I was looking for older photos of my house, and discovered this gem from the day I had it inspected, July 27th, 2000. The man of the house offered to let me keep his vast, proudly displayed collection of empty beer cans from around the world. I politely declined.

Just a reminder of the caption contest. I forgot to mention in the original post that the last day to enter is this coming Monday September 1st, which is Labor Day. Winner gets the "I pooped in your coffee" 15 oz mug and the two-fingered business.

God damn!

Got this email from my insurance agent today.

I want to share with you some important information about safety as an ongoing thank-you for your business and your loyalty. It's part of my hope to give you best-in-class service in every season. If you think this information is useful, please feel free to forward it to your friends and relatives: I'd be glad to provide them the same good service I give you. I hope you find these articles helpful and informative..."

So if I were a new customer or kind of disloyal, you wouldn't share important safety information with me? Well, I fucked your wife. How safe do you want me to be now?

Remember last August when a huge fucking tree fell on my house? Of the homes in the cul-de-sac, I probably had the most damage to my home overall, but my neighbor to the west was a close second. A large branch from a tree in his back yard fell onto his garage and house roof, roughing things up quite a bit. Well, it looks like last night's soaking rain softened up the soil enough that an entire tree uprooted and fell. This time it looks like it damaged his fence. I couldn't really tell if there was any damage to the garage, but I'd say he's lucky it fell at the angle it did. In fact, I'd say Ang is lucky too. If it had fallen at the right angle, it probably would have smashed up her car in my driveway. Possibly mine, too.

Hey! How is your vagina? What? I can't hear you! I said HOW IS YOUR VAGINA! God dammit, all I'm getting is static. I can't hear a single word you're saying. Are you there? Hello? Hell-oh-ohhhhh? Hey... HEY!!! HELLO? Fuck, let me call you back and see if I can get a better connection...

...Ok, you there? Motherfucker! I still can't hear you. Is the problem on my end? Maybe there's some shit in my ear piece. Let me just clean it. Hang on a sec...

Ok, I'm back. I figured out what the problem is. I apparently got my blog and my cell phone mixed up again. Sorry about that.

This lamp on craigslist raises so many questions. Why does this person have a lamp with a wang? Why did someone make a lamp with a wang in the first place? Do you think the enschlonged lamp had sex with the vagina chair?

[fart]

UPDATE September 2, 2008 12:00 am: The entry period for this contest has closed. Entries will no longer be accepted.

This illustration, which was included in this post, haunts my dreams. Nothing I write could do this drawing justice. So I leave it to you to come up with something better. I'll narrow it down to the best of the best. Winner* gets a 15 oz afterglide.com "I pooped in your coffee" mug. Send your entries to jeremy@afterglide.com. Include your name (or a screen name) to use in your caption's credits. Winner will be contacted to arrange pickup of the prize or for shipping information, at their discretion.

My caption:
Hey, Frank! Thanks for bringing my car back. Did it give you any prob--ohhh... I can see you are um... busy. Uh... yeah, I'll just go back in the house and let you finish up. Tissues are in the glove compartment. In fact, why don't you just keep the car. As a... um... token of friendship. Tell Jan I said hi.


UPDATE: Forgot to mention that the last day to enter is Monday September 1st, 2008 (Labor Day).

*Winner must be 18 years of age or older and a resident of the United States of America (prize will not be shipped outside of the USA). By entering the contest, you agree to give Afterglide Media Thingy, LLC permission to post your entry. All contest entries become the sole property of Afterglide Media Thingy, LLC. Unless it sucks so bad I give it back to you.

When one has a blog, one mustn't cling to the past. Unless you have a blog post that is arguably a runaway success. Then you dig an ice pick into its back, throw a saddle onto it, and ride it into the ground all the way to the molten core of the earth. When you post what ends up being pretty much the same thing, you hope there are just enough differences that no one notices, and that you are lauded for completely "new" and "original" comedy gold.

The manual for my 2002 Acura RSX is quite a bit different than the one for Ang's Chevy Impala. The characters inhabiting the Impala manual are tired, weary of the world, and often drunk, stoned, or both. The happy world created by Acura is filled with smiling drivers, giddy passengers, and gurgling babies such as this one, whose legs are made of Pillsbury bread sticks for some reason.


This is what you look like when you drive. A bowl-haircutted Pinnochio with a left hand made of a spatula.


In order to avoid damage to the front end of your vehicle, use caution when going down steep inclines.


Also, I wouldn't recommend this particular maneuver. Unless you're Jason Bourne running from the law with a hot lap full of Identity.


Front tires may be used to summon freemasons and forest nymphs. Except Type-R forest nymphs.


"My eyes are up here, Mister, not on my dipstick."


Tower of lightning-shooting boobies! Drive away faster!!!


Hey, Frank! Thanks for bringing my car back. Did it give you any prob--ohhh... I can see you are um... busy. Uh... yeah, I'll just go back in the house and let you finish up. Tissues are in the glove compartment. In fact, why don't you just keep the car. As a... um... token of friendship. Tell Jan I said hi.


Rub here, here, here, and especially here.


Just because state law doesn't say you can't read the paper and eat Jell-o while driving doesn't mean you should.


Nonchalant lactation trajectory scenario 7a.


Wow! Congratulations on the baby! What's that? You're not pregnant? Oh. Awkward.


Deliberate lactation trajectory scenario 14c.


"Look, Bryan. We both knew from the start that this thing wasn't going to work out. Cry all you want, but this is best for both of us. It's not like I can just shove you back in there."


Somehow this diagram doesn't seem accurate.


Much better.


"Honey, did that guy on the motorcycle just fart at us?"


