-tee you that it's been circulating around the internet for a decade or more. Ever heard of a little thing called YouTube? I'll bet you can find that video there or on any of the myriad video sharing sites created in recent years. But either way, don't send it to me. Mom, this includes you (even though you will likely never read this since you vowed long ago never to return to my blog after deeming it "just awful").

Your mom drives like she fucks...

-With her back seat full of neighbor kids
-Paying someone else to do it
-Billowing smoke and leaking fluid
-With your dad yelling at her for doing it wrong
-Uh... with a bottle of VO5 in her vagina

I received a catalog in the mail today. Everything in it is the opposite of my personal style. Because it's different than what I like, I am entitled to make fun of it.


This hat is just so bad I don't know what else I could say about it to drive the point home. I think you get it.


These look like something your little sister put together out of strips off a pillow case and her bedazzler to be like one of the big girls. Fail.


Gold Lame. I don't feel like I need to describe to you the target demographic of these stylish looks. You're looking at this and you're thinking, "I know someone who wears this shit, and they love it." Yeah, I know you do. We all do. You're even filing away mental notes for Christmas.


Just in case the bridal shop doesn't carry the the level of ugly you had your heart set on.


She reluctantly agreed to model this hat and immediately felt guilty. She was only capable of completing the shoot with this look on her face.


Forget sweat pants... This is the new look of "giving up on life."


Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego? She's at your mom's store modeling clothes.


The three tier wedding cake. It's not even a good cake, either. The frosting is too sugary and the bride & groom at the top are ashamed to even be there.


The More You Know Mascot. At least she's pretty.


Just minutes before the Titanic sank. When I woke up this morning I was really shocked to learn that my time machine malfunctioned and not only brought me back into the 1912, but it broke through to a whole other dimension. This is what would happen if the style then sucked really hard.


Denim and Rhinestones. Isn't that a country song? Shit. Nothing says modern woman like an ankle length denim skirt with rhinestones. Don't pass by without laying your eyes upon the fashionable accessories that grace the page. Midnight Velvet ain't shit if ain't classy.


If I can provide any piece of fashion advice that would apply to everyone, it's color, color, color! And not just color, but monotone color. Pick one and cover yourself in it. This girl's only mistake is not wearing green earrings and a green necklace. She looks incomplete and I won't stand for it.

Recently a gentleman by the name of Wade Swafford has been submitting some fairly disturbing posts to this site. I thought they were pretty funny, so I put 'em out there thinking he was some white trash yokel. But I've learned the terrible truth -- Wade Swafford wasn't always a dude.

If you're reading this via RSS, swing by and check out the new design. This the most comprehensive redesign I've done on the blog to date, and I welcome your feedback, good or bad. Love it? Hate it? Something's broken or funky (bad links, javascript errors, ovary pain, etc)? Comment here or drop me an email, and I'll do my best to address it or tell you why you're wrong.

By the way, the Twitter feed is an extension of the blog module provided by Twitter. Instead of showing your entire timeline of you and everyone you follow or only showing you, you can select any number of specific users to include in the feed. Right now it is sorted by user, not chronologically, but I plan on fixing that this weekend. I'll make it available for anyone who wants to use it once I get the kinks worked out and make it a little more user friendly.

Loving you like winter marmots,

-Jeremy

A preview of why I haven't been very posty the last couple days.

On the heels of Toshiba's decision to pull the plug on HD DVD, Afterglide Media Thingy, LLC (AMTLLC) has announced that they will now distribute their short films exclusively on Blu-ray. "That's right, bitches! We knew Blu-ray would win this thing all along," said AMTLLC spokesperson Jessica Labestein while surreptitiously sliding a large pile of HD DVD copies of Pee Problem behind a curtain. "So all you Blu-ray haters can suck it sideways."

Labestein also announced that AMTLLC has declared bankruptcy and will be liquidating its assets, including a half-million HD DVD players and several thousand shares of stock in Toshiba for "fifty bucks OBO."

Finally it's time for another long overdue post in which I personally craft answers to folks whose misdirected search queries landed them on my blog instead of somewhere useful or relevant. I really do apologize to those who didn't mean to find my blog. These answers are my way of stroking your karmic dicks.

As always, these are actual google searches that referred people to my blog. Spelling, phrasing, and subject matter has not been altered in any way.

"waterpik anal"

While I regret to inform you that there is no such product as a Waterpik designed exclusively for the anus, I can tell you from personal experience from pooping in the bathrooms at the homes of my friends who own Waterpiks, that Waterpiks can and should be used on the anus. Just try to aim from above instead of below so you don't get poop chunks all over their Waterpik (really sorry about that, Amber).


