Completely random, but the found cocaine party photos I photoshopped the other day ended up getting linked in the comments on a post about the originals on BoingBoing. I was amused and jazzed today when Wil Wheaton commented on this particular photo. Amber, per your request, on the remote chance that I ever have any further interaction with him, I will declare to him your feelings.

Moblog: Lakeville Wendy's

For your consideration, a series of found photos posted by Flickr user foundphotoslj. Moral of the story, if you take photos of yourself snorting cocaine and drinking root beer, keep track of the photos, or they'll end up on the internet a quarter of a century later.

UPDATE: Unfortunately it appears that the original photos have been yanked by foundphotoslj. I assume he or she probably was sick of the nutsacks filling up the Flickr, Metafilter, and BoingBoing comments with tirades about posting "stolen" photos of people snorting coke. Yes, posting photos of these people from 25 years ago (that mind you, they took themselves and/or allowed to be taken) is going to ruin their lives henceforth. I considered asking foundphotoslj for permission to repost the originals, but meh... you get the idea, and I'd prefer not to deal with the shit storm. But without further ado, back to our previously written post.

Personally I think all of this explicit drug use is too inappropriate for the internet. I have taken the liberty of making them more family friendly. Click each photo for the full-sized version.

I call the brunette girl!

Lance always throws a fit if he doesn't get first pick of game pieces. I don't know how they plan on listening to that John Tesh album with no record player in sight though. Or furniture for that matter. Doctored version of this photo.

Thumbs up to Chutes and Ladders

Lance makes his move as Adam gives his seal of approval. Doctored version of this photo.

Down on the floor

They spent most of their dough on the down payment for the apartment. Instead of making an Ikea run, they hit up Toys R Us. The other room is filled with paddle games and Nerf guns. Doctored version of this photo.

Has-bros

You can't never tear Lance and Adam apart. Once you bond over the CAL, you ain't never not tight after that. And that ain't not no double negative. And did that photo of the Toyota Prius fall off the wall or have they not hung it up yet? Doctored version of this photo.

Hmm...

Lance tries to remember the rules as he ponders his next move. Dude, it's not chess. Doctored version of this photo.

Get yer shirt on

Lance loves the shirt Kelly made him for his birthday, but the seams are a little jagged. Yeah, bad seams. Totally not bad Photoshop at all. Also looks like they hung their Prius photo... or haven't knocked it down yet. Just how wild is this party going to get? Doctored version of this photo.

Hannah Montana rules!

Adam once paid $3,000 for a pair of Hannah Montana tickets. Both of them were for him. Doctored version of this photo.

I'm a maniac for Chutes and Ladders!

Adam gloats as he knows he's on the verge of winning, but Kelly takes it in stride. They also must have spilled some Cheetos on the carpet because that appears to be a Roomba making the vacuuming rounds. Doctored version of this photo.

Ice cream break!

All of this wholesome fun makes a body hungry for a sweet treat. Look at the size of that freakin' sundae! Johnny 5 waves in the background. Doctored version of this photo.

Moblog: Savage

Viagra is a decade old. My favorite quote from this article:

"But a lot of people look to Viagra for personal happiness, thinking a hard penis can resolve relationship issues," and they end up disappointed, added the doctor and author of the book 'The Viagra Myth.'"

Are you implying that a hard penis can't solve relationship issues, my good doctor? A hard penis can solve any relationship problem you throw at it. Need to spice up the sex life? Whip out a hard penis and smack her on the chin with it. Need to discipline your significant other for spending your rent money on furry boots? Whip out a hard penis and bitch slap her across the face. In fact, the answer to every problem is hard penis.

Problem: A meeting's attendees are rudely talking amongst themselves, paying no attention to your presentation.
Solution: Who needs Robert's Rules of Order? Swing a hard penis at a coffee cup, sending it sailing into a wall. The explosion of shattering porcelain will get their attention in a hurry. Furthermore, emphasize your point by replacing your Powerpoint's bullet points with photos of your hard penis.

Problem: You are the first to arrive on the scene of a horrific car accident.
Solution: If there are open flames, bat them out with your hard penis before they reach the gas tank. If there isn't enough time, quickly rip the roof off of the car with your hard penis, instruct the victims to grab onto your hard penis, and use it to lift them to freedom and safety.

Problem: You're being robbed at gunpoint.
Solution: Stab the perpetrator in the chest with your hard penis. Nothing stops crime faster than a cock-ruptured aorta.

Problem: You're walking with your friend, and he gets robbed at gunpoint.
Solution: Put wood to pavement and pole vault away from the scene with your hard penis. You can call the police for help once you're safely at home and have had a good night of sleep. Be certain to dial the phone with your hard penis.

Problem: You want to serve ice cream, but your only scoop is in the sink with the dirty dishes.
Solution: Use the uncut hood of your hard penis to scoop up the ice cream. Flick the shaft with your thumb to release the ice cream into the bowl. Do it quickly because your cold penis won't be hard much longer.

Problem: You've forgotten your email password.
Solution: Use your hard penis to click the "Forgot your password?" link.

Problem: You have a hard penis.
Solution: What part of "the answer to every problem is a hard penis" do you not understand?

Today the prices in our vending machines at work skyrocketed by about 15%. A 65 cent candy bar is now 75. On the machines were stickers from the vending company explaining that they held the price increase off as long as they could, but rising product and delivery costs forced their hand. I see.

...

MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is complete bullshit! This might cost me up to TWO FUCKING DOLLARS a month! TWENTY FOUR DOLLARS A YEAR!!!!! Tomorrow I am going to eat my weight in Hershey bars, drive down to that vending company, kick the door open, and unbuckle a humorless, sweet-and-low log of contrary nutritional castoff right in their lobby. Then I am driving to Sam's Club, punching the door greeter in the pork pie, and marching my membership-cardless ass straight to the office equipment section and walking out with a 6-pack of vending machines. After I finish placing them strategically throughout the office and my home, I will stock them with a quarter million dollars worth of Snickers, Three Musketeers, and Nut Goodies (I WILL FUCKING MAKE IT FIT!!). How much for a candy bar? Fifty cents, bitch. Fifty. Butt-fucking. Cents. That's right. You sucking my dick means I win.

Part 2 in a provocative series examining your health in the eyes of Reader's Digest and the societal impacts of you shutting the fuck up and reading this post.

A healthy work environment includes an uncluttered workspace, ergonomically arranged computer equipment, and a few personal effects like flowers, plants, and a collar with about 25 square feet of frill.


