I was quite intrigued earlier this month when our local CBS station, WCCO, announced their plans for a local ad network for bloggers. I applied immediately, thinking to myself that I'd probably be rejected due to the typically vulgar nature of my posts. However, I was still excited about the prospect of bringing in a little extra cash. Soon after the announcement, I learned that Max Sparber had his personal blog summarily rejected by the ad network for its "risque" content and lack of Twin Cities-related posts. This came as a surprise to me, as Max's spotlights on unusual books, vinyl records, strange foods, and photo tours are frequently related to Minnesota-based authors, musicians, stores, and points of interest respectively. As for his bawdier posts, they usually consist of ribald poetry, limericks, and reviews of tawdry, sometimes exploitative films in the public domain. Max's adult humor in such posts tends toward an almost vaudevillian, wink-and-a-nod style that, while subversive, isn't what I'd consider obscene.

The next day, in a rather contentious MNspeak thread about The Rake, it was suggested that The Rake should start up its own blog ad network. Still puzzled over the seemingly unfair exclusion of Max's blog, I expressed in the thread that The Rake, given its edgier content, might be a better facilitator of a more tolerant local blog ad network. I kind of put my foot in my mouth with part of my comment, as I assumed that if they were rejecting him for inappropriate and non-local content, then surely almost every damn blog in the Twin Cities would be rejected. Jason DeRusha contacted me directly to tell me that as far as he knew, that Max's was one of only two blogs rejected by WCCO's ad network. Back in the thread, he informed me that he believed mine had been accepted. That sent Sparber off the deep end, and understandably so.

Assuming they reviewed our blogs between April 11th (the date of the WCCO announcement) and April 15th, 2008 (the date I was informed by DeRusha that my blog had been accepted), and only looked at the front page, here is a sampling of what they would have seen:

Afterglide
A Photoshopped image of the inside of a man's asshole on a Google map.

A review of a hot beef sandwich in Lakeville.

Illustrations from a childrens book with commentary containing jokes involving raspberry-flavored ejaculate, the f-word, sucking semen through a straw out of a man's rectum, a dildo made of fresh ginger, ejaculate sandwiches, and a child performing oral sex.

Obscene and/or adult content: 66%
Obscenity threat level: RED
Local content: 33%

Sparber Fans
A review of natural herb bitters.

A vinyl oddity.

A collection of bawdy verse, including at least one reference to masturbation.

A review of a book about the history of Minneapolis' skid row.

More bawdy verse, including references to necrophilia.

A collection of silly smiles mocking a goofy looking fellow on an album cover.

Bawdy verse again, this time with Ben Franklin spanking the ladies.

A review of some Jamaican cookies and information about a deli in St Anthony.

A vinyl oddity about a former Minnesota state senator and his wacky troupe.

Bawdy verse, including a Scotsman's dick winning first prize.

A photo essay about Porky's Drive-In in St Paul.

A review of a cheesy pulp female spy book.

A review of some awful spaghetti candy.

(Jesus Christ, Max, write much?)

Obscene and/or adult content: 30%
Obscenity threat level: YELLOW
Local content: 23%

Again, focusing strictly on this sampling and ratios, while I do have slightly more local content, I clearly am off the charts with inappropriate material in both volume and severity. So how on earth could my blog get accepted, while Max's did not?

There are myriad problems with the selection process for this blog network. First, as I understand it, this ad network is being run by a third party, with whom WCCO contracts. Is this third party the one evaluating blog content? How is an out-of-state employee of a company with no discernible connection to Minnesota going to properly evaluate whether content is local? Or perhaps someone over at WCCO is doing this? What are their criteria for what is "local enough." What constitutes obscenity? How much of the site are they reviewing? Only the front page? If so, for blogs that post once or even multiple times a day, how good of a content sample is a half-dozen entries?

Now here's the kicker. Yesterday I received an email telling me officially that my blog had been accepted. I told Max, which roiled his humours again, and he fired off another complaint to WCCO citing examples and comparisons, including several aforementioned posts from our blogs. It wasn't much later that I received a new email telling me that my blog had been rejected due to no "relevant matching content." One could surmise that they re-reviewed my blog, slapped their heads in horror, and yanked my approval. Did they even look at it the first time? And what is relevent matching content? Is that their murky cop out phrase used in an attempt to dissuade me from raising hell about their arbitary and unevenly applied standards like Max did?

So what is my actual complaint? It certainly isn't that I was rejected. I had expected that from the starting gate. But don't have some half-asleep intern give my blog the passive "sounds good!" seal of approval, review his work, then wake him up to come back and kick me in the heavy bag without giving me a specific reason. Tell us what you expect, evaluate all of the content thoroughly and fairly, and everyone will be a lot happier.

Before:


Extra crispy:

When you're bored in the passenger seat after a couple hours of traveling on I-35 southbound north of Minneapolis, sometimes you need to make your own billboards.

Click for larger versions.

Before:


God's handiwork would like to kill you.


Gold's handiwork will steal your soul.