"menstruation free video"

Really you probably would have been better served by just searching for the word "video," as most videos are free of menstruation. I repeat, most of them are free of menstruation. Not included in that list are Menstruating Co-eds 17, Red Tampon Dawn, and Blood Gushin' Beavers 32.


"premature cum porn"

I have to be honest with you, that doesn't sound hot at all. Wait, I take that back. Shit, that is pure genius now that I think about it. You skip the fake moan-and-groan, bump-and-grind porn and get straight to the 500 psi money shot. "Yeah, girl, once you get that bra off, this shit gonna be hawt. Now lay down on the--WAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Oops. Both eyes, huh? What are the odds. Um... let me go find you a paper towel." [leaves the room, collects his paycheck, and peels out of the parking lot]


"green sweater fucking video"

Wow! I have to admit this one intrigues me. So are you into just giving an empty green sweater a good ol' yarn fucking? Or you like fucking chicks or dudes wearing green sweaters? Or dogs and horses wearing green sweaters? If you could provide some follow up information, I'd appreciate it. Help me to help you.


"funny funny shit"

Sorry, I can't help with this one. This blog strictly produces funny shit. And in some cases, just shit (where some = most). If you want funny, funny shit, I suggest going somewhere else. Keep checking back though. I'm shooting for hitting the funny, funny shit mark one of these days. In fact, my goal is to be Funny, Funny Shit 9001 compliant by 2009 and Goddamn Motherfuckin' Funny, Funny Shit 802.11n compliant by 2012.


"giant blue veined tits"

This one I can absolutely help you with. No problem, whatsoever. Go down to the Mall of America, find a meandering female shopper over the age of 24, and lift her shirt. Big ol' blue-veined titties guaranteed. Now that is just a source for every day blue vein action. If you want truly super special blue-veined bosoms, attend the hottest day of the Minnesota State Fair. You are very likely to see some gelatinous blue-veined hooters out in the open, as for some reason, people forget what appropriate body shame is at the fair. And if you want guaranteed, free, out-in-the-open spider vein racks, the Renaissance Festival is where it's at. Big fat-ass titties everywhere! Three-and-a-half feet a gander.


"shitting videos on a leather couch"

Ok, this is one of those searches where I'm going to need some context or participle clarification. I assume you want to find videos of people shitting onto a leather couch, but I hate to make assumptions. Or do you just want to see a stack of DVDs sitting on a leather couch? Zoom in and, lo and behold, the videos are about shitting. And I pray to God you don't want to see someone straining to grunt out a half dozen Blu-ray discs out of their mudstomp. I heard Toshiba produced an HD DVD with videos of that nature, but good luck finding an HD DVD player, pal.


"could i become a serial killer"

Well, shit, son! Anyone can become a serial killer. Pick a personality type, hair color, profession, weight, ethnicity, or truck color, and kill 3 people matching that description. Blam! You're a serial killer. You have to do -- don't just dream!


"storing pee in a baggie"

How long are you going to be keeping this pee in a baggie? And better yet, WHY are you storing pee in a baggie? Is it your pee? Someone else's pee? Is it fresh out of the urethra, or are you scraping it off your face and chest? Details are important in your baggie selection.


"testicales burning and feeling tingly"

"Testicales" sounds so south of the border. Delicious! "Yeah, I'll have 2 tacos, a burrito, and a platter of testicales." Your testicales might be burning and tingly because they're covered with jalapeños and hot sauce. I'd plop on a dollop of sour cream and drink a glass of milk.


"strapped testicles"

What kind of testicles are you hanging out with, pal? If your testicle friends are carrying guns illegally, then maybe you should find new friends. But if they have a conceal and carry permit, it's cool.


"i slept on my testicle"

Holy shit! How god damn big are your testicles, motherfucker?!? Sure, I'm guessing sleeping on a big testicle would support the back and neck, but don't all of those prickly pubes poke you through the sheets? Oh dear Lord... you wrap yourself in the pubes instead of a comforter, don't you. You twisted bastard! P.S. Can I sleep on your other testicle sometime? Surely you don't sleep on both of them at the same time. My mattress is killing my back.

Drag various edible and inedible objects to the mouth to see the wonders of the human digestive system in action.

Moblog: Found: one bag of ice in Caribou parking lot across from Target in Lakeville. Slightly dirty but still in working order. Claim at will, but I would do it before the impending spring melt.