When writing a "lifetime" guide to health, be sure to include as many elements as possible to date your illustrative photos, such as a popular band name and recording technology that will be all but defunct within 10 years.


Something isn't quite right with this photo, but I can't put my finger on it.


Much better.


Once you retire, you should consider taking up a hobby to keep your mind sharp. This couple passes the time by torturing young backpackers kidnapped from a Slovakian hostel.


Often, young people who have distinctly different outlooks than their peers become outcasts. This boy's classmates have shunned him for his repeated attempts to rape them.


When the cleaning lady found Mrs Schuller's body in the foyer, it was clear that Mr Schuller had discovered her poorly concealed affair with the junior varsity track team. Could it have been the photos on MySpace?


The cleaning lady unwittingly contaminated the crime scene by undressing Mrs Schuller's corpse and crying on it.


Oh dear. Apparently Mr Schuller retired to the master bedroom and shot himself, as well.

Ok, seriously, cleaning lady, what is your fucking problem? Call 911!


Steven Seagal neck snap! Kee-yahhhh!


I don't think it's happening tonight, buddy.


Early Scientologists and a primitive E-Meter.


"Alright, I'm going to show you a series of videos in which I appear in various stages of undress and arousal. But it's ok, I'm a doctor."


"Ok, you're blood pressure's good. So what did you think of the videos?"


[from inside] "Hey, you didn't go out on the roof, did you? You still have 3 more hours of video to go!"

Aside from a bunch of booby cream, another treasure I found at Valu Thrift at Sun Ray in St Paul on Saturday was a 1984 book about personal health from Reader's Digest. If there is an authority I trust when it comes to my health, it's Reader's Digest. I also rely on the Saturday Evening Post for investment advice and get ideas for spicing up my sex life from Collier's.

Note that this is the complete manual. Not a partial one. However, it also says it is a lifetime guide. The fact that I bought it for a dollar at a thrift store seems to indicate that its claims are false and/or its previous owner is now dead.


On the inside title page, we find a primary-colored Stephen King and his family hiking through long grass on a cloudy Maine day. Mr. King has chastened himself by securing his fitness trousers shut with a padlock. Or maybe it's to keep out the Lyme disease-ridden deer ticks that his wife and children will be picking from their scalps and genitals.


Clearly they stole this photo from the spandex section of the 1983 LaBelle's Christmas catalog. If she hikes those bottoms up any further, she can use them as a sports bra.


Women like to compare fat rolls, blubber, waddles, and pooches. But do they have to do it in line at Subway?


Women, to measure your fitness, place a yard stick on the floor and line it up with the bottom of your feet. Spread your legs open as wide as you can and measure the distance. Looks like this lady's going to need a lot more yoga before the spring DP party at the yacht club.


An important key to your child's future mental health is reigning in his wild dreams with realistic expectations. This young lad is so excited to grow up to be a doctor that he leaps in the air for joy. Luckily his parents are there to hold him down. "Not so fast, Johnny Repeats-a-Grade!"


For some reason, one section of the book gives a time line of historical figures. Here we discover that Walt Disney may have created Mickey Mouse, but he couldn't draw so much as a circle to save his life. "ARRGHH! Why do these topless dancers keep turning out like short pants-wearing mice???"


Somehow the cut rate illustrator for Reader's Digest managed to make Eleanor Roosevelt even more hideously repulsive.


"EVERYBODY DOWN ON THE GROUND! The first motherfucker at this pool to try to be a hero gets their head blown off! Now put the chlorine in the bag."


One of the women in this photo wants to bury her face in the other's vagina. And by "one" I mean "both" and by "vagina" I mean, "I'm totally jerking off to this photo right now."


This guy took the Shriners Fun Run way too seriously.


Her partner is so tired of her squeals of delight every time balls are flying at her face.


In the 1980s, it was believed that exercising while your computer farted into your air supply was good for the "sanguine humours."


When participating in the "Buns of Steel for Men" class at the Y, try not to make your leering too obvious.


"Hellooooo! Vulnerable, fit man here! Anyone back there? Anyone?"


"Strut, pout, put it out, that's what you want from me!"


1. "I'm strong."
2. "Yay."


NordicTrack's Bosom Squeezer 36DD was the top selling home fitness system of 1984.


This diagram shows how easy it would be to rip your spine from your back should you wear that sweater vest again.


Always wear bib overalls while painting boxes. ALWAYS!


"I give up."


Uh... you do realize you're in the middle of a photo shoot, don't you? There's a box of tissue right next to you for crying out loud!


"Just appreciating my perm."


Start your daily meditation by attempting to kill your enemies with your mind.


Ugh... well, at least clean your pus off my mirror when you're done squeezing.


Now put a little peanut butter down there. Oh my! Is that the dog?


If you're going to work your way up to me, you better try three fingers, lady.


Ok, where do you want me to aim when I finish?


Got it. I'd close your eyes if I were you. I've been doing prostate exercises.


To be continued...

Yesterday Ang announced that she wanted to go to Valu Thrift Store at Sun Ray in St Paul. I had hoped to just sit on my ass all day, but considering I found a lovable little guy called Shelf Chimp at Unique, their sister store in Burnsville, I couldn't possibly say no to tagging along. Alas, there was nothing as spectacular as Shelf Chimp, but there were plenty of smaller curiosities.

One shelf was full of creams, perfumes, ointments, shampoos, perms, and makeup. The labels seemed to indicate that they had either been discontinued by the manufacturer and unloaded onto various thrift stores or that someone found a bunch of products that expired circa Mork & Mindy and decided to endanger one or two people by giving it away rather than endanger the environment at large by throwing it away.

Impact Volume Retention Perm's label says "For looks that demand attention." For hair so high that potential johns can see you from three blocks away. Warning: not for use on public hair. 70s bush is one thing, but no one wants Spanish Inquisition bush.


On the topmost shelf, there were about a half-dozen or so flowery bottles of Breast Friend brand Premenstrual Breast Creme, which apparently was manufactured for a company based in Woodbury, MN. Apparently this product "Encourages regular Breast Care."


The side label:
The Breast Friend line of products is the only one specifically formulated to promote breast self-examinations and breast care.

Breast Friend Premenstrual Creme encourages women of all ages to develop a routine of regular breast care.

How does it do that? By just having this statement on the box? "You've been encouraged!" Or does constantly buying this cream and developing a routine of slathering it on their breasts help women make a mental connection between the cream and the self-exam?

A portion of the profits from the sale of this product will benefit Breast Cancer Research and Breast Cancer Awareness Programs.

