More from webcam Wednesday

More from Wednesday's kinky four-way webcam chat.

Wet and reckless

I recently learned of a portion of the California Vehicle Code, 23103.5, which leaves open the possibility, given the agreement of the prosecution, for a person charged with a DUI to plead to a lesser charge of alcohol-related reckless driving, regardless of whether there was actually reckless driving involved. This charge is known as "Wet and Reckless," or "Wet Reckless."

Let it sink in. Wet and reckless.

"Wet and Reckless in California! The hottest babes party on the beach by day and climb onto our party bus to eat each other out on film by night. All the wet and reckless action you can handle and more! Call now and get our free bonus DVD, Tits, Tits, and More Tits: All Up In Your Face and Partially Up In Your Ass."

--

"Dear Playboy Advisor, my boyfriend wants me to reach over and rub his taint while he drops a wet reckless on my pubic mound. First, I'm not sure what a wet reckless is. Second, will I need special shampoo to clean that out of my landing strip?"

--

Calleigh Duquesne: "Horatio, I'm glad you got out here so fast. Our vic somehow managed to ride a jet ski down the hotel pool's water slide and crashed full speed into the concrete wall. I'm thinking this is an accident, open and shut."

Horatio Caine: "Tell me... Ms... Duqeusne... if this... was an accident... why... is his ankle handcuffed... to the exhaust?"

Calleigh Duquesne: "You're right. And whoever did it left behind a torn piece of wetsuit and a finger print."

Horatio Caine: "Then it looks like we... are looking for someone who is... wet and reckless."

Roger Daltrey: "YAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Launch code

Moblog: KARE11 Metromix launch party at The Independent

Shitty computer code angers me

Sometimes I run across code that former employees or contractors left behind years ago and realize why they are former employees or contractors. Sometimes I'm pissed off enough to leave a comment on their shit-brained logic in the software's source code for all those to follow (proprietary information blanked out).

"Alright, this friggin ------ vs ----- code crap is all over the place like a water weenie covered in baby oil. Screw this. I'm not spending another minute deciphering this Escher painting. I'm querying right up front whether or not this is a damn ----- or ----- and superceding the convoluted three-ring circus happening below. Signing off, Angry Jeremy is angry."

I later explained my solution in an email to my boss:

"...It's tiptoeing through the donkey crap with sandwich bags on your feet instead of cleaning up the crap, but your mom is buried in the crap and you might stab her with the shovel if you try to clean it. Worst analogy ever."

Webcam weirdos

Go over to Ang's blog for some snapshots from our webcam chat with puppets, people, monkeys, two-headed ducklings, and dongs (no dong photos there since hers is a my-parents-read-this-and-I-care-what-they-think-of-me blog).

And I find myself apologizing once again for my lack of attention to this blog lately. Our social lives have been frenetic the last few days, and I also am neck deep in a kitchen renovation (or remodel, whatever you want to call it) project. In the last couple of days, I have:

-Replaced the regular electrical outlet in the bathroom with a GFI outlet. It's recommended for safety reasons and will be one less strike against me during an inspection once I put my house on the market next year.

-Masturbated in the basement with enough voracity to cause stress lesions on my shaft and taintal areas.

-Replaced my 70s-era, craptastic dining room chandelier with a fancy ceiling fan light with a thermostatic remote control.

-Wrote my name in poop on the neighbors drive way. With my neighbor's own poop.

-Removed all 18 cabinet doors from the kitchen cabinets and removed all of the handles, hinges, and strike plates. All of the cabinets, doors, and drawers will be painted, and all of the hardware (handles, hinges, etc) will be replaced. I then plan to replace the slides for all of the drawers so they open and close more easily. This is a pain in the ass, but it's much cheaper than replacing all of the cabinets, and hopefully it will be a better return on investment when I sell. After that, I'm applying the same cabinet treatment to the built-in china hutch, taking down the chicken weather vane wallpaper, and painting the dated-looking wainscoting. After that, I want to do something with the counter tops, but that will probably be a fall or winter project.

Gary "Lo-Tide" Westin has updated his bio picture

Thanks for sending in the new pic, Gary! We look forward to putting next to many, many guest blog posts to come.

P.S. Looks like you've lost a little weight, buddy.