Before:


Every burger is a blessing.

So a reader that I totally made up sent me the following letter:

Dear JOTF, I dig banging my girlfriend as many times as I possibly can. But she unloads the twice a day limit on me. Fuck's up with that, haas? Anyway, I'm actually writing about when I can't rail her during her period. Hey, I could be tits deep in heavy flow, and I won't complain as long as I'm also shank deep in her mitt. But she's all like, "I don't feel sexy! We'll ruin the sheets! Stop rubbing your dick on my cat!" I tell her I can ignore her period bloat, we can put down a tarp, and that her cat likes it, but bitch don't listen, son!

-I Don't Mind a Red Shaft

First off, IDMARS, your letter seems like something that I pulled out of my own ass. But I'll answer it because it's the smartest thing I've ever read in my entire life. Unfortunately, pal, I don't think you'll likely be getting any during her rag time ditty if she's not game. You can try telling her that her rack looks totally honkable or shaking your dick in her face, but chicks can be stubborn during their periods, so even those tried and true A-game tactics might not be enough. Here are a few things you can try that will not only give you some you time, but might actually convince her that letting you give your bone a burial at the Red Sea isn't the worst thing in the world.

1. Jerk off constantly - At the dinner table, while driving, while mowing the lawn, every chance you can get. You'll get your jollies, and she'll likely be so mortified at your behavior that she'll spread like raspberry jam.

2. Get things done - During times you'd normally be having the relations, check off items on your to-do list (not HER to-do list, YOURS, fool!!!). Finally finish the last few levels on the latest Grand Theft Auto game, build that diorama of the Golden Girls, and while you're at it, take that gigantic dump you've been saving up the last few days.

3. Ignore her entirely - This will drive her nuts with randy desire. Don't talk to her, or even acknowledge her existence. Chicks fucking love this shit. A couple days of this, and you'll be sure to get a lap full of Kool-Aid.

4. Imply that you will touch the kids - Now let me be clear, never ever EVER actually touch your kids inappropriately. If you do, I'll come over there and snatch away your fruit basket quicker than a table saw. But if you leave subtle hints around your wife that you might go that way if your needs aren't soon satisfied, she might rock the panty drop. Or call the cops and divorce you. Who knows. I can't be responsible for things I tell you to do if you actually do them.

Jeremy's Road Journal (with loads of penises!)

Max had the fantastic idea of buying small notebooks for all of us to entertain ourselves during the 5 hour drive to Nebraska. We played mad libs, wrote dirty haikus and limericks, and drew twisted pictures. During one gas station stop, I upped the ante by purchasing crayons.

My road journal and activity book is eco-friendly. My ass, unfortunately, spews out enough CO₂ on a daily basis to destroy 100 acres of rainforest.


A haiku:
Omaha d-bags
crammed in a black car
I wish I had flown

Followed by a chinless man car surfing on a giant spooge-spewing dick and ball sack tied to the roof of a Caprice station wagon with faux wood paneling, which is running over a hobo and overtaking a brain-damaged railroad engineer on unicycle. The symbolism needs no explanation whatsoever.


POP TARTS. More like pop farts. Oh, I am so clever!


This drawing of a spooged-on chick sitting in a corner with a cloth that has been unceremoniously whipped onto her face from out-of-frame by a pantsless cad inspired a limerick.

There once was a young woman in the corner
Who had to decide between porn or
A job at the Y
But that chafed her thighs
So what the fuck did she choose porn for?


Next we decided to do a Superbad-style collection of drawings of anthropomorphized penises.

"A Trip to the Zoo"

A family of penises, including a dad, son, and little baby penis in a stroller, gaze curiously at a caged, hairy reticulated penis. The older son has several balloons, while the baby penis only has one. He's so tiny that three balloons would most certainly carry him away!



"Baby's First Bottle"

A mother penis tenderly looks over her baby penis, who has just spit up on her testicle shoulder after his first bottle.


The limerick at the bottom of "Baby's First Bottle" was inspired by passing a pasta plant near the freeway:
There once was plant that smelled like a noodle
That drew my attention from my penis doodle
I bought a bottle of sauce
Gave my doodle a toss
Then drifted off to sleep, good night, toodles

This bib overall-wearing farmer penis is smacking his cow on the tail for some reason.
There once was a giant cock at the zoo
As well as a cow that said moo
But the cock was an ass
And the cow was aghast
But if a cock slapped your tail you'd be too


CHECK IT!!!


Bronto poop.


These guys are happy to provide a reference of scale. "Just standin' by some bronto poop. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Moblog: 9th St in Minneapolis

Alexis finally got her column on how to give a good blowjob published in vita.mn after a small bit of controversy. Alexis, your columns are almost always quite entertaining, if not informative, and while you do occasionally provide offhand examples of what not to do, I feel that I must supplement your blowjob column with detailed examples of brutally bad oral techniques. This will not only be of use to women who want to avoid poor beejetiquette but will provide some guidelines for women who actually wish to give a piss poor hummer. Perhaps this desire is out of spite, revenge, or even boredom, but this isn't my concern, as long as I'm not the subject of the substandard jock slobber.