I'm not implying this company's intentions weren't good -- and given that my mom is a breast cancer survivor, this is a subject of concern to me -- but these kind of statements on products claiming to give money to a cause are irksome. "A portion" can pretty much mean whatever they want it to mean. Twenty-five percent? Ten percent? One-sixth of a percent? If you're committed to a cause, give us a concrete value.

On the another side of the label comes this:
DIRECTIONS: Apply an ample amount of creme to each breast using a slow circular motion. Repeat as often as desired. Wash hands immediately after use.

Should you notice any changes in the breast before or during your menstrual cycle, complete a thorough breast self-exam after your menstrual cycle is completed using Breast Friend Shower Gel or Moisturizing Lotion. If you detect any abnormalities contact your physician immediately.

Breast Friend is not a substitute for an annual medical examination by a physician. It is recommended that you have annual mammograms. Use of this product will not prevent the development of or guarantee the discovery of any abnormalities.

Then why use it? How it is of more value than regular moisturizing lotion or a cooling cream? I'm willing to bet most women who saw this product on store shelves or wherever it was sold asked themselves those very questions and left it where they found it.

CAUTION: Avoid the vaginal area. Adult use only. For external use only. Keep out of reach of children. Wash hands after application. Avoid eye contact.

First, I will NEVER avoid the vaginal area. And why avoid eye contact? Is it because of the shame brought on by using such a silly-ass product? I also have grave concerns over a topical cream where women are instructed to rub it all over their breasts but repeatedly warned to get the shit off of their hands as soon as possible after they're done.

"My little angel, would you help mommy apply her Breast Friend?"


"Intrstd Chipmunk iz Intrstd"


Barbie looked lonely, so I gave her a friend.

by Wade Swafford

The brakes are going out on my Monte Carlo so I agreed cover an extra shift at the machine shop because I needed the extra dough to take care of my mint ride. I had been standing for about 3 hours straight, just staring and welding when this dude comes over and tell me to stop. I'm breaking some shop safety code because my shoe is untied. I tell him, "Guy, I haven't taken a step in three hours, okay? I'm not going to trip and fall." I went to get back to welding when this guy stops me from putting the lid down on my welding mask. I'm practically dead on my feet guy. Don't give me this, not 14 hours into my double. "Get your hands off my helmet," I tell him. He said, "Not until you tie your shoe." So I'm all, "What's the matter with you, dude? You got shit up the ass?" He said, "What?" I said, "What's the matter with you? You got shit up the ass?"

I didn't have anything to eat for dinner and didn't feel like heading to the grocery store so I went to the Subway in the strip mall a few blocks from my place. I get in there and some guy is ahead of me giving the sandwich maker a hard time. He kept telling her to "make the sandwich upside down." So the lady turned the sandwich upside down and he got even more mad. They did this a couple of times and the guy just kept saying, "No. Not like that. Make the sandwich upside down." I was so fucking hungry I couldn't take it any more. I was so hungry I was about to dry-heave all over Subway. Instead of dry-heaving I ended up yelling at the asshole ahead of me who wanted an upside-down sandwich. "What is the matter with you, guy? You got shit up the ass? Huh? You got shit up the ass?"

"Fuckin' interns are running Fox 9 tonight, I swear to god." I was home just winding down from work and sitting in front of the tv. I was watching Judge Mathis -- I love the chemistry between him and his bailiff, Doyle -- when the sound goes to commercial in the middle of the case. It was kind of funny the first time because it looked like Judge Mathis was promoting Tampax or some shit. But the fourth time the comedy had run its course for me. I was mad because this was not helping me wind down from a long day at the machine shop. It was winding me up. And finally Judge Mathis disappeared completely -- right at the ruling, no less -- and all I got was the Fox 9 error message. "What's your problem, Fox 9? What? What's that? Oh! You must have shit up the ass!"

Wade Swafford has shit up the ass (up and to the left) courtesy of Eda Cherry.

by Jimmy Steeps

Hay now I never said I was down with the gays but I aint mad at em niether. No gays never tryed to rimrod me in the pork pie so I respect that shit man. Thanks gays. We cool. So anyways I was down round the corner and saw ther was this new bar. I went in and was all like motherfucker what kind of fuckin bar is this and dude was all shushin me and shit. YOU DO NOT SHUSH THE STEEPSTER GOD DAM! But then I callmed my shit down and dude tells me its a GBLT bar or some shit. Well shit son I love me a fuckin BLT! Wats the G for I says? Gravy? Fuckin gravy on my BLT would be the shit and shit god dam! No, no no dude says. He says it stands for GAY! Im like WHUT?? Fuckin Gay? What you mean? So he starts talkin and shit Im like look as long as they aint no fucking jizz on my sammich I have the BLT. G or no G son. Im hungry like a motherfucker. Dude trys to talk me into some cheezy wontons. Its there specialty or some shit. No I said gimme the god dam BLT. You talk the shit all up and this is a GBLT place so cook that shit up son. So dude serves me up my Gay BLT and I be god damed if that wasnt the best fuckin BLT I ever had.

Jimmy Steeps likes BLTs, guns, and tennis.

Moblog: Click it. This guy in the middle, his sweater delights me.

Update: enhanced the photo to illustrate the glow. Seen at Green Mill in Lakeville.

I was asked to publish the following open letter, which I think is supposed to be addressed to leaders in the Jewish community. I had trouble reading the handwriting, but I'm pretty sure I got it all. I think.

--

Dear jewish pope, my buddy and I were talking the other day and I made a ham sandwich and I offered him some and he was all like NO WAY DUDE! I was like why not and he was like BECAUSE IM JEWISH YOU DUMB FUCK! I said SETTLE DOWN DONT CALL ME DUMB!! Then he told me all about how jews dont eat pig stuff like ham and bacon and well anyway I stopped listening but i think it was because pigs used to be poisond by guys that didnt like jewish guys. I totally get it but its hard to poison pigs now because they get looked at in the packing plant. IS THIS PIG POISON? NO HES FINE LET HIM GO THRU. Stamp! Approoved! He gets put in the slicer and grinder and is made into unpoisond meats and hog cheeses. So anyway jewish pope you can straten your tall yamaha hat and dont worry any more because ham is safe. You can write it in your toro. Just thought Id let you know. Thanks for listning.

-Immaculate Sanchez, Jr.