BBQ review with Lo-Tide

by Gary "Lo-Tide" Westin

Howdy do again, folks. I've always said we can learn ourselves a thing or two from the Swedes. Those fellas have got things figured out. Take their meatballs for example. You find me a tastier meatball than a Swedish meatball, and I'll wash your feet in a tub of mustard. Yessir, those Swedes are pretty darn smart. I should know. I married one.

Another thing the Swedes have figured out is how to get a whole set of living room furniture into a box the size of a legal pad. 'Least that's what I saw when I went to Ikea for the first time with my wife the other day. She wanted to get her a table she saw on the internet that had flowers all over it. She thought that would look alright in the living room with her good electric meat grinder on it. We like to stuff wild rice pork sausage in there while we're watching Law & Order. So anyway it took us 4 hours to find the table, but as we were admiring a leather couch that had come out of a macaroon box, we heard an announcement on the intercom letting everyone know that the restaurant had a half-rack of BBQ beef ribs, macaroni and cheese, and a hunk of corn bread for $6.99. And for another $3.99, you could make it a whole rack of ribs. Well gosh darn, son! I was hungry (it had been at least 3 hours since we'd eaten at Old Country Buffet), and that sounded like a deal to me.

Turns out that the Swedes have figured out BBQ, as well. Now I've had both beef and pork ribs from Wyoming to Louisiana, and let me tell you, no one has ever come close to my dear mom's ribs. All you boys down in Kansas City could learn a thing or two from Ikea and their Swedish chefs. None of that mesquite, smoky flavor. None of those crazy spices like paprika or cayenne. No sopping, tangy meat, melting in your mouth. Just oven-baked cow ribs covered in ketchup, vinegar, salt, and pepper just like my mom made. And just like anything else worth getting in life, I had to work like a son of a gun with my fork and pocket knife (the butter knife literally wasn't cutting it) to get that meat off the bone. Normally I'd gnaw it straight off there with my choppers, but the little woman was worried everybody would be looking at us. Well, shoot! I'm not a bean pole ballerina, son. You can see me even when you're turned away. But I don't like getting the wife riled up, so I ate like a fancy Frenchman with silverware and my pants buttoned. But let me tell you, folks. For a hopper full of Ikea ribs, it was worth it.

If you insist

Moblog: The best part was explaining to the Ikea sales woman who asked why I was taking the photo. The conversation ended with me saying, "I'm sorry I soiled your innocence."

What the fucking fuck???

God dammit! I think I just got stung by a wasp or some shit. Oooohh. Owie, owie, owie. Look at it. It's all swollen and purple. It's also throbbing and sensitive. And it appears to be leaking pus. No, wait. I just have an erection. False alarm everyone. I just wish I hadn't doused it in iodine.

Boom Boom the Assassin

God Sees

The next 24 hours are crucial to me. Timing is important to God. SOMETHING VERY WONDERFUL IS COMING TO ME.


They have given me this opportunity first, then it must go to the home of another dear friend who needs a blessing.



You can see how important this is because they've used a red pen to underline this important message, because it's important. THE DESIRES OF MY HEART DEPEND ON MY ACTION.



They believe that me, or someone connected to with this address, and another dear family are about to be blessed through this "unusual, Bible Faith, Church, Prayer Rug," which they are placing in my care for the next 24 important hours.



I must take the prayer rug they have loaned me to a quiet place where I can be myself, and I must kneel on the rug, or place it over my knees. I MUST HAVE BOTH KNEES TOUCHING IT. Good thing I have two knees.

Then I must place it in a bible, unless I don't have a bible, then I must place it under my bed on my side, for just tonight. If I can't do that, that's okay, too. I must only leave it there for TONIGHT. If I leave it there longer, God will see. God sees. It's what he does. I bet he saw everything the night we broke the bed. The pervert.

The next morning, I must get this Prayer Rug OUT OF MY HOUSE and back to the 57 year old church that loaned it to me so they can forward it along to the next family. Good blessings will happen. I mustn't break this flow of power between the 57 year old church that loaned this to me, and me. I mustn't fail.



PROOF! PROOF OF THE BLESSINGS! Or a really good credit score, and income to debt ratio.



They want me to select the blessings, or area in need of blessings, that I desire. God's love comes ala carte.