The Sugar Scraper

Some women get a tad toothy in their fellatial technique, particularly if those teeth are snaggled in nature. While the occasional enamel-on-rod contact may hit a gentleman's reset button, it normally is something that can be ignored long enough to blast her uvula back into her spine. The sugar scraper, however, is akin to using one's top front teeth to strip mine the caramel and chocolate off of the cookie in a Twix bar. Unfortunately, when a real, live fleshy penis is involved, the analogous caramel and chocolate are replaced with layers of skin and the occasional prominent vein. The man's erection usually wilts instantly, and it is not uncommon for him to bleed to death within minutes.

The Bazooka Joe

Much like chewing absentmindedly on soft bubble gum or onion patch cud, the cock ingester gnaws viciously on the head and shaft, leaving the man's genitalia looking like someone ran a strawberry cheesecake through a wood chipper. If the recipient doesn't bleed to death, he usually shoots himself in the hypothalamus before enduring dozens of reconstructive surgeries and a lifetime of carting around a battle-scarred dick that looks like a frightened pufferfish.

The Serious Blowjob

This was conceived by Coco, who often pantomimes the act while dining in classy lounges and supper clubs. The performer of the serious blowjob has a stern look on her face, sucks on the cock like she is trying to remove the stubborn wrapper from a drinking straw at Arby's, and maintains uncomfortable, glaring eye contact with the recipient at all times, as if to say, "I see you, buddy boy. I know you're up to something, and I swear I will figure out just what that something is." The recipient likely will maintain his erection and ejaculate with some delay, but the entire experience will be quite uncomfortable, as no one likes to get the stink eye, particularly when getting their knob gobbled.

The Chastising Blowjob

Another Coco creation, the chastising blowjob is the natural extension of the serious blowjob. Unlike the serious blowjob, the blower knows exactly what shenanigans the blowee has been up to, and will stare angrily at him while wagging her finger at him. "For shame, dude who's cock I'm sucking! I know it was you who ran over the neighbor kid and drove off without saying anything. I'll continue sucking, but I am very displeased with your actions." The recipient's guilt will make it very difficult for him to maintain his erection, and it may take hours for him to ejaculate, assuming he does not break down in a tearful confession. "I did it! I admit it! Hey, I didn't say stop. Keep going!"

The Trojan Whore

The woman disrobes, gets on her knees, opens her mouth, and leans in as if to suck, but at the last millisecond, headbutts him in the peaches and absconds with his wallet. The man is left writhing in pain and concern over potential identity theft and damage to his credit rating.

Epilogue

Ladies, please keep in mind that using these techniques as a distraction for the sole purpose of engaging in criminal activity is unladylike behavior, unless -- as in the case of The Trojan Whore -- the crime is intended as punishment for the cock-bearing party. Maybe he slept with your roommate or tricked you into climbing into a cargo van for a 6-man gang bang -- frankly I don't care. Just promise me that you will use this information only for the purposes of misandric and selfish gratification.

Moblog: Douche at the Lexington in St Paul

Hey, can someone please enchant my boots of escaping? They seem to have run out of magic. Preferably this would be done by someone with some professional sorcery experience, but I'll settle for an apprentice or a moonlighting alchemist. Please, no druids or paladins though. Stick to your tree bark and flowing robes, guys. You obviously were not meant for magic. Last time one of you assfucks tried to drop a hot spell on my shit, it turns out you read it in a copy of Better Homes and Gardens and it turned my dick into a Walt Whitman style leaf of grass. And what the fuck are LEAVES of grass anyway? They're BLADES of grass, you silly transcendentalist twit!

Anyway, back to my boots. Do you like them? I think the buckles on the front and the little feathery wings coming out the heel are pretty sharp. I bought them at a buy-one-get-one-half-price sale at Foot Locker. The other pair of shoes I bought were sandals of loitering.

Midwest Yodler #1: His commentary on your book was very tongue-in-ass.

Midwest Yodler #2: Uh, you mean "tongue-in-cheek," dude.

Midwest Yodler #1: No, I'm pretty sure he had his tongue up your ass.

Midwest Yodler #2: Now that you mention it, he also scraped up my ass cheeks pretty good with his gigantic teeth.

Midwest Yodler #1: Motherfucker looks like he could bite the cock off a horse.

Inside Jeremy's head
Overheard by Jeremy's brain

Warning: this post contains a couple of mildly NSFW images of artistic and/or cartoonish boobs. So save your muffiny rub-off until you get home, butternut.

After Ang cleaned herself up from Friday night's shenanigans, we headed out on Saturday to explore some thrift and antique stores. As you can tell from my many past posts involving thrift stores, you already know that I live for this shit. The first store was more antique than thrift, but at least we got to enjoy the Donkey Party.


The basement of the store was mostly clothing. I quickly browsed the small selection of men's clothing, checked out the weird mannequins, and came across these groovy lamps. They look like 60's outer outer space-themed comic book characters. Max and I had enough of watching the ladies try on clothes (they kept doing it in the dressing room, and it was hard to see through the slats in the door), so we walked to a book store across the street.