What sluttier than fucking a governor for money? Well, nothing if you're counting individual acts, but throw in spending a week on the Girls Gone Wild bus with the world's sleaziest douchebag, aka Joe Francis, and that ups the slut-o-meter by a good 33%. In 2003, Ashley Alexandria Dupre was in Miami to celebrate her 18th birthday. After getting jackbooted from her hotel (I'll bet it was for doing something slutty), Dupre ended up on the GGW bus and stayed there for a week. Most girls just show up and quickly flash their tits or lick some 'tang for an hour or two and that's that. But Ashley's a special breed of slut. She stayed on the bus for a week, making full-length videos. Nudity! Check. Lezzing out with chicks (as opposed to lezzing out with guys??)! Check! "Get on the slut bus... don't need to discuss muuuuuch! Cover this chick in pee, and set yourself free." For her efforts, she got some dollar dollar bill, ya'll. And a bus ticket home. Now, her million dollar money hole will be shown to the world without her getting further compensation. Sounds like the video will be on the GGW websites soon. Yours for the viewing if you've got $30 in the couch cushions. Hmm... I like nude chicks, but I don't like paying for them. Or even for videos of them.

I'll just wait until someone rips it and puts it out in a BitTorrent file.

Today's discussion on MNspeak turned to a news story about the man who slipped into the Minnesota Homeland Security and Emergency Management office in St Paul through an unlocked door. Now I know what you're thinking, how very ironic that a man would find an unlocked door to get into the fucking Minnesota Homeland SECURITY office, but tut tut tut my pet. Quiet your mind for a second and prepare for the best part of this story. The man didn't steal office equipment. He didn't steal vital files. He just took a dump. Or rather, several dumps in multiple rooms. On the floor. Yes, he pooped on the floor, friends.


In this dramatized surveillance video screen capture, the Mad Shitter lays down some grease in the lobby.

And I know what you're thinking now. "That's rather curious, Jeremy. Doesn't Ang live in St Paul near downtown?" Now wait just a minute here! I talk the talk, but I do not rock my deuces onto the floor. I've said it a thousand times, but I'll lay it out for you again. I love to talk about poop, but I do not like to:

- Look at it
- Smell it
- Touch it
- Taste it
- Think about it

Poop is funny in theory, not in practice. And in this case, it happened somewhere else, so to me, it's theory. You hear me? I DID NOT SHIT ON THE FLOOR IN THAT BUILDING!!!

*knock on the door*

Police officer: Are you Jeremy Q. Afterglide?

JQA: Yes, can I help you?

PO: Mr Afterglide, a man was caught on security tapes defecating on the floor of a state office building in St Paul. We had several hundred calls indicating that you might know something about that.

JQA: What? Me?

PO: We're well aware of your history of fascination with poop, pooping on things, pooping on people, pooping in their food, creating artwork with poop, pooping underwa--

JQA: Ok, ok. I get the picture. I absolutely didn't do it though.

PO: Ok then where were you on Sunday afternoon at 1:30 pm?

JQA: I was at my girlfriend's place. Let's see... around that time I either would have been working on a project for my job or playing a video game, Mario Party 8 on the Wii to be exact. I don't remember when I started playing the game.

PO: I see. Can your girlfriend vouch for that?

JQA: Well, she left around 12:30 or so to go shopping with some of her friends.

PO: And how long was she gone?

JQA: It was between 7 and 7:30 that night.

PO: That's unfortunate for you, sir. Did you poop during that time?

JQA: I sure did. Boy, did I ever!

PO: At the offices of the Minnesota Homeland Security and Emergency Management?

JQA: Hey! No way, man! I told you, I was at my girlfriend's place.

PO: So you pooped on the floor at your girlfriend's place. Was she upset?

JQA: No, I--where are you getting this. No, I did not and never have pooped in that building, even in the toilet.

PO: So you pooped on the floor where we found it.

JQA: [exasperated sigh] Look, I know what you're trying to do. I watch Law & Order. You're trying to trip me up, get me all mixed up so you can catch me in a lie. Well, I'm not lying. I am an honest, tax paying, legal shitter. I shit where I'm allowed. I always flush, and if plug the toilet, I unplug it myself or ask for help.

PO: Help?

JQA: Sometimes there's not a plunger, and you need someone to bring you one. Or a coat hanger or Liquid Drano or something.

PO: That's fine, Mr Afterglide. Just one more question, sir. Did you pay someone to poop on that floor?

JQA: I'm sorry, but I don't like where this is going. If you want to ask more questions, you'll have to talk to my lawyer.

Moblog: Wolcat watches you work.

I first saw this Burger King "morning tongue" commercial in the last week or two. Normally I'm all for the perverse and subversive, but creating a commercial that makes an analogy between my breakfast and a tiny, erect penis-tongue coming out of a man's mouth does nothing for my appetite.

Loren: "When's this rain gonna end, Liberace? Care for a wing?"

In part to keep our emails to clients from getting trapped in spam filters, we recently changed our Outlook email signatures from fancy images with our names and contact info to completely text-based signatures. This is my actual "protest" email sent to our entire IT Department and the director to whom our manager reports.

After soon-to-be-former New York Governor Elliot Spitzer was outed as a whoremonger and adulterer, we learned that he had dropped about $4,000 on one night with "Kristen" and had spent about $80,000 total with her high-falutin' escort service. I fired up my trusty UNIVAC, crunched the numbers, and calculated that to be 20 rolls in the clover. Now media outlets are reporting that he used the service 8 times. That is TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS per whore. Or if you will, 10,000 bones per bone.

Of more prurient interest, the identity of "Kristen" has been revealed as 22 year old scrumptious strumpet Ashley Alexandra Dupré. I won't bother to post the photos of Miss Dupré, as they're plastered across the 'net as copiously as the terminal velocity semen streams nearing countless screens of pervs jerking off to her MySpace profile. But in my humble estimation, she is not worth $10,000 to fuck just once. A thousand dollars, maybe two at best.

Perhaps Governor Spitzer was wet behind the ears when it comes to the economics of being a "hobbyist" (a john). As someone who has a real life hooker as a friend, I could have apprised him of the going rates for rented poon. That is why I have written a comprehensive guide to fair market values of prostitutes called The Afterglide Encyclopædia Vaginæ (gratuitous graphemes added for the appearance of class and authority) .

Excerpt from page 43 of The Afterglide Encyclopædia Vaginæ:

"Though it is considered to be in extremely poor taste, requesting a thorough gynocological exam of a lady of the evening is not against the hooking code. Much as one might have a used automobile inspected by a mechanic prior to purchase, a hobbyist may commit to the transaction strictly contingent upon the results of inspection. The hobbyist may insist upon the services of an inspector with whom he is familiar, however said inspector must be a licensed and reputable OB/GYN. The hobbyist may not just have 'some guy' pry the escort's money hole open with a speculum, at least not without paying her an 'Eiffel Tower' fee."