It is the next morning! I'm grateful for the reminder; I drank so much last night I wasn't sure how long I had been asleep.



The Unusual, Bible Faith, Church, Prayer Rug! AT LAST! It's beautiful. I am compelled to touch both of my knees to it.



Yes, yes. To both knees, I know. I will not keep it!



They do have some doubts about me, though, so they have included a little insurance. If I don't intend on using and returning the prayer rug then I SHOULD NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OPEN THIS LETTER. It is a sacred prophecy and must be destroyed, unopened and unread because it concerns me and my future! I am only privy to my future if I sit kneel on God's face.



Naturally, I intend on utilizing the prayer rug because I really, really need money. It is my understanding that religion is the best way to obtain copious amounts of material belongings. So, what good things are in store for me in the future, God?

The power to speak blessings into my own life is in me. If only I knew what this meant! AH! God, you're so cryptic in your sacred, spiritual prophecies that come in the US Mail.

I may feel inner power growing because of my closeness to God. HEY OH!

He has so much joy planned for me as long as I remain faithful. Whoa, whoa, whoa. We haven't yet talked about exclusivity, God. I told you I wanted to see other people. Please don't be clingy, it's so unattractive.

THANK GOD THAT THIS ANNOINTED PRAYER RUG IS BACK IN THE MAIL, ON ITS WAY TO THIS 57 YEAR OLD CHURCH, SO WE CAN SEND IT ON THE ANOTHER DEAR SOUL. WE THANK YOU, AMEN.

You are welcome, Saint Michael's. Or Matthew's. I always yell out the wrong name!

Jeremy On the Fucking: Favorites, Followups, and Post-Coital Manners

Ang from St Paul writes:

What is your favorite color?

Sincerely,
Your fucking fuck buddy

Ang, when it comes to fucking, I don't play racial favorites. True, my girlfriend, who happens to be you, is caucasion, but I don't draw the line at only fucking white chicks. I like African-American snatch, Asian cooter, Hispanic gash, and any other type of panty slit you can think of. In fact, I would still be rod-docking all of these types of women if I was not in a relationship with you... and you hadn't caught me with that group of African-American, Asian, and Hispanic girls when you came home from your business trip. To summarize, I like the poon.

Chelsea from Minneapolis writes:

How did you break the bed? I mean, was it standing, jumping, role playing, a donkey?

Chelsea, it was just straight out, American-style fucking. Where American = cowgirl. Granted the structural stability of the bed had been previously compromised a few months ago in an unrelated incident, but this vigorous episode was the final straw for the poor bed frame. The good news is that Miss Ang has decided to buy a round bed from Ikea. I have not-at-all-jokingly told her that I'm going to build a motorized platform for it that will turn the bed slowly while I bang her drum quickly.

--

Today I also wanted to tell a story of a couple of friends who I want to applaud for their honesty. They were running late for a small gathering at the home of some mutual friends. When they arrived they explained that they were late because they had been boning. That is not only an acceptable reason for being late, it is a strongly encouraged reason for being late. Unless you are Ang, and it is me who is waiting for you somewhere. "Sorry, I was late, Jeremy. I was getting plowed like a field of harvested sorghum." HEY!!! Not cool, Ang. Not cool, at all. Next time you show up for the matinée at 4:30 pm sharp.

We poop each other redux (the circle of life)

Is it a baby pooping a cat pooping a baby pooping a cat pooping a baby etc, or is it a cat pooping a baby pooping a cat pooping a baby pooping a cat etc? Where does it begin? Where does it end? What if God pooped out mankind, and mankind pooped out God? We are each other's poop, therefore we need each other to exist. Hug your fellow man, and you are hugging your own turd. Hug your own turd, and you are hugging your fellow man. This may seem like a logical nightmare, but all you need to remember is that neither the baby nor the cat exist. And neither do you.

We poop each other

"Peek-a-boo"


"Is this fucking kid shitting a KITTEN?!?"


"MMMMMRrrroooowwwrrrrrrr! He bit me on the way out!"


In the beginning, a cat shat forth a baby who shat forth a kitten who shat forth a rainbow. On the second day cat-shitting-baby-shitting-kitten-shitting-rainbow rested.