Once the girls were done, we headed over to another store where I found this horrific Rosie O'Donnell doll, or "Rosie O'Doll." To make it worse, it talks. Even worse than that, the real Rosie O'Donnell talks, too.


Why, oh why did we not buy this velvet boobie painting?


High Steppin' and Fancy Dancin'.


We live in a colorful world.


After wandering the massive store by myself, I bumped into Ang. As I followed her into a corner room, I looked up and spied this masterpiece.


"Go forth and do the bidding of thy master, the dark lord Satan. Also, check out the bottom part of my juvenile vagina courtesy this sickeningly and inappropriately short skirt."


Sign: "Don't touch me!! I'm not THAT kind of girl! 'NO!' means 'NO!'"
Jeremy: "Surreptitious boob touch! Tune in Tokyo!"


This mannequin recoiled in fear when I waved my fist at it in a threatening manner. "You hear me, woman?"


Before we went out for dinner and drinks, we made a pit stop at Nobbie's, a party supply, costume, and novelty store of mammoth proportions. It was there that I lived out my fantasy of having 6 boobs on my head at once. I tried some sweet talking on the ride into town, but Ang, Lesley, and Coco shut me down. Strangely enough Max was ok with it though. I politely declined his offer.


C'mon, Ang, fart! Let's light this place up Statue of Liberty style!


Space man Max.


"This store is monitored 24 hours a day by a gay cowboy."


I tried to talk Max into giving his hat to the gay cowboy, but he was not pleased with this suggestion.


"Teach your child the joys of killing while their minds are still malleable."


The image of a child holding a machine gun disturbs me far, far less than the creepy look on this kid's face. I half expect him to pop out of my linen closet and ask for a hug. No, you may not have a hug, you pumpkin-headed little freak.


"On your mark! Get Wet! Throw!" for the vibrating shark.


After our boobalicious escapades, we headed over to The Homey Inn, the first and only bar I've ever been to that serves champagne on tap. You can get sweet champagne or dry. I preferred the dry. By the way, don't let me forget that I still owe Max three fins for our dinner that night. He might get pissed and burn my shoulders with his jet pack.


The bubbles tickled my penis. Ang did not. Something about not wanting to do it in front of three other people. Oh, please!


After dinner, we headed over to The Lynx Lounge, an establishment that is usually patronized primarily by African American customers, but they're welcoming to everyone who comes in the door, including people like me who are so white that you can see their heart beating through their chest when they are shirtless.


At the Lynx, I got hammered and yelled at Ang for puking in the bed and for not cutting the crusts off of my sandwich a couple of months ago.


There was a lot of photo snapping going on under the table. Someone (I swear, not me) snapped this keeper of Coco's legs.


Oh, look! Is that Max snapping photos under the table? Hmmmmm...


Ok, now you've crossed the line, bub. One more and...


Hey! I told you to stop taking pictures of my girlfriend's goods! Hold on for just a sec, would you? *honk honk* Anyway, like I was saying, you've got some nerve, buddy boy!


That evening, we met up with some of Max and Coco's old Omaha friends. Ang was a bit worse for the wear from her drinking the previous night, so she and I cut out early and were in bed by 1 am. Everyone else stumbled back to the hotel around 3.

With sadness and fondness, we left dear Omaha early Sunday afternoon and headed home with me behind the wheel the whole way. In the car, we expressed our hopes that we would find wipes for Scottish babies when we stopped for gas. Wouldn't you know, we were in luck! "Ay, I be pinchin' a penny out o' this frame, don'tcha know. Gimme a minute, and I be pinchin' a loaf."


Coming next: Robot penises, Jeremy's road journal, and creepy mannequins

Moblog: Quizno's in Lakeville

Warning: this post contains photos of hurl. 'Nuff said.

This past weekend we drove to Omaha, Nebraska with Lesley, Max, and Coco in a road trip that came together relatively quickly. Max and Coco lived in Omaha and wanted to share with us the retro wonders of this well-preserved blast from the past. From its swanky, leather-bound steak houses to its still-swinging lounges, Omaha might seem to be an oasis in a sea of the Starbuck-fucking of America (some might call that "progress"), but I would recommend visiting soon. Who knows how long Omaha can keep from being turned into a giant Costco. "Welcome to Costco. I love you."

When going on a long road trip with me, I recommend you buy me a quart of Gas Treatment. Otherwise, I will surely treat you to my gas.


In the middle of Iowa, we ran into this school bus. We all made fun of it because it's a Ford Taurus. Ha ha! How small are these schools out here? Then we got up next to it and saw that it was for a school for the blind. I felt a moment of guilt. Then I remembered these kids are blind, and that cheered me right up again for some reason.


On our second and final pee break, I entered the single stall bathroom after Max to find this neat stack of clean coffee cups on the sink. Either this is how the gas station spot drug tests their employees, or Max was making some really disturbing coffee in there.