The Afterglide Encyclopædia Vaginæ is now available on Amazon for a mere $14.95 (cash only, to be placed in an envelope on the dresser prior to the transaction).

You be the judge. See Corey Feldman-less Strib article.

Poor Eliot Spitzer. All he wanted was to vacuum pack some tight hooker snatch. At first, it sounded like it may have been a one-time thing. Four grand on one night with a prostitute named Kristen. And for $4,000, I'm assuming Kristen is a piping hot stack of ass -- at least she damn well better be. Now more light has been shed on Spitzer's pay-for-play loin shanking, and we come to find that he may have spent up to $80,000 on call girls. Let's break that down: $80,000 at $4,000 per hook comes to 20 lays. Twenty? TWENTY? Motherfucker, I could have gotten you 20 fucks for $6k here in Minneapolis. And if you don't care what the chick looks like or how loose her labes are, $400 for 20 bangs for you and a half dozen of your advisers. Plus $4,000 pussy is never just $4,000 pussy. Toss in separate $1000 per night hotel rooms, and now it's $6,000. So really this dude spent $120,000 on getting his shaft greased. $120,000!!! That's a fucking mortgage. You mortgaged pussy. Next thing you know, you'll have to form a neighborhood association and pay monthly dues. Sure, some of your dues will go toward utilities, but the rest only covers common areas. If something inside gets fucked up, you're paying for that out of your own pocket. And do you really want to pay out of pocket for an ovary repair?

March 13, 2008 update: See my followup commentary.

Out of sheer self-indulgence, I've compiled a partial list of euphemisms I've used for the act of defecating and for feces itself. And star wipe, and we're out...

• Taking a grump
• Dropping an even prime
• Core to door Roto-Root
• Top notch wall scraper
• Uncoiled a smoky grump
• Milling mahogany
• Power squat a tawny log of knotty oak the size of a healthy skunk
• Churning butter
• A torrent of river bed mud
• High velocity blowback
• Buttery, walnut-filled dump
• A slimy trail of peanuts steaming with the hot smell of crushed pepper and cumin
• Toileting
• Dropping a Grand Slam
• 5-log collision
• Healthy dollops
  
• My fecal Confederacy decided to secede from my colonic Union
• Redefined cubism
• Unloadings
• Unload the chocolate freight train to Cleveland
• A torrent of undigested strips of red bell pepper and popcorn
• A priority delivery of bubbling cake batter
• A gurgling mass of piping hot mortality punching at your sphincter like a prizer fighter hungry for the belt
• A big, karmic, cleansing superdump
• Ubercrap
• Megaduke
• Croutoned herself
• Hot bubbling brown horror
• Give back the bounty which God had bestowed upon me
• Turbocharged ass mud
• Steaming ass explosion
• Paint the toilet with #5 chunky
• Cook a pie
• Angry poop gorilla

A coworker told me about an incredible story last week, one that is several years old. Given the subject matter and age, it is all the more amazing that I was theretofore unaware of this tale. Wade Davis, an anthropologist and ethnobotanist whose better-known books include The Serpent and the Rainbow and Shadows in the Sun, gave a lecture titled The Light at the Edge of the World. [PDF link: page 19] In the 1950s, the Canadian government forced Inuit people from an archipelago into settlements. The grandfather in one family refused to leave, and his family tried to force his hand by taking away all of his tools and weapons. Instead, in the middle of a blizzard, the old man went outside, dropped trou, shit into his hand and formed it into a knife. After using his saliva (presumably indirectly), he sharpened the edge, butchered a dog with it, made a harness from the skin and a sled from the ribcage, and had the remaining dog pull him, his shit knife, and his dead dog contraption into the night.

Whether it's true or not, this is an amazing tale of survival and ingenuity. One has to wonder, however, the first thing the guy thought of was to freeze his own shit? Why not melt some snow or a use a pre-frozen chunk of ice, either of which would surely be plentiful in those conditions? Maybe frozen shit stands up to a vigorous dog skinning better than pure ice does. Or maybe this guy knew precisely how to make a bolder statement to his family and the Canadian government. If I were to walk up to a stranger and stab him in the chest with a kitchen knife, I'd probably make the front page of the major Twin Cities daily newspapers. But if I shat in my hand on a sub-zero January evening and knifed a guy with a frozen dookie, I guarantee you I would be front page news for a lot of national -- perhaps even international -- news outlets.

The lecture excerpt doesn't mention if the grandfather was ever heard from again, but that makes the tale all the more intriguing. Just like a good novel, you don't want paint every detailed minutiae for readers; you want to give them some room to use their own imaginations. My imagination tells me this guy went on to live for another decade in the wilderness, creating an entire shit-based lifestyle. Over days, months, and years, he crafted a frozen shit hut with a heavy, ornate frozen shit door, ice window panes framed in with shit trim, and a faux shake roof made with overlapping panels of shit. This, of course, was built with a shit hammer, shit saw, shit nails, and even a shit nail gun with compressed air supplied by a lung from a bear he killed with a fecal spear. Having put so much thought into his home, surely he had to furnish it with equally fine accouterments. The shit dining room chairs and table with removable leaves, the Murphy-style shit bed that tucks neatly into the wall when he's nestled into his shit easy chair next to the shit credenza reading a book he wrote with ice paper and diarrhea ink.

That sounds like a pleasant way to retire, but one has to remember that the only way to warm this marvelous abode would be to build a shit fireplace and burn logs of shit. But then the inside walls of the house begin to melt, dripping viscous turd lumber onto your head, your food, your credenza, and everything else you've worked so hard to build. No thank you, sir. I will continue to live in my wood and brick house with plaster walls and ceilings and asphalt shingles where the only frozen shit in my yard comes when I'm wandering around sleepshitting in my bare feet. That is where frozen shit belongs because this is America.

If you're still at home, you're already late for work. We're saving daylight now.

Courtesy Matt B.

Yesterday while Ang had her condo board meeting, I decided to wander over to Ax-Man in St Paul for some surplus browsing bliss. Afterward, I walked down University to Walgreens. Just as I was about to round the corner to the door, I was accosted by a small, middle-aged Asian woman. "Hello! Jesus loves you. Jesus is will light the way!" She shoved a small booklet in my hand and kept jabbering, but I just gave her a cheery "Sounds good!" and kept walking.

The booklet is produced by a Seoul-based church. Have we heard of the four spiritual laws? Aren't there like ten laws? Something something Corinthians Zeus.