WCCO reporter denies there is a war in Iraq, moon in sky

Those wacky WCCO personalities are at it again. First, meteorologist Mike Fairbourne dared to ask hard questions about the true impact of humans on global warming, now Jason DeRusha insists that humans evolved from apes. Apes, DeRusha? You silly, television word saying guy! I'd splash you with holy water, but I fear it would leave a burn scar on your forehead. You wouldn't be so teevee purty no more, college boy.

FoR BoAT SALE...

Ang and I went for a walk down the street and around the corner tonight for some delicious Vietnamese food at Classic Sai Gon near Rahn Road and Cedar Grove Parkway here in Eagan. If you're ever in the area, give it a try. The food is tasty, the prices are reasonable, and the service is always friendly. It's been a few years since I've been there, and frankly I don't know why it's been so long. I suppose my suburbanite brain is hard-wired to believe that everything must be driven to, so I often forget that I have a surprising number of dining options within walking and biking distance from my house. Not including the handful of gas stations I can walk to (you never know when you might want to deep throat a gas station pickle in a bag).

On the way back, I spotted this sign in a yard. What the hell is going on here? FOR BOAT SALE MOTOR TRAIL. Then the tiny (blurred out) phone number written twice, one of them at a 45 degree angle. Word to the wise, when trying to sell a car, boat, house, piano, whatever, write or print the sign in LARGE, legible letters so that people in cars passing by at 30 or 40 miles per hour can actually read it. Do not do what this guy did and write your sign by dipping a strand of spaghetti in ink and whipping it at a sheet of ink jet paper from across the room.

Google is disturbed by me

I was reviewing my google search referrals for today and noticed one for the phrase "jew and improved," which led someone to this post from a couple months back. I was curious where my link ranked, so I ran the search myself. Lo and behold, my site is the first link returned. But above the search results, was the curious assertion, "We're disturbed about these results as well."



For a moment, I was flattered. "Google thinks I'm offensive! Nee haw! I've finally made it, Conan!" Then I realized it was because the search had the word "Jew" in it. As Google explains in the link next to their message, "Jew" is frequently used in an anti-Semitic, Mel Gibson-ish fashion. It's hard to argue with that, but I find Google editorializing its search results a rather interesting move.

I was also curious if they showed a similar message for patently offensive, pejorative terms used to describe people of various races and religious backgrounds. You know the words I'm talking about, so I'm not going to reprint them here. Oddly enough, not a single one came back with a similar message. Maybe because people using those search terms already expect disturbing results?

"Homo-nice-al" terrorists attack St Paul Farmers Market

In a startling and devastating mid-morning Sunday attack, 5 giddy men armed with bouquets of flowers and smiley face balloons, burst out of the back of an ice cream truck and lit up the lives of 57 people.

"It was just awful," said Martha Rahntz of Inver Grove Heights. "One minute my husband and I are buying tomatoes, and the next minute we have daisies and tiger lilies pushed into our hands and are hugged by these... lunatics."

The men, whose race and national origin we are not reporting because they aren't white, and if we tell you, some jerk off will totally think we're racist, emptied 12 full bouquets and 15 balloons into the crowd. Even children weren't spared from the horror. One of the terrorists was spotted painting sparkly rainbows and unicorns onto the cheeks of several small children.

St Paul police officers were on the scene less than 3 minutes after the first emergency call to 911, but they refused to take the smiling, friendly men into custody. "Uh... I'm not sure I see what the problem is," one unidentified officer was heard to comment. He was then hugged by one of the men and was handed an ice cream sandwich.

St Paul Farmers Market organizers say it will be open this weekend, however all sellers and customers will be required to pass through a series of balloon and mirth detectors.

Jeremy On the Fucking: Extra Points For Breaking the Bed

This week I won't be answering a question because none of you fuckers ever send me your fucking questions to fucking@afterglide.com!!! Instead, I'd like to address a topic of concern to me because it happened to me recently. I'm talking about breaking the bed while fucking. Now if you're thinking, "Oh, Jeremy, you're just writing this blog post with no other purpose than to brag about the fact that you broke the bed while fucking," I say, you are correct. This is proof positive that my cock wields the power of a thousand suns. And I wield my cock recklessly. One time I burned a chick's ovaries out then blasted her through the hot water heater when I came. Another time I used it to melt through a blast door when members of the Trade Federation tried to kill Obi-Wan Kenobi and me on their command vessel. I also use it to kill crickets.