Finally the moment arrived, and we were in Omaha. And even though it was a ratio of three girls to two guys in the car, it was clear that Omaha would be a total sausage fest.


We had one large room reserved for all of us at the Satellite Motel. Are you starting to understand what I mean by "retro" yet?


The Satellite Motel is a round building with enormous pie wedge-shaped rooms on two floors and what appears to be a single room on a third floor with a panoramic view of a car repair shop, another motel, and a bus bench.


All joking aside, the Satellite Motel was actually not too bad. Every single room wall is solid, sound-stopping concrete block, and it seemed reasonably clean. And the price for housing 5 people? A whopping $11 per person per night.


Ang approves of our accommodations.


After freshening up (having a huge orgy), we headed out to Johnny's Cafe for some Nebraska-style meatened yums.


Ang was so excited for steak that she decided to attempt one of Max and Coco's patented jumping photos. Instead she actually took off into the air and got sucked through the jet engine on a 737. Amazingly, she survived, and fluttered gently to the ground like a crumpled Wal-mart bag.


At Johnny's, you can get meat, seafood, or meat AND seafood. Slow down, god dammit! I can't decide!


I tried the bloody mary at Johnny's. It was a little thicker than I'm used to with bloodies, but it was also longer and girthier, so I was fine with it.


"None of the animals in this room were served to you tonight. - The Management"


This painting hung behind our booth. It appears to be a hunter offering a curious bib overall-clad farmer a coffee enema. I just don't understand art sometimes.


Stab!


We shared an order of onion rings, which were actually onion chunks. Hey, it all tastes the same, but I want some truth in advertising when it comes to the shape of my food.


Uh, waiter, send this back to the kitchen. You clearly have brought an Omaha Strip Steak intended for a Mr. M. Rare.


Lesley, shows us her jazz hands. I later showed the whole table my conga balls.


Speaking of balls...


In addition to my steak, I ordered a side of crab legs to make it surf and turf. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, as I got about halfway through the steak and was done. I made my way through most of the crab legs with help from Ang, but I decided to stop short of feeling like I would burst and just started putting ice cubes in the melted butter. Hey, check it out, everyone! That's what's in my arteries now!


The door to this place is crazy. Check out the detail on those animals.


We saved the tiny cows for this door. It was either that or tiny cow on a stick. Actually that sounds delicious. Somebody get on genetically engineering that shit for me! Screw in vitro meat, man!


Johnny's had many of its original menus on the wall. A prime rib meal for 2 bucks. God damn. I can't even drive my car to work on 2 bucks of gas anymore.


We were going to go out for drinks, but Max wasn't feeling terribly well, so we just hung out in the room and drank, played Buzz Word, gabbed, and snacked. Actually Max probably wishes we would have just gone to the bar and left him the fuck alone so he could rest.

Apropos of nothing, Banana Twins! I'd slide my banana between those twins any day! Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa. God, I'm predictable.


Ang drank a lot of rum and Diet Coke (to be fair, so did Lesley and Coco). I stuck to beer because I'm not a big fan of rum. Once Max fell asleep, I put a Banana Twin in his mouth.


"Is it in, yet?"


Max may have been sick, but he still whipped our asses at Buzz Word.


Coco dressed up this Pop Tarts box. Say ah!


Hours rolled by, and before we knew it, it was nearly 3 am. Soon we all settled in. I had a little trouble falling asleep, but as I finally started drifting off to sleep, Ang suddenly sat straight up in bed, and as the words "Are you OK?" came out of my mouth, a high pressure stream of vomit came out of hers. None of it hit my side of the bed, so after she ran to the bathroom and began retching in there, I rolled over and muttered an annoyed, "Jesus Christ."

As poor Ang put on her own little episode of As the Hurl Churns, I laid awake, while on the other side of the room, Coco tried mightily to stifle her laughter. Finally, she returned to bed, and we both slipped into unconsciousness.

Several hours later I awoke with the urge to pee. A flip of the bathroom light switch revealed a small part of the horror Ang had unleashed on the unsuspecting crapper. The floor in front of the toilet was smeared in vomit that had dried to a burrito shit brown. The back and sides of the toilet were awash in more chunks of steak and shame. I turned to the towel rack for a towel and discovered that the hand towel was also covered in chunky stomach contents stew. In horrified disbelief, I cried out, "For fuck sake!" But don't call David Caruso into this crime scene quite yet because I knew exactly what had happened. Ang, half-asleep and fully drunk, had kindly attempted to clean up the mess that she had made. Unfortunately without her glasses or full access to her motor skills, she succeeded only partially. I dutifully cleaned up as best I could so no one else would have to stand in it, peed, and went back to bed.

In the light of morning, the subject of Ang's vomiting escapades was inevitably discussed, and she revealed that upon entering the bathroom, she barfed onto the closed toilet seat before she could open it. We pieced things together and learned that most of us had cleaned up some of her vomit remnants at various points throughout the night. Here is a delicious sample.