Even with descriptions and labels, the diagrams in the pamphlet don't make much sense to me. I guess I'm rusty on my churchin'. Holy God watches as Sinful Man's share prices rise?

Or maybe it's a forest of tall trees. Full of drunken, sinful campers.


Now this one just seems to paint God in a mean light. Why does this diagram depict Him crushing a cross built by man?


??? If you put shit on a chair, your circles will be disorganized and different sizes. Put a cross on that chair, and the circles will turn into sperm and fly away in an orderly fashion, taking the shit with them.


Now this one makes sense. Mankind cannot rely on feeling to drive their lives. Your life must be directed by fact, fueled by faith, and pull your feelings along. Or something.


Ok, so I'm still confused. Here. I'll make it more understandable.

This was my drunken exclamation last night after swallowing the last bite of my catfish at The Strip Club in St Paul. The Strip Club, situated at 6th St East and Maria Ave, has been a frequent hangout of Ang and I since it opened in January. Usually it involves an appetizer and a couple of drinks to protect our pocketbooks, but we have indulged a few full blown meals, all of which have left us in sweaty heaps of flavor afterglow. From the succulent grass-fed beef in the Chef's Loaded Burger, to the tender apple-tinged Pork Shank for Two, I have yet to be disappointed by a meal at TSC. The same goes for their drinks. I'd rank the Bloody Mary splashed with beer and champagne among the best I've had.

I could continue to ejaculate the praises of TSC, but by now, I'm surely the 100th Twin Cities blogger to write about them. Plus I wanted to say the word "ejaculate" in a non-dirty way. But because it was me that said it, it's still dirty. So it's win-win. Ejaculate on you later, fools. Now that was dirty.

Ang and I have been trying to improve our diet lately, which entails eating out less and eating healthier food at home. Recently I've started making smaller entrees and starting us out with a salad of dark greens, sometimes with tomatoes or walnuts. This sudden up tick in roughage intake seems to have shocked my system, as my grease factor has shot up from an upset Jell-O to a furious 10W-40. Perhaps this isn't all bad because I've been long overdue for a core to door Roto-Root.

Today's morning outlay was the worst (or best?) so far, a top notch wall scraper that took away the paper and the glue behind it. First came a 2 foot long troll arm that shot out like I'd jumped on a tube of toothpaste. I had to stand to keep the tail from browning my balls. Then came the sundae topper, a gigantic, glistening, near-perfect sphere of feces the size of a bocce ball. Its structural integrity was a complete mystery to me, as it looked like something you should see melted on the sidewalk outside of an ice cream shop in August.

In the water surrounding this two-tiered wonder was a swirling vortex of what was quite clearly the undigested veins from spinach, endive, and mustard greens. It looked like a curled up hedgehog pinning down a snake in an eerie skeletal salad. The whole mass was worthy of display at the Walker Art Center. I've already received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. Expect a showing soon.

SOUTH PASADENA, California -- What the cock sucking whore? This community on the edge of Los Angeles has become a motherfucking cuss-free zone. Holy shit!

So if you're headed to South Pasadena this week, bitch, be sure to turn down the god damn volume on that fucking Snoop Dogg CD, and, if the little old cunt from Pasadena cuts off your shit in traffic, don't even think about flipping her the bird, 'cuz some serious shit be goin' down.

Not that police will slap cuffs on your wrists and haul your sorry jizz-filled ass off to jail in light of the weak-ass proclamation passed Wednesday by the City Council. But you could be shamed into better behavior by the unsettling glares of residents who take their reputation for civility seriously.

"That's one of the purposes of this," Mayor Michael "Fucklover's Pizza" Cacciotti said of his city's shit-streaked proclamation designating the first week of March as No God Damn Cussing Week. "It provides us a reminder to be more civil, to elevate the level of discourse... tampon jizz stick."

The proclamation will be in effect until Friday, and then the first week of every March here-fucking-after.

This push to stop public cussing is that it was proposed by a 14-year-old boy who doesn't have bitch tits.

"My mom and dad always taught me good morals, good values, and not cussing was one of them," said McKay "Shitty Shitty Gang Bang" Hatch, the shit salad lovin' founder of South Pasadena High School's No Cussing Club, during a recent break between study hall and ballin'.

"I've cussed before, I'm not gonna lie to you," Hatch quickly added. "But I try not to cuss any more... left handed titty fuck god damn trout pussy!"

He was in junior high school when he became fed up with all the totaly fucking assed up language around him.

He understood why his friends use foul language like fuck, shit, jizz, tit stain, snatch puddle, and ass butter: "They just want to fit in like everybody else and they don't know how. They figure if they cuss maybe it's an easy way to do that. Fuckity fuck fuck shit fuck."

For his part, Hatch hopes his No Cussing Club will lead to cuss-free zones in other cities. He believes it could be a quality-of-life issue, and that there may be less violence if people behave better.

"You have to start with the little things. Um... fuck," he said. Fuckin' A, man.

The format and wording of this article is based directly on the original AP story posted at CNN.com. With apologies to young McKay Hatch, who didn't really cuss. I said god damn!

One time Lesley came over to my crib and did a Reiki healing session on me. She told me ahead of time that it would be totally non-sexual and clothed, but when it actually was non-sexual and clothed, I was all like "What the fuck's this shit? Somebody get their shirt off!" But it's cool. So I learned all about Reiki because I totally absorb shit and stuff. It's called listening. She already taughted my ass some shit about my chakra. What happens with Reiki is that you get the rubdown whut drags yer powers to your fingers. Then you can be all like "pyoo pyoo pyoo!" and zap some fuckers in line ahead of you at the supermarket. How ya like my Reikified ass now? I don't know what Lesley did wrong. All I got was relaxed so I farted. Maybe she dragged my powers to my ass. That would explain a lot.

One particularly vivid olfactory memory I have of childhood is waking up each school day to the heavy smell of my dad's shit and cigarette smoke. The bathroom he used to get ready in the morning was across the hall from my bedroom. There, he situated himself on the toilet, puffing away on a Winston and uncoiled a smoky grump without shame, door wide open.

For as many striking similarities as I find between my late dad and me in my adult life, we clearly have never seen eye to eye on the issue of openly pooping. Sure, I talk freely and gleefully about pooping, but I want solitude when I'm milling mahogany. Unless I'm in the house by myself, even if it's just Ang and me, I close the door. We pee around each other (in the toilet while in the presence of each other, not like in a circle on the floor while the other sits there Indian style), but pooping is a different animal entirely. Pooping is a time for quiet contemplation and sometimes for struggling with your inner demons in physical, gaseous, and spiritual forms. That's Jeremy time.