Anyway, start sending me questions, or all of my future posts will be about stuff that I burn with my dick. Not including all the chicks I gave the weeping snatch pustules in the 90s.

Fixin' up the house

I've been doing a lot of work around the house lately. Since we cleaned everything up, I replaced the light fixtures by the front door and either side of the garage door, replaced the rotting mailbox post with a brand spanking new cedar post, and made preparations to replace my long-dead water softener with a whole house water filter. Yes, that's a bit of a downgrade, but fuck if I'm spending another $800 (or whatever it would cost these days) to replace the one I had put in 8 years ago when all I want is to remove the minerals and shit that are hard on my pipes and appliances.

In addition to those improvements, I've also made some security upgrades. I hope you like them.

July, 2000


May, 2008

Drinkin' and shootin', shootin' and drinkin'

This is a new and improved version of this photo that Ang, Coco, Max, and I took on a whim last night at my house. Trailer house photo in the background courtesy of Flickr user dbjorn.

DATE BAGS!!

Moblog: "do it, the bag."

Caribou Coffee, Kenrick Avenue, Lakeville

You've been manbabied, DeRusha

This was too good, in my humble opinion, to limit to this MNspeak thread.

DeRusha, consider yourself manbabied.




Original photo here.

Hey-fuckin-ohhhhhh!

Ronny Gunz: [referencing this post] Your penis has expired.

Me: I tried to renew it online, but they wouldn't let me.

Ronny Gunz: Why not?

Me: It said my penis was invalid.

Ronny Gunz: Well, maybe you can request an extension.

Me: Hey-ohhhhhhhhh!

[exchange of high fives]

Turn your muffins of sadness into biscuits of joy

Sometimes all it takes to sell a turd sandwich to a waif who just finished gorging on lasagna is the right word or phrase. This is precisely why you need to run out and buy Words That Sell by Richard Bayan. Basically it's a brief primer on writing to sell products and services, followed by categorized chapters of synonyms and phrases proven to catch the potential buyer's attention. I don't want to short Mr. Bayan any royalties, so I won't give the whole book away, but I'd like to cite a few examples from a few chapters if I may.

Teasers

• Free!
• Claim your free ______ (e.g. Claim your free cock!)
• Dated material
• A _____ has been reserved in your name (e.g. A cock has been reserved in your name)
• An urgent message for ______ (e.g. An urgent message for dicks)
• Your ______ is about to expire (e.g. Your penis is about to expire)

Opening With a Challenge

• _______ like a professional.
• _______ like an expert.
• _______ like a millionaire.

For example, one could combine the these three: Fuck like a professional; suck like an expert; ride a bicycle like a millionaire.

Convenient

• _____ from anywhere in your house. (e.g. Shit from anywhere in your house)
• automates your ____ (e.g. automates your shit)
• the ____ you need, whenever you need it (e.g. the shit you need, whenever you need it)
• Isn't it time you treated yourself to (e.g. Isn't it time you treated yourself to a heroin enema?)

Good-looking

• luminous
• perfect
• fetching
• killer _____ (e.g. killer funbags)

Money-making

• ____ your way to wealth! (e.g. Fuck your way to wealth!)
• Turn your ____ into gold! (e.g. Turn your shit into gold!)

Sexy

• sassy
• lean
• swaying
• shamelessly _______ (e.g. shamelessly exhausted)
• sinfully ______ (e.g. a sinfully balanced checking account)

Small / Less

• _____ in your pocket (e.g. shit in your pocket)
• slips easily into your _____ (e.g. slips easily into your ass)
• won't crowd your _____ (e.g. won't crowd your balls)

The Call To Action

• _____ is just a phone call away (e.g. A tranny hooker is just a phone call away)
• Ask your ______ dealer. (e.g. Ask your meth dealer)

Obviously I couldn't help but have some fun with the mad lib style examples in the book, but with these lists, as well as a section about commonly misspelled words and another with distillations of bloated phrasing, this book could serve as a handy desktop reference. Even if you aren't trying to sell a shit sandwich to a satiated supermodel.