Dear crack jockey who installed the original plumbing in my house, did it not occur to you to install so much as a single cut-off valve? And no, the main water supply valve for the whole house doesn't count, jackhole. Thanks to you, various simple projects in my home have resulted in me going without running water for days at a time. I've taken whores' baths in the restroom sinks at Cub Foods, showered in mildew-encrusted basement locker rooms at a previous job, and desperately shat into a waterless toilet overflowing with loosely packed and processed meals. Now you are making it impossible to remove my dishwasher without risking the same scenario all over again. If I ever meet you, I will cave your skull in with a pipe wrench. Then I will insert a cut-off valve in the wound.

I was in bed last night and I woke up from some loud fucking whistle noise. I thought it was the fire alarm at first -- my neighbor had finally managed to torch the place by falling asleep with a lit cigarette. But it wasn't the smoke alarm. Then I realized how bad the bridge of my nose hurt; it was being fucking pulled on from the inside. What the fuck? Some sort of stalagmite was obstructing my nose hole so badly that it was causing a whistling noise. This shit was plugging up the cave, so I just dug in. Fuck it. My finger was godfuckingzilla and I took down nose-mountain. That shit was stuck, too. I was still half asleep; I didn't want to get full-on awake just for this, which was difficult considering I could feel the lining of my nose pulling in on itself. I finally uprooted this boulder and I swear to god there was a placenta or some shit that came out with it. It wasn't the mountain range I thought it was. I inadvertently aborted some sort of mutant from my left wind tunnel. I thought I'd just pull out the stone up there, balance it on my thumb and flick it across my dark bedroom only to fall asleep to the sound of my crystallized snot landing somewhere with pleasant thunk. But it wasn't so fucking simple. I chip away and finally knock this shit loose and suddenly I feel a gush of warmth flowing out and flooding my 'stache-land with warm mutant womb water. I didn't feel any of it going back down my throat like I do when I have a bloody nose, so I figured it was just that clear goop and not the blood of dead natives from the massive glacier I rolled out from deep within my face. I just mopped that up with the corner of my bedspread. But fuck if it still didn't stop. I don't need this shit at 2:38 on Monday morning. I got work at the machine shop in the morning. If I don't get my goddam sleep I risk losing Third Base, aka my right hand, on a metal shaver. I swear to god, it still wasn't stopping. Then comes something that could only be described as afterbirth. The monster I aborted from my nose just minutes earlier had some veiny, sticky, long shit that just wouldn't quit. I kept pulling on it and I felt it tickling the back of my tongue on the way out of my fucking nose. I wasn't about to get out of bed just to scavenge the last bits of shredded toilet paper off the roll. I finally just grabbed the hard ball of jizz-filled toilet paper from beside my bed to smear that nose shit off my face. Thank god my morning shit was a clean sweep right out of the shoot because I didn't want to have to jump in the shower just to clean my ass. And that toilet paper in my bedroom had seen enough action -- it would have been like wiping my asshole with a pumice stone.

Wade Swafford writes shit that sounds suspiciously like something Eda Cherry would say.

Afterglide Media Thingy, LLC, owner of websites such as afterglide.com, Black Cock Shot of the Day, and I Can Has Potted Meatz, has purchased blog and news discussion site MNspeak. Anonymous sources indicate that the purchase price was "an agreement not to cause bodily harm to the owner of MNspeak." This agreement reportedly came during an surprise "summit" in which several men armed with jumper cables, car batteries, and moist sponges burst in at 3 in the morning to put the offer on the table.

Jeremy Q. Afterglide, removing a navy blue ski mask from his head, expressed shock at this report. "That's crazy talk, man. We bought it fair and square." Asked whether the company would keep current editor Max Sparber on staff, Mr. Afterglide indicated that it depended solely on whether Sparber would link to this post. "It's been a few days, man. I'm getting desperate for attention. I didn't know what to do short of getting involved in one of his creepy round bed parties."

Afterglide Media Thingy, LLC was founded in 2008, and if it weren't for the fact that it is an LLC, it would be traded under the ticker symbol POOP.

I have used your hand towel for the following tasks, then returned it to your towel hook.

• Cleaned up blood from ground beef that leaked onto my butcher block.
• Wiped up a little urine misfire from the floor near the toilet.
• Dabbed up a few stray chest hairs and pubes that fell into my vanity drawer. I don't think they were mine.
• Cleaned up some jisms (yes, I like to make the plural of "jism" to be "jisms" -- got a problem with that?). I found them in the dining room. I don't think they were mine, either.
• Wet it down and used it as a gentle, luxurious supplement to toilet paper.