Dad did eventually quit smoking, so the smoke disappeared from my mornings when I was in junior high. Eventually the shit smell was gone, too. What I wouldn't give to smell them both again.

First there was the fun loving hooker Miss Employed in Minneapolis. Now here come The Thrifty Whores, the cheapest--err, thriftiest whores in the Twin Cities.

The 1941 Hollywood-produced sex ed film Know for Sure warned of one of the day's key dangers from loose women, syphilis. DUHN DUHN DUHHNNNNN!!! I've read at least one claim that the original, uncut version of the film contained graphic footage of syphilis sores on male and female genitalia, as well as demonstrations on how to use a condom, but I have no idea where that information came from. All I know is that according to this movie, syphilis is quite droll.

The title of the film is in quotes to let us know that it is the movie saying "know for sure." To emphasize that point, the cover of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged is shown in the background.


The film opens with broad Italian stereotype Tony Madroni ruining his professionally painted store window signage by appending "& SUN" in slop wristed, childish handwriting. Someone from the crowd corrects his spelling, and though incredulous, he tops off his 'U' to make it an 'O' just as a Ghostbusters style ambulance pulls up, sirens wailing.


Tony welcomes the doctor and nurse eagerly and sends them back to the storage room where his wife is apparently going into labor on a palette of Blueberry Pop Tarts.


Tony wiles the time away by happily squeezing on a concertina. "I-a stay out-a here. I-a already a-saw my wife's-a vagina to make-a the bambino and that's-a more than enough." He then punches a hole in the brick ceiling to reveal a huge mushroom and 10 gold coins.


Soon the doctor emerges from the back of the store and nonchalantly lights up a heater. Tony's eager to hear the good news. Is it a boy? Yep, it's a boy. But he can sense the doctor's not telling him everything and presses further. The doctor, more interested in remaining in flavor country than exhibiting good bedside manner, bluntly tells the wilting papa that the baby was born dead and that it's because of Tony's syphilis. Oh snap!


"But-a doc, I no-a get it. I always-a wore the crucifix on-a my unsheathed cazzone when I-a put-a my pepperoni in all those-a ladies' pasta fazools."


Utterly distraught over the death of his child and the prospect of a lifetime of syph dick, Tony grabs a knife and makes a move to cut himself. The doctor intervenes and informs him that syphilis is curable. "That's-a nice!"


Tony realizes he should never have stuck the prices to all of his produce with his limp, oozing member.


Poor Tony. He forlornly surveys his window artwork dedicated to his late syph baby.


Evidently Tony painted the words onto the window with a mixture of mayonnaise and skim milk because several hours later, it easily wipes off with a dry rag.


Later, at the Venereal Disease Clinic...


Tony is utterly thrilled that Doctor Smokey McPuff referred him to this clinic. McPuff even comes to show his support even though he doesn't seem to work in this clinic. After shaking Tony's jacking mitt, the doctor washes his hands and throat in car battery acid.


Now McPuff goes back to visit the VD clinic's Doctor Don Shelby.

D. Shelbs orders the nurse to fetch a fresh syringe from the toaster oven.


For some reason, this guy seeking treatment for his sexually transmitted disease has no problem with a strange man in a suit sitting there and watching in pervy silence.


It is at this point that we are treated to the beginning of a recurring theme in this film -- closeups of hypodermic needles actually going into a vein. Why use special effects or camera trickery to imply insertion when you can zoom right in on the real thing. This is an important lesson learned by the porn industry around the same time.


The doctor examines his own penis to ensure he hasn't contracted syphilis from his parade of infected man whores.


Later, another young man comes in for treatment and is also given the needle closeup style.


The doctor is eager to explain the spread of syphilis, using his handy dandy chart to illustrate. "Now see here, Johnny. The darker figures are all of the women who have died since you infected them. The fat figures are pregnant, and the fat dark figures are pregnant with dead babies or are dead and pregnant with live babies who are soon to be dead. Now the green figures..."


Here the doctor and his patient reenact a scene from Sylvester Stallone's Over the Top. "Winner takes it all! 'Til he breaks the fall! In time he'll make it OVER THE TOP!!!!"


Doctor Shelby, aka Doctor Paxton, is a specialist in "men's diseases" like ball cancer and unlightable farts.


We're now treated to a montage of men engaging in risky behavior like visiting whore houses. Here the madame greets a long line of about forty men arriving for a gang bang.


"Howdy do, ma'am! Please direct me to the nearest vagina so that I may penetrate it with my heretofore undiseased male member."


Drat! Looks like sweater boy, who was holding the door open for the droves of whoremongers, got sloppy thirty-sixths. [sad, muted trumpet wah wah]


Poke! Who can get enough of needle closeups?


The end. Approved by Atlas, who is unable to shrug at the moment because he is addicted to heroin.

Moblog: I highly recomend starting your own business and opening a business bank account for the free crock pot. Welcome to the cut throat world of business.

Last summer, my workhorse of a Maytag dishwasher, the only original kitchen appliance that came with the house that I haven't replaced, finally died an excruciating death. Initially I noticed that the dishes on the bottom rack weren't getting very clean. Then one day I fired it up and came back later to find it had leaked a couple of gallons of soapy water onto my floor. I opened the door to find that the water wasn't draining. I tore down the inside of the dishwasher, cleaned all of the parts, including the filter, and ran another load. Water on the floor again. Motherfucker! I checked the drain hose -- clear as a bell.

After a couple of weeks of dicking around with it, I finally got sick of having a dishwasher full of stagnant water and poured in an entire bottle of Drano. A day later, the trapped water ripe with the stench of rotting food remained. I poured in two entire bottles of Drano, fully aware that this couldn't possibly be very good for the dishwasher, but I knew I'd rather buy a new one than pay $100, $200, or even more to fix one that was likely more than 20 years old. Unfortunately, it appeared the former option was going to be forced upon me, as the motor on the dishwasher eventually died entirely. I surmise it was from straining to push the sprayer through a tub filled with acidic water.

The old dishwasher. It suffered greatly, but it is finally out of its misery.


After removing the dishwasher, I discovered a delicious sample of the carpet which apparently had originally covered the kitchen floor. This is carpet different than the wool carpet that was in the kitchen when I moved in. Thick wool carpet trapping every particle and splash of food. Wool carpet that steam cleaning only brightened the gray by one shade. Wool carpet that was gritty with sand, salt, and dirt no matter how much I vacuumed it.