Max and Jeremy Go For a Ride

Best birthday ever

Saturday was my 32nd birthday, and I hereby declare that it was the best birthday party and the best birthday overall that I have ever had. We partied until nearly 5:30 am at Maison d'Afterglide (ok, well I curled up on the living room floor and fell asleep near the front door somewhere around 4 or 4:30 am). And never has there been so much implied (and actual) female toplessness in my home. At least not all at once. I'm not joking.

There are photos. So many photos. But alas, you cannot see most of them. I'm serious. It was that kind of awesome party. I'm so glad Ang and I had the foresight to take Monday off. I'm still recovering a little. That's why I'm going to be lazy and simply link to my Flickr set.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the game with the plastic cup vaginas, I'll post the full details on that later, too.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.

Crying while...

Join Lulu, Max, Eda Cherry, Amber, Ang, and I as we explore the emotional depths of doing some shit while you cry. Thank you, folks, for your contributions to this important piece of film art. It surely will be the most important film since that one where 50 dudes wazz all over a chick's gigantic fake cans.

Babies. Stone cold babies.

Meet the babies.

Baby orgy!


Uh oh, looks like we've got a breakout couple from the main group.


Lick that ass.


That is so hot. Ride that tight ass!


Caught peepin'.


Man, these babies get freaky. Nothing like a mouth full of balls.

Black babies are discount babies

In the early morning hours, over my lunch break, and after work on Thursday, I drove all over the south metro's craft stores, toy stores, and dollar stores looking for bags of babies. Plastic babies, that is. I wanted to find small, inexpensive plastic babies in bulk. This is related to a (hopefully) fun activity that will be occurring on my 32nd birthday, which is tomorrow. At the excellent suggestion of an employee at Toys R Us in Burnsville, I stopped at a party supply store after work.

Luckily there is a Party America store in Eagan about 10 minutes from my house. I searched nearly every aisle and came up empty. I was about ready to leave, when I spotted the baby shower section. As I entered the aisle, I immediately spotted little bags full of tiny inch-tall plastic babies. Perfect!! Better yet, they were very reasonably priced. On one hook, there were bags of little white babies, and on the hook below it were little black babies. Sweet! I definitely wanted some of both. I grabbed a few bags of white babies, and as I bent down farther to retrieve the black babies, I noticed there was a sticker over the price indicating that the black babies were on clearance. "Hey, folks. So nobody wants these black babies, so we're going to cut the price by 30%" Uhhhmmm... thanks, I guess?

I proceeded to the front to check out, and the blond cashier warned me, "Just so you know, since these [holding up a bag of black babies] are clearance items, you can't return them. You can return these [holds up white babies] though." I indicated that was fine, paid for my purchase, and walked out the door, pondering the social implications of saving $5 because some racist motherfuckers weren't willing to take in helpless little black babies stuffed into a plastic bag.

Hide a schlong

As you know, I'm quite the artist. That is one of the many reasons why I was quite excited when I found the Penis Camouflage site. The theme I was given was "Escape," and I created a masterpiece titled "Escape from the house of horror." Click on the link, then click on the "reveal" button below the picture. I hope you enjoy spanking to it as much as I did creating it.

Photos are fucked

You may have noticed that photos and other images aren't always displaying properly this afternoon. I host most of my images on Picasa, which appears to be having some major difficulties at the moment. I keep telling them to lick my balls, but I'm not getting a response. You get what you (don't) pay for.

FIXED! Stuff your cod with that, momma's boy!

Omaha: the prequel

Prior to leaving for Omaha from my house, Max asked if he could use my bathroom. As he walked toward the hallway, an object fell from his jacket pocket and hit the floor with a loud thud. I recognized it immediately. "Oh, you've got boob cream!" I exclaimed. Apparently he had planned on slipping it into my medicine cabinet for me to find upon returning from the trip. It would have been a delightful prank, but alas, it was spoiled by gravity. He really did have to use the bathroom though (or so he claimed), so he continued on his way. Before leaving, I made one last pit stop and found something slightly amiss. For a moment, I couldn't put my finger on it.


Wait, what is that on the shelf above the toilet?