Coco shocks our puked-on comforter while Ang throws the devil horns.


We fretted a little about leaving this mess, albeit somewhat cleaned up, for the family that owned and ran the hotel, but we agreed that we'd tip them when we checked out. I pictured them cleaning it up with our toothbrushes then simply rotating the comforters clockwise to another bed instead of giving us clean ones. But all was well. Perhaps Max's small pharmacy sitting out on the night stand garnered us some sympathy. "Aw, one of them has the Campbell's Chunky Flu. Let's clean this place up all nice and sparkly and leave extra clean towels." Since we had them fooled, I followed that up with a blast of glossy latex diarrhea in the dresser drawers before we checked out. I call it the Dutch Boy.

Coming up next: the robot penis challenge, champagne on tap, and notes from my road journal

American Standard, one of the nation's leading producers of toilets and other plumbing fixtures, announced the world's first waterless high-capacity toilet. The Autumnal Rumbler Classic uses an advanced gravity-driven system to carry away waste in a manner that American Standard claims uses .00001% of the energy that competing toilets require to operate. The system uses a large opening in the floor to receive waste directly into the very drain pipe that carries it away to a cavernous underground septic tank. No water is required at any time in the process.

Making the product even more environmentally friendly, the septic tank acts as an attractive home for the northern reticulated sewer owl, the slovenly port oak badger and the hibernating chamomile woodchuck.

In the spirit of MNspeak, this post is a discussion thread (perhaps a one-time experiment). Comment away. Talk amongst yourselves. You are only allowed to discuss whatever you want. As for me, I will soon be on the road to Omaha, Nebraska as we speak. I will remember you fondly.

Today is Poop for Peace Day. It is a day when all of humanity comes together in the knowledge that we all share the same experience. We all laugh, we all cry, and we all poop. So as you're pooping today, think of one world coming together to rock a rank mega-duke, holding hands (after washing them) and launching said poop into the sun in an act of unity. It doesn't matter if you're American, Chinese, Canadian, North Korean, Indian, Brazilian, white, black, brown, yellow, red, Christian, Hindu, Muslim, or Atheist. You poop. We are one in shit.

Love, Jeremy

Alright, son, I want you to take this one in the bread basket, haul ass, and cross that goal line! You get out there, and you catch that fucking ball, do you hear me? Don't stare at it as it bounces off your hands, don't flinch and drop it at the 20 yard line, and you sure as hell better not catch it and pull a loose knuckle Chucky and blame it on a greasy digit. You CATCH. THAT. BALL. God dammit, stop looking at the ground, and listen to me! I didn't raise no emo, painted-nail, muffin bouquet. I raised a boy -- no, a MAN! Now get out there and show me what I taught you! I swear to Christ if you drop that fucking ball this time, I'm going to put your ass in a vice and seal your fluttering pirate eye shut with a soldering gun! You'll be shitting through a crazy straw into a sandwich bag. If you think I -- are you CRYING? Holy Mary mother of God, you are crying. What's the matter, your tampon seeping, Sally Jessy? Here, let me dry those tears with the back of my hand. There, now you've got something to cry about, Princess Twinkle Tears. Now get out there. Oh, and don't forget your balls. You must have left them in your lunch pail.

Moblog: Done and done.

Davanni's in Burnsville.

More oddities from our visit to Unique Thrift in St Paul a couple of weeks ago. This happy little thing came with a mysterious inoperative button labeled "Re-Birth." In the belly was some sort of hatch containing a plastic ball of some sort. Despite our futile, frantic pressing of the Re-Birth button and attempts to pry open the belly hatch, we couldn't get at the secret egg ball baby. So we forced it to do dirty things instead.

A few days ago you may have wondered what I was doing with a "print" of a painting of this guy from his book. I found the book during our fateful and disgusting outing to Unique Thrift Store in St Paul last weekend. It's a children's book with simple no-cook recipes. I plan on presenting a few of them with no order whatsoever.

For example, you can make an Oregon Sandwich with ingredients including butter, tomatoes, and mayon naise. That's cool because mayon is my favorite type of naise.


Oregon sandwiches are perfect for eating while wearing mittens. But make sure you bring some pickle relish out in the woods when you're a-lumberjackin'. And put the lid back on when you're done or a squirrel will take a dump in it.


Believe it or not, this one's called a Nut Sandwich. Step 1: nut all over some bread. Step 2: eat it. See how creamy and white it is?


This one's a Kentucky Mint Julep, Jr, or as I like to call it, a Ken-fucky Pimp Julep, Jr.


More mayon-style naise and a wedge of cheese with chest hair.


What?


For the Chocolate Milk Shake, you need 3/4 cup of milk, 1 scoop of chocolate ice cream in a Chinese takeout box, and 1 tablespoon of choco-style late syrup.


For Japanese Stereotype Salad, you're encouraged to dress up like a geisha and say offensive things like "ah so." This salad includes ginger shaped like a dildo and more ginger in an Altoids box. Fuck n' suck!