I also found an entire piece of whole wheat toast I must have accidentally dropped between the fridge and dishwasher a few years ago.


This shit is straight out of the 70's.


Aw yeah... a quarter century of dust, hair, and dropped food.


Cobwebby!


Why do I keep licking this? WHY? Ungh-nunghhhh *sob*


I've only used the new dishwasher once, but it's about a 1/10th as loud as the old one. You could barely carry on a conversation in the living room while it was running. Plus it's more energy and water efficient. I can stuff a dead hooker in it, pour in 2 tablespoons of Cascade, and after running the Pot and Pan Scrubber cycle, POOF! What dead hooker, officer?

The ABC of Sex Education for Trainables is a film made in the 1970s for the purpose of teaching those who work with higher functioning mentally disabled people, or "trainables," how to engage in frank conversation about sex. I realize this was a different era with far less progressive views for interacting with the mentally disabled, but I'm not sure how the term "trainables" could have ever been acceptable for labeling a group of human beings. It makes them sound like Lunchables -- which are fucking delicious by the way.

"Hey, Gina! You want to trade your Ritz crackers with salami and cheddar cheese for my Down Syndrome guy?"

"Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you, you insensitive prick?"

"What! What did I say? Is it a crime to like salami?"

The film opens with a girl who looks strikingly like a young Anne Meara walking down a quiet street on a cool autumn day.


Anne Meara today refuses to walk down quiet streets without George Costanza's dad by her side.


As the Anne Meara look-alike minds her own business, Ron Jeremy pulls up and starts flirting with her.


Ron Jeremy creepily plays with the girls hair, sucks his own dick, and invites her to get into the car. She compiles, presumably doomed to be molested and left naked and covered in greasy sweat and soggy Italian chest hair in a secluded cow pasture.


Now our host for this educational experience introduces himself. He is Richard Dix. It's OK to snicker once you realize that if his friends call him Dick that his name is Dick Dix. Seriously, what were this guy's parents thinking at the end of the Civil War? Just name him Cock Cox or Slitty Vagina Snatchface and get it over with.


Throughout Penis Penii's appearances on screen, the camera man insists on zooming ever closer to the study in entropy he calls a face. When your host is a hideous troll wearing a wig made of pubic hair, it's best to zoom in as tightly as possible on his chiclet teeth and angry, baggy eyes.


"Obey the Dickster!"


Next, we are taken to a group session where the narrator tells us that group leaders must get over embarrassment over slang words for sex and sex organs by immersing themselves in these words. The group leader calls for her crew of cheese-covered lunchables to give her terms they use for the penis, or human wang. "Prick!" one shouts out. "Peter! ... Cock! ... Rod! ... Dick! ... MEAT!..."


"Ding dong! ... Wand! ... " and on and on until the instructor becomes so horny that she tears off her clothing and invites the group to ejaculate on her, but instead finds herself covered in urine and chocolaty fingerprints.


When teaching sexually developing "trainables," it is vital to explain menstruation to the young women in detail. In addition, they must be shown how to use pads to absorb their menstrual flow.


This gets Roddy Hardrod hot and bothered. He stares in silence, straining for the perfect view.


Unfortunately Meaty Tubesock gets more than he bargained for when the next scene shows a young girl being forced to look at and TOUCH the instructor's used, blood-soaked pad. I AM NOT FUCKING MAKING THIS SHIT UP!


Next, a young man is lying in bed wide awake when Kurt Vonnegut arrives to ask him why he hasn't gotten up yet. The young man indicates that he's all wet and sticky. Vonnegut explains to him that he's had a wet dream, pats his penis reassuringly, then offers to regale him with tales of Dresden and time travel while he cleans the lad up.


A few scenes later, Vonnegut returns to have a frank chat about sexuality with George Burns.


When Burns attempts to light up a stogie, Vonnegut punishes him by forcing him to simulate jerking off a tiny drawing of a penis with his finger.


Now we find a young something or other clearly masturbating underneath the perceived seclusion of bedclothes.


A tight shot of the young person reveals that this is Detective Wheeler, a character who appeared on a single season of Law & Order: Criminal Intent.


Detective Wheeler quietly masturbates with the same blank, joyless stare while her partner isn't looking.


As the kid is waling away, his mother walks in on him. He sits up straight in bed, but apparently doesn't seem embarrassed about--oh, shit! This isn't a girl. It's a DUDE! Fuck, I already got all engorged under my own bedclothes. I feel... actually I feel just fine with this. [carries on]


His mother, following the course of action recommended by the narrator, calmly apologizes to the hot, womanly lad for bursting into the room without knocking. She also spends a good 10 minutes explaining to him that what he's doing is natural and thanking him for doing it in the privacy of his bedroom instead of while standing on the dinner table or during Communion. The boy continues to have the same blank expression on his face the entire time but surely is thinking to himself, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's great, bitch. I get it. Now shut your gerund hole and get the fuck out so I can finish rubbing this one out before you throw the next load of sheets into the wash. Come back in two minutes 'cuz I ain't sleepin' with a blotch of dried spooge chaffing my junk tonight."


Next we cut to a young woman doing arts and crafts in a group setting when she starts jilling off like she's trying to rub a stubborn grass stain off her clit.


The group leader, who apparently doesn't care that this chick's fingers are now all sticky with natural lube, grabs the young woman by the hand and gently reminds her that this is not appropriate behavior in public. The instructor turns around, and the girl's hand gets back to business. Again, her hand is forcibly removed from the warmth of her twitching cunny button, and the instructor gives a more stern warning about public masturbation.


"Essentially I get paid to prevent people from touching themselves. I actually went to college for this."


Following this display, we are shown a montage of naughty trainables touching themselves in public. One is arrested in front of an adult book store for spraying down the picture window and another makes his urinal neighbor very uncomfortable by giving him a one-handed back rub while giving himself a tug job. The molestee continues urinating for several minutes while leaning slightly way from his assaulter to show his mild displeasure at what is going on here.


Throughout the film, we are exposed to scene after scene of young people being forced to poke at drawings of vaginas, scream out obscene euphemisms, and get referred to as "trainables" and even "retardates." Yes, they actually called them retardates. How times have changed. These days, "trainables" live happy lives riding bicycles around duck ponds and masturbating in the restroom at Wal-Mart like everyone else. If there is a lesson to be learned from this video, it's that everyone enjoys being awash in the pleasures of an orgasm, no one should be forced to splash around in some chick's beaver blood, and if you interrupt someone masturbating, don't deliver a soliloquy from King Lear because there's a little trainable in all of us.