What the fuck? Crystal Gayle and Jeff Foxworthy circa Charles in Charge? The poor guy. He is gazing at her with the truest, most heartfelt love, and she can hardly stand to breathe the same air as him. The forced not-quite-a-smile, not-quite-a-frown look on her face says, "God, stop breathing on me. You smell like hot tuna melt and piss. I only tolerate you because I all of the girls are jealous that I date the guy with the foxy polo shirts. Well, let me tell you, pal, if they knew what was under that polo shirt and down those pants, they wouldn't be jealous of shit."


And he still went through with the Breast Friend cream. I suppose he figured why let it go to waste. I won't go into detail, but I can tell you that my penis skin is much more smooth and supple now.

Where every night is ladies night

Moblog: Ace Hardware off Cty Rd 50 in Lakeville.

Foreclosures hit the Twin Cities blogging community hard

Our nation's faltering economy isn't only impacting modest, hardworking folk, it's cutting a huge swath across the local blogging community, as well. Many bloggers, struggling to make payments on questionable mortgages with skyrocketing adjustable rates, have logged into their blog admin pages to find their administrative account password has been changed and a foreclosure notice taped onto the login screen.


Map of blog foreclosures in northeast Minneapolis in 2007. Source: Star TribuneIn 2007, there were 532 blogs foreclosures in Minneapolis alone. So far in the first half of 2008, there have been over 550. A large percentage of those foreclosures were a result of homeowners struggling to make huge payments on blog loans, better known as blortgages, with skyrocketing adjustable rates. Experts consider many of these individuals to be victims of predatory lending practices by unscrupulous blortgage firms who went to great lengths to hide the true terms of the loans from borrowers.

Cynthia Odegaard, former operator of the locally-focused food blog Morsels Melting in My Mouth in Minneapolis, lost her website to the bank when she could no longer make her loan payments. "I feel like such a fool, " said Odegaard from her modern condominium overlooking Lake Calhoun. "I wanted to make some improvements [to my blog] -- get my own domain name, put in some hardwood backgrounds and granite headers, that sort of stuff. I had all this equity built up, and the way [blog] values were skyrocketing, I thought it would be an investment in my future."


In late 2007, Cynthia Odegaard arrived at her blog to find this foreclosure notice.Six months after paying nearly $27 in fees for a $150 blog equity loan, Odegaard's full-time job as a senior marketing executive began taking up more of her day, leaving her less time to blog. Her readership dropped by half, and so did her ad revenue. "My Google AdWords panels weren't bringing in enough for my loan payments anymore." Odegaard kept up with the payments for another several months, but when her loan rate increased by 3%, she started missing payments. "I had to make a choice. I could have Starbucks 5 times a week instead of 6, or I could keep my blog." She chose Starbucks.

In February, Morsels melting in My Mouth in Minneapolis was auctioned off by Cynthia Odegaard's bank. The winning bid was submitted by a Little Canada family who later converted it into a Christian-oriented knitting blog called Needle Little Faith. "I surfed by it the other day," sad Odegaard, tears running down her cheeks. "It was like landing on an alien planet. It just didn't seem like anything that was ever mine." Asked if she will ever own her own blog again, she replied, "I don't see that happening anytime in the near future. It's more than financial, it's emotional." She is currently searching for a rental blog.

Jeremy On the Fucking: By the Boot Straps of Zeus

An actual reader sent in our first actual question! At least I think it's a question.

What the fuck, fucker? Who the fuck do you think you're fucking with? I will fucking fuck you up. Don't fucking let me see your fucking face again, fuckstick, or I will stick my fucking boot so far up your fucking ass that you'll fucking be shitting fucking shoe leather.

-Max via IM

Max, your question was quite obviously formed with great care and concern, so I went to equally great effortook great care to formulate a response commensurate with your thoughtfulness. I will tell you exactly what the fuck. The fuck is that the whole system is fundamentally flawed. The working man is increasingly struggling to make ends meet. Food prices are going up, fuel prices are going up, and people are losing their homes due to unscrupulous lending practices. That is the motherfucking fuck if there ever was a fuck to be fucked.