For Kidney Bean Salad, you need Kidney Beans, a tomato, a hemorrhoid, some 5W-30, Vin brand Egar, and two robots from Dr Who.


Looking for the lettuce? It's in your pants pocket, you dirty slob. You will not be making me a sandwich with your filthy trouser lettuce, I can assure you of that.


This one is for -- I shit you not -- Egg Punch. It's a punch made primarily of raw eggs. This was written in the days before encouraging young children to significantly increase their risk of contracting salmonella. Strangely the recipe was accompanied by this illustration of Peter Pan shaking a jar of his own urine.


Donut Delight is best made with sugar made by a gentleman named Confec Tioners. What a weird fucking name.


This one was for a recipe called Dinner Sandwich, a triple decker mammoth so big that you'll have to measure your mouth first to make sure you can fit the sandwich and a huge cock in there at the same time. Say ahhhhhhh!


For Uruguayan Salad, you find yourself a white guy dressed up like a stereotypical "lazy" Mexican. I know it's a salad from Uruguay, but this racist asshole thinks all Latinos are Mexican.


I hate it when my yog hurts. P.S. Robots! Pyoo pyoo!


This recipe is called Xylophone Dip because they had to find something that started with 'x.' But the label seems to indicate that it was originally called O Sole Mio Dip, a creamy mess that you eat with chopsticks. Most chicks eat my creamy mess with a straw. Mmmm! Filchy!


Apple Salad includes rat-covered raisins. And seriously, what is with this guy and the fucking mayonnaise -- sorry, Mayon-style Naise? No wonder that generation grew up to be a nation of quivering hot lard.


Zodiac Treats are made with a whole loaf of bread Pea-Style Nut Butter, Marm-Style Alade, and a jar of Jak, which is raspberry-flavored wizard ejaculate. "Hey! You aren't doing something magical in there, are you?" Why, yes I am. Very magical.


I'm not sure what this chick is swooning or fainting over. The Honey Butter? The weight of the severely overcooked pancakes or giant cookies or whatever those nasty looking frisbees are? Or maybe she just spotted the size of her son's mammoth tie rod fully exposed under the table. Either way, check out the rockin' cans on this broad. I'll suck the flowers right off those milfen chemise puppets.


Grapefruit Goodness forces my to make another "style" joke. *sigh* Mara-Style Schino Cherries. God, I hate myself.


Hee hee heeeee! Honk! Honk!


Yoghurt And Fruit is not misspelled, but the spelling pisses me off nonetheless. And apparently you can use either sliced peaches or halved peaches and a tawny nutsack.


If this little bastard launches into "Margaritaville" or "Cheeseburger in Paradise," I'm going to smash that ukulele upside his jaw.


Whatcha gonna do with that banana, little girl? Yeah, you're naughty. I call it a salmon-flavored banana slit. Yeah, I meant to say slit.

I work in Lakeville, where quick lunchtime dining options are fairly limited. Once you've run the gamut of sandwich, pizza, and fast food chains, you need to break the monotony now and then with a sit-down restaurant. Babe's is on our list of such destinations. It's not terribly far from our office, but unfortunately it seems like their service is a little spotty. Sometimes it's spot on, and other times it seemed to take forever to get our food, or they screw up the orders. On one visit, they brought out completely wrong dishes for two of the three people in our party. To their credit, they were more than willing to prepare new orders (though we opted to eat what was served to us so we could get back to work), and took a good portion of those meals off of our tab.

So why do we keep going back? Honestly, the food is good, and their lunch special prices are quite reasonable. Plus, I've slowly been working my way toward trying a curiously named sandwich called the Hot Beef Commercial. Apparently this sandwich, or at least the name for it, is a Minnesota thing, though none of my Minnesota-born coworkers had heard of it. Only one of my friends was familiar with it from her days as a waitress. Basically it's a hot beef sandwich smothered in mashed potatoes and gravy. I still have no idea why it's called a Hot Beef Commercial, however. Sounds like an advertisement for a gay chat line or commercial-grade heated cow meat.

Description of a Hot Beef Commercial on the Babe's menu.


Now I figured as much, but for as unusual as the name is, the sandwich really was quite delicious. Beef, gravy, and potatoes are pretty iffy dishes for a lot of restaurants. Some joints have mashed potatoes that taste like they're made from flakes, overcooked or chewy beef, and gravy that tastes like it was made in a school cafeteria the day before. But Babe's dropped a tasty HBC on my ass. The bread was perfectly light and fluffy, but robust enough not to turn into a flat, soggy mess when soaked in gravy, which itself was thick, smooth, and flavorful. The beef was tender and moist, and the mashed potatoes were whipped to the right consistency and clearly made with real potatoes.





That, my friend, is one hot beef!


I give the $6.99 Hot Beef Commercial at Babe's a whimsical thumbs up.