I meant to leave you a friendly note regarding this topic a couple of days ago but something came up. Remind me tomorrow, and we'll discuss how I've been using your toothbrush. I think you'll be surprised. Not delighted though.

There is simply no reason for you to feel glum today, friends. Even if you have no special someone to share this day with, I'm here to tell you that today's going to blast you right the hell out of your Midwest sock and sandal ensemble. I'm going to make it all better. Today and today only, you are my [girl/boy]friend. So line up at my house at 6 pm, and I'll ladle out surf and turf like a soup kitchen to all comers. Then I will fuck you rotten. Sure, Ang is going to be a little pissed, but this is about making the world a better place to live in. Prepare to be boned, thugged, and harmonized.

Moblog: I suppose you could argue either way as to whether this breaks my self-imposed policy of no actual photos of poop. But launching this high velocity arc of stray chaff onto and under the toilet tank is just plain impressive. I am not even mad. My hat is off to you, wherever you are, sir. And kudos for including what appear to be multiple granules of various cooking spices.

I don't want to ruin any surprises for you, dearest Ang, but your gift is currently on layaway on a wooden palette on a very high shelf in the stock room at Wal-Mart. I hate giving gifts that require the recipient to buy shit, but you're going to have to buy shit. Make sure you've got a pipe wrench, a can of WD-40, a pint of plain yogurt, and a horse fetus. I hope you love it as much as I love you.

That's right, naysayers. Suck my carbide rod and tickle the head 'cuz I'm a fuckin' gentleman. I'll compliment your blue-veined rack of tits, smack you on the ass with my riding crop, and wink at you knowingly from behind my dirty monocle. I'll open the door for you but leave very little room for you to pass so that you have no choice but to brush your hip across my denim clad erection. I'm a grade A, top shelf, top notch, first class, first rate, high rise, full blown gentlecock ready to stuff your sea salt beaver with a fistful of G.I. Joe helmets, a half dozen Nerf darts, and a 5 teaspoons of mayonnaise. All this without so much as yanking on my pocket watch chain for a better view of the time and temperature. Is my stride better described as a strut? My trousers as a badger sheath? Yes and yes. You better god damned well know it and remember it, sister.

I never knew that reading about a dishwasher could be so hot. All this talk of biscuit-on-biscuit action is proppin' up my wand. Click the photo for full size view.

by Jimmy Steeps

Fuck sup with all these fuckin lippy ass motherfuckers wantin to be presdint god dammit? Sumbitches all like "God dam im a fuckin black dude vote my shit cokcsuckers" or "fuckin vote my ass in cuz i got tits an a fuckin snack bar up my god dam snatch sho you right". Either that or they all "This war god dam we aint goin fucking no where. Fuckers stayin right there mebbe I sent more fuckers there how you like me now god damn sumbitch!" Fuck all you fuckers. I aint vote your shit for nothin man. I dont care you aint white or gots a fuckin hootnanny down your pants or you sat in a fuckin war box for buncha years. You all the same god dam ass fuckers whut got us up in this shit in the first place. God dam fuckin shit man! Im votin for Lootenant Worf man. THat notty headed wolf face mother fucker set your shit straight I said! Fire a mother fuckin futon torpeedo up your ass pucker you god dam sally britch wearin pretty boy!!

On the heels of Apple's MacBook Air comes this revolutionary new product.

by Wade Swafford

I just started watching porn in HD and I'm so fucking excited. I feel like I'm living in the future now or something. Mint! Don't get me wrong, the Picasso porn used to do it for me -- a LOT -- in the same way a lady leaves some article of clothing on in order to leave something up to the imagination. That's not the case for me anymore. I don't even get that theory now. I have fucking seen the light with this HD shit.

I zoomed in on a money shot once and saw sperm pooled in the corner of Little Oral Annie's eyes. Seriously. Her blue eyeliner was smudged from some moist cock-play and I could literally see individual sperm swimming in her eyelid fold. Those were some happy sperm, blissfully ignorant of how soon their lives would end. It was like having one of those fucking ambient aquarium dvds on; calming. The little fuckers probably felt like they were in Club Med. It got me off and I went to sleep and dreamed about getting together with all of my sperm friends for a VIP party on a porn actress's face. Now it's like I'm dreaming in HD. Before I'd wake up in a cold fucking sweat after my Picasso Porn nightmares. Fuck that noise.