As for who I think I'm fucking with, I can tell you precisely. I've been fucking with my girlfriend quite a bit lately. I enjoy it very much, though it sometimes doesn't happen as frequently as I'd like. Sometimes life gets busy, you get home drunk, you have to work early the next day, or you just fall asleep on the couch. Other times, she's working out a bowl of crimson egg drop soup, and it just isn't going to happen. Other than that, a couple prostitute hookers, most of them women, come into the mix. One is a tranny with a "7.5 to 8.2-inch surprise." Well now that you've told me about it, it really isn't a surprise anymore, is it? And why give me a range? You don't know how long your "surprise" is? I don't believe that for a second. You measure it every chance you get, don't you. If you're giving me a range, I'm going to assume it's about 85% of the length of the lower value in the range. So let's just be honest and call it a 6.375-inch surprise. Or a 6.375-inch special guest. Yes, let's call it a special guest.

I would, however, appreciate it very much if we could avoid this culminating into you fucking me up in some manner. Whether it be fucking me up in terms of physically assaulting me or fucking me up one of my bodily orifices, let's just lay down our arms (or in this case, our special guests), and be friends. Non-fucking, non-fighting friends. Bosom buddies, really. And of course that means that we would be friends in Christ.

Now my fucking face -- when have you seen my face fucking? Oh, don't get me wrong. I like to get all down in there and rock a quality waggle from time to time, but I don't know that I would call that fucking. I think we should call it a tender lovemaking face. Or if we want to be technical, an awkward yodeling face. Either way, I can pretty much guarantee you'll never seem my face while it's fucking, making love, or yodeling, but I can't guarantee you won't see it enjoying other activities like conveying incredulity, grinding pulled pork, or appreciating an oak-laden fart.

And let us not forget your final point, the insertion of your fucking boot into my fucking ass. If this fucking boot is a boot you frequently use for said fucking, then I assume that it is pretty crusty with a lot of people's leavings at this point. Or do you sit down for a shoe shine at the airport from time to time? And I can see how you could fuck an ass with a fucking boot, but I must admit that I can't conceive of how a fucking ass would work. I can picture fucking an ass, but I can't picture fucking with an ass. Is this like fucking a big old sasquatch chick in her cavernous lady cave with it, or are you stretching out a normal-sized woman such that she looks like an oversized pencil topper? Fitting the whole ass in there would be an amazing feat, and I think you could get a lot of people to pay to see that on the internet. But not me. I'd prefer to draw it or express it in song, preferably something to the tune of Barry Manilow's "Mandy" or something from the Starship Troopers soundtrack. Remember that scene in that movie that had the big bugs? That was fucking awesome, dude!

Send your fucking questions about fucking to fucking@afterglide.com.

EIGHT BELLES IM SORRY

http://youtube.com/watch?v=V5UV6ZhM47A&feature=related

Oh. My. God. An actual Yugo.

Moblog: I was telling a story about boobs when we were all distracted by this Yugo. That is just how awesome a Yugo is.

Dumpster-rama

Project Make Shit Go 'Way Now is actually in its final stages. I can't believe it. We did it, people. It's like we sent a down syndrome kid to the moon or some shit. We're proud of you, little buddy! God's handiwork, you are. Go with His love, friend. Go with His love. *sniffle*

As we started cleaning out the garage, it soon became apparent that I had no fucking clue just how much useless junk I had accumulated in the 8 years I've lived in this house. Making things worse, I found caches of junk stowed away by the previous owner in the garage rafters and nether regions of the basement. Now I'm going to prove to you just how much shit there was. Keep in mind that I've already thrown or given away a couple hundred, if not more gallons of junk up to this point. This is end game. Time to get a dumpster.

Not even fucking around this time.


Rubbish, I say! Pure rubbish!


This is nothing. By the end of the day, we had this thing completely full.


This was left in the basement by the previous owner. It is gold-flecked, mirrored tile. When I moved into the house, this shit covered the dining room wall. I wish I had the forethought to take a photo back then.


Looks great with giant blush brushes in plastic water jugs and even better with a hanging macramé plant holder.


Three out of three turtleneck wearing users of Crest agree -- gold-flecked, mirrored tile is the fucking shit rocket.


Fleck my world with gold.


The best part of the whole process is busting this shit up in the dumpster. I already had the pleasure of smashing some gaudy lamps and window panes in there, so I let Ang have the fun this time around.