First suburban Pittsburgh residents Aaron and Christine Boring sued Google for using photos of their home in Street View. Then their neighbors Janet and George McKee learned that Google's photo snapping Street View vehicle drove all the way up their driveway, practically snapping photos from their front yard. Now another neighbor, James Hawburn, has come forward after he learned that as he slept soundly in his home, Google's mapping van drove onto his private property, up his driveway, through his front door, into his master bedroom, and all the way up his ass. Hawburn has no plans to sue Google, as he says the photos showed a suspicious polyp that his doctor will be scrutinizing carefully. "Google's photo mapping of my asshole may very well have saved my life," said Hawburn.

The late chef Felipe Rojas-Lombardi is often credited as bringing the concept of tapas to America. Included in his 70s-era children's book The A-To-Z No-Cook Cookbook, was a portrait of chef Rojas-Lombardi. I thought this warm, calming portrait needed to be framed and hung in the IT Department to bring a touch of class where previously there was none.

Moblog: Green Mill in Lakeville

by Jimwise Rimsha

When you're rockin' your cock out to Dokken, sometimes the metal tickles your 'testines, and you need to drop mud. That was the case a couple weeks ago when Teddy Bryce and his girlfriend Dana came over for some tunes and meth. I cranked it up as Don D. hit his melodic stride and started grinding my teeth while I took apart my roommate's iPod with a nail file. I had just disconnected the wiring from the screen when the urge to purge hit me like a sack of batteries.

"Oh shit, I gotta shit and shit!" I'd used that line like a million times, but Teddy and Dana were rolling like I'd just dropped a Sinbad.

I wish I'd had time to revel in their laughter, but time was wasting. I jumped up out of my bean bag chair and lept to the bathroom, barely touching the floor on the way. I didn't really have to go that bad, but I hate putting these things off too long. It's like waiting until Christmas Eve to do all of your shopping. You don't have time to be thoughtful about it. I like to take thoughtful dumps. Not thoughtful like considerate but thoughtful like before you make a chess move. I like to plan out my next lean, my next grunt, and my next contraction. It's all about efficiency and commitment to quality.

Before I hopped on the can, I decided it would be funny if I weighed myself before and after so I could come back into the living room and announce how much lighter I was. Always a classic maneuver. I stepped on the digital scale, and it ticked its way up to 192 pounds. I made a mental note of this number and sat down on the can. I managed to squeeze off a couple of rounds but must have passed out because next thing I know I'm waking up slumped back on the toilet with a completely numb ass and legs. I guess I'd finally crashed after being awake for a week straight.

I wiped myself, grabbed the towel rack to pull myself onto my dead legs, and grimaced and squirmed in pain as the blood began to rush back into them. As I moved to open the door, I stumbled on my still-stiff limbs onto the scale, nearly kicking it through the wall. Then I remembered that I was going to weigh myself. It didn't seem as funny now that I was struggling just to stand upright, but I'm one who sees things through. I dragged myself onto the scale and waited for the readout to settle on a number. 201 pounds. Wait -- what? I stepped off the scale and back onto the scale. 201 pounds. "What the fuck, man?" How could I have GAINED NINE POUNDS from the time I entered the bathroom several hours ago? I remembered crapping, that much was clear in my head. And the door was still locked from the inside, so it's not like Teddy or Dana force fed me Keebler Fudge Stripes, the only food we had in the house, while I was unconscious. Plus wouldn't there be crumbs?

I composed myself as best I could and turned the doorknob. I limped back over to my beanbag chair, stepping over a passed-out Teddy and ignoring Dana, who was picking manically at a bleeding zit on her forehead. Once I plopped down into the misshapen chair with a rustle and a crunch, I rubbed at my eyes with the backs of my hands and yawned. What the hell had happened in there? Maybe it was a crazy fucking miracle, some sort of sign from God that I totally didn't understand. But wouldn't God already know that I wouldn't understand the sign and not bother to give it to me? No, I'm thinking about this way too hard. I didn't have the energy to worry a moment longer about what had happened in the bathroom. If I tried to figure out every fucked up thing that happened to me while I was high on crank, I wouldn't have time to think about anything else, like where to get more crank.

Jimwise Rimsha is a civil engineer for Dry Star Industries in Chicago, IL. Ironically, he's far from civil. In fact, he's kind of a rude douche.

The other day I took a giant [euphemism for bodily function] on this chick's [body part], and when I finished I totally [nonsensical but decipherable euphemism for physical violence] in the [random food name acting as a euphemism for a body part]. Oh [profanity] was she [predicate adjective]! In fact, she was so [same predicate adjective as previous one] that she [body contortion] and shot [plural noun] at my [body part] from her [body cavity]. It stunned my system so much that I ran to the [euphemism for bathroom] a whopping [color]-colored [euphemism for poop] the consistency of [substance] in the [euphemism for toilet]. God damn if I didn't [last name of famous abstract artist used as past tense verb] that fucking [different euphemism for toilet] with my most rollicking [different euphemism for poop] ever. Smelled like a [euphemism for homeless or transient person] drank a bottle of [household cleaner], rolled around in a pile of [noun] and [past tense verb] in a pool of his own [body fluid]. All I know is I'm never eating at [name of restaurant] ever a-fucking-gain!