Another night I was getting off thinking about this chick Janey Erickson from high school Junior year. I lost my virginity to her in a hallway in high school. She didn't know it, I didn't really know it until I put in this 1980s porn the other night when I started to think of her. Thinking back on it, I remember her giant fucking bangs being the thing I focused on when the front of my pants filled with warm rice pudding that day at school.

So I put in some '80s porn that was redone in HD and suddenly, instead of getting off, it was like I started a goddamn scientific research project. Conclusion: I think the giant hairsprayed '80s hair actually attracts sperm, like static electricity or some shit. I frame-by-framed a guy blowing his wad and there was spatter hitting the chick's forehead bush that should have been smacking her taught, sweaty, double Ds. I also saw an instance where the sperm seemed to be literally getting pulled out of some guy's wiener when the porn actress's face got closer to the fly in his stone-washed Guess jeans. That's right. Not shooting out, but being pulled out. This was a bad-dream sequence in the plot of the film. Obviously coming that soon isn't cool. But this HD shit has totally cleared this guy. His premature cum shot was totally not his fault! It had to have been the Aqua Net. Does aqua mean sperm in some other language? Because it should. Fuckin' Sperm Net is what it is.

So this is why I think I lost my virginity like this my junior year in high school -- I saw Janey Erickson from a couple feet away and I spattered in my pants. It was like I had no control! Now I realize it was her Aqua Net bangs. Not me! Not me being a teenager with dick with no concept of timing. I lost my virginity from just a couple of steps away to her mangled Aqua Net hair tiara. One of my sperms actually escaped through my button-down fly and managed to snuggle up in her sticky bangs. Some nights I still get off just thinking about that. It's like my pants were the deadly, acidic vaginal fluid; my sperm pooled in a cooling mass grave in the front panel of my jockeys. But one strong soldier made it through to the egg, i.e. Janey's golden orb of bangs, and actually achieved zygote status up there. That day there was life atop Janey Erickson's forehead bush. My little sperm stayed up there the rest of the day; I know it because that Aqua Net shit is everything-proof. I had a theory about it then, but HD porn has straight-up proven it. Nothing escaped '80s bangs. Nothing. Maybe that's why chicks with a gummy mane get me off; I like control or some shit.

Wade Swafford is currently inspecting some spoogey bangs. He may or may not be somehow related to Eda Cherry.

by Jimmy Steeps

Yeh, whuts up with these chiks who all fat and shit? Im trying to git my shit waxed and these fat ho's be all "Yeh I wax it for you." Fuck that shit bitch! I sooner wax my own shit then let you near it. My boy Joe digs him some large hunnyz though. I come home and find him with these big bitches all stuck in my door. I gotta kick most of them in the thigh to get them all the way thru that shit! Get out my god dam way bitch! I got hot yumz up in this BK bag need eatin. I dont need you fat ass in my way every nite! Then they go hot n naughty on my fuckin leather couch. Now that shit gots a tear in the back and a cunt juice stain on the arm god dam! So I tells Joe "God dam mother fuckah you need to drop an lb limit on these hoz." I says if hes gonna keep living on my couch this shit gots to stop. Shit I dont fuckin care if he bang 6 skinny chicks, 2 heifers or 1 land whale but you just keep that shit to 6 hondo a day. Nuff of this fuckin 5 ton train breakin my couch and messin up my throw rugs every god dam day.

Jimmy Steeps is mildly retarded.

If you do not want the car in this craigslist ad, you should have been aborted in the 4th trimester, playa. This is what KITT would have looked like circa '72.

Or better yet, help this guy find the lady of his dreams.

by Gary David Westin

Howdy do, readers. My name's Gary Westin. Most folks call me Big Gary or Double G or Lo-Tide. You can call me anything you darn well please lessin' it's late for dinner! I've been going to Old Country Buffet purt near every day (sometimes twice a day) for over 25 years. That's 25 years packed with 2 wives, 4 kids, and a bout or two with a bowel obstruction. Diabetes too. In other words OCB is like my second home. They've seen me through some rough times folks. So I hope you can hear me out here and don't think me to be a crackpot or looney.

I heard tell a couple weeks ago that the company that owns OCB filed for bankruptcy. I'll bet you didn't know this but Buffets Holdings Inc, their owner, is based right over there in Eagan. I tell you what boy I'm driving up there tomorrow on my lunch break (after I eat at OCB of course) and asking them just what in the sam hill is going on. I better get some answers because if they close down the OCB, I'm going to come to where they live and go Daniel Plainview on their hind ends. There will be blood!

I can also tell you that asking them is just a courtesy because I can give you a list of about a dozen or more things they are doing wrong. You can't run a buffet without keeping the chocolate mousse stocked up son! They're all johnny on the spot with keeping that steamed broccoli tray stocked up but the moment I want another piece of plain cheesecake or slab of roast beef they're off dumping more fresh spinach off at the salad bar. You get back over here now boy! There is only one slice of ham left and this stuffing looks like it's been sitting out for an hour. I guarantee you that skinny little girl in the pink turtleneck hasn't been here but once in her short life. You look me in the belly son and tell me I haven't eaten here for 25 years!

Now you go back into that kitchen, fry up about a dozen more ok tasting chicken wings and fill this hopper up with bland spaghetti IMMEDIATELY. That's why you're bankrupt, Old Country Buffet. You can't feed your customers! If you could guarantee me you could keep those trays full when I want to eat out of them then I would eat there 3 times a day. But instead I eat there once or twice a day. Shame on you OCB. I hope this is a hard lesson learned. You can't make money by not feeding your big eaters.

Sincerely Gary "Lo-Tide" Westin

Gary David Westin is the owner and president of Westin Delicate Doilies, Inc. He resides in Prior Lake, MN.

by Lester Zweitmueller

God fucking damn it, you illiterate shit-brained ass stains, it's a SLASH. It's not a fucking backslash.

RIGHT: "Just go to www dot getyourgoddamnheadoutofyourfuckingasshole dot com SLASH fuckleak to get more information, sir."

WRONNNNNGGGGG!!!!!!: "To log into our online banking system, go to www dot learntherightwaytogiveawebaddressyouwasteofazygote dot com BACKSLASH twatblood."

NO!!!!! Fuckers, it's slash! SLASH!!!! Did you fucking hear me, tampon drip?!???

Lester Zweitmueller lives in Cottage Grove, MN and is a senior software engineer for Thomson West. He is a practicing aromatherapist and arbiter.

by Ed Kohler

I submitted a "Good Question" to the folks over at WCCO that is, apparently, too hot for their audience. Luckily, there are other outlets in this town people can turn to when they need questions answered.

For that, I've chosen you, dear Afterglide readers.

Let the debate begin.

-Ed

---------

Dear WCCO Good Question,

A colleague of mine and I were discussing boob job etiquette earlier tonight and thought we'd throw the unresolved subject your way for further investigation.

If someone gets a boob job, are they obligated to show off their enhancements? For example, can one go through with the procedure, only to take on a wardrobe reminiscent of late 80's Benetton rugby shirts and oversized sweaters?

What is considered proper etiquette for copping a feel? Is it inappropriate to ask? Under what circumstances is it considered appropriate to accept an invitation?

We're just trying to understand what role we - as boob job observers - are obligated to take in today's society.

Ed Kohler is a Twin Cities-based blogger and bon vivant.

This week on afterglide, we'll be opening our doors to a series of guest bloggers from all walks of life. I might pop in here and there if I have something of interest to say, but this week it's all about listening to the thoughts and concerns of others. Are you an unwavering racist? I'll bet that's pretty weird! Are you the asshole that stole the seat cover off of my bicycle? Is that because you were sexually abused as a child? Dish, girlfriend! We'll hear from all sorts of folks this week, maybe even your slutty mom!

Moblog: Spice in Savage

By Darren Halling

After a long battle between multiple platforms for human life, experts have declared adults the winners. "Just throw away your babies now," says Sony VP Chad Lehtman. "They're obsolete." Lehtman then corrected himself, adding that the babies should actually be recycled instead of thrown away outright. For millenia, humans have furrowed their brows, deciphering reams of documentation and technobabble trying to figure out which format is best for them. Babies were long thought to be the superior technology, being more compact and easier to transport, but as society moved forward, babies stayed the same. Consumers eventually realized that babies might have some benefits on the front side, but they are black hole for consumables. Babies are inexpensive to produce, but like cheap printers have expensive ink cartridges, cheap babies have expensive -- well, everything.

For the month of January, 2008 sales of babies were down nearly 90% compared to January, 2007. Large manufacturers like Sony, Samsung, and Toshiba have taken heed and started mail-in recycling programs to make it easier to dispose of unwanted babies. It is predicted that in February alone, nearly 15,000 babies will be recycled into products like Hot Yoga Instructor and Friendly Hotel Doorman.

Darren Halling is a Minneapolis-based freelance writer and is not an employee of afterglide.com because he used all of the office toilet paper and didn't tell anyone until it was too late.