Drat! The tower of boobies tracked us down again! Deflectors on full! Pyoo pyoo pyoo!!

Today, the Pioneer Press asked "When is it time to leave kids home alone?." I have several answers.

• Once they learn how to use the can opener.
• Once they are too big to crawl into the microwave anymore.
• When you've run out of vodka and need to run to the liquor store to ask if they know of any house parties where you can score some free booze.
• At least three hours before the departure time printed on your plane ticket to Cancun.
• When they tell you they're hungry, because that reminds you it's been awhile since you've had a quiet roast beef alone at Arby's.
• When you sign the closing papers on the new house.
• Kids? Oh, shit! We left that at home alone!
  

Target in Lakeville

I react to an animatronic robot suit making the rounds at the Minnesota State Fair.

A couple of people in our company have taken on the curious habit of sending out an email to all hands, informing us whenever it rains. An actual example:

Sent: Fri 8/22/2008 3:42 PM
Subject: Rain

If you got windows down, you may want to roll them up. It's raining!

Today a coworker in our group sent out the perfect smart-assed followup:

Sent: Fri 8/22/2008 4:12 PM
Subject: SUN

It's sunny out, roll 'em up!

Note: Photos forthcoming; Ang has my camera in her purse (right next to my balls)

Spurred by Max and Coco's desire to see Sharon Jones at the band shell by the Leinie's Lodge at the Minnesota State Fair, I agreed to Ang's desire to join them, Rich, Jen, Brandi, Lulu, and Loomer. This was against my better judgment, as I assumed that going to the fair on opening day would put us shoulder to shoulder and foot to dick with sweaty throngs of morbidly obese, inappropriately exposed, corn pone gawkers dragging their bacon-greased, pockmarked jaws, guts, and breasts on the sweltering pavement behind them. Typically the process involves driving to one of the free park and rides, finding it's full, going to the next one, waiting behind enough people that 3 free shuttles (these "shuttles" are actually full-sized Metro Transit busses) come and go before you can get on one. Then you stand on the bus between a farting, sweaty fat guy and a fatter mama pushing a quintuplet stroller containing exactly one child and a rattle, spend 30 minutes in line to buy a gate ticket, and then spend the rest of your time trapped between or struggling to get out of the way of electric carts struggling to pull the weight of a 600 lb women, toddlers running apeshit and unsupervised around your ankles and between your legs, and outstaters who only come into "the big city" once a year for the fair and don't seem to understand that, unlike the Piggly Wiggly populated by you, a tumbleweed, and the butcher, someone is walking a foot behind you at any given moment, and you can't just suddenly fucking stop dead in your tracks to eyefuck a pork chop on a stick.

I discovered, however, that opening night is the night to go to the State Fair. It took us 2 minutes to find a parking spot at the park and ride, we climbed directly aboard a nearly empty shuttle, and we had perhaps 2 or 3 people in front of us in the ticket line (and discovered that tickets were discounted that night). When we walked in, I was floored. While it was clearly bustling, it was practically a ghost town compared to my previous visits. This was the most laid back, stress-free trip to the fair I have ever had. And you couldn't have asked for better weather. With the exception of a few minutes of drizzle and gusty winds at the beginning of the show, the humidity was low, and the temperature and slight breeze was perfect.

Some people at the fair had more fun than others. Take the dude who was baked into the ionosphere who approached me as we sat in the benches in front of the stage, waiting for the show to begin. He had been pacing around in a tight circle to the point that other people were following his pacing trail, mocking him behind his back.

He leaned in. "Are you relaxed, man?"

Ang and I had sprawled across one of the benches saving seats for Jen and Rich, who had ventured out to get something to eat. I thought this guy was trying to start some shit about him thinking we were occupying more than our fair share of relatively prime seats. "Just waiting for the show to start."

He persisted. "Yeah, but are you RELAXED?"

"Uh..." No, because you're making me nervous, you bleary-eyed fruitcake!

He got a crazed look in his eyes and practically whispered, "Do you know what the fuck is going to happen in a few minutes?" and abruptly danced away. Yes, danced. I scanned the area for a backpack full of C-4 and nails, but didn't see anything, so I figured he didn't know what the hell he was saying any more than I did. Plus it's hard to take anyone as much of a threat when they make their exit with a little Phish-in-the-mud dance jam.

(link)

CHICAGO - A main who claims that undercooked salmon gave him a 9-foot tapeworm is suing the restaurant that served it to him. Anthony Franz says he fell ill after eating at Shaw's Crab House in 2006. He later uncoiled the disappointed parasite in a fit of agonized, ocular capillary-busting labor.

Franz is seeking $100,000 in his lawsuit, which includes having to replace all of his trousers and dress shirts after losing 15 pounds. However, this is the precise reason Lettuce Entertain You Enterprises, owner of Shaw's in addition to Big Bowl, Unflavored Rice Emporium, and Pier One Wicker Won Tons, is seeking to have the lawsuit dismissed. Lettuce Entertain You's lawyer said, "Check this dude out, man! He's looking lean and tender. Plus he shat a NINE FOOT TAPEWORM! I wonder what that felt like. Probably like shitting pretty lace ribbon. I've always wanted to try that, shitting a ribbon. I'll bet that feels pretty good. Not like the time I shit a dry kickball. Try as I might, I just couldn't get that thing to deflate."

I am pleased to announce that my entry has won the annual contest to be the painting on Minnesota's Dick Stamp. The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources will be sending me a check for $50 and coupon for 6-inch sandwich at Subway (with the purchase of another sub of equal or greater value and a 20 oz drink). Dick hunting season starts October 18th.

Just because it's hand-painted doesn't mean it's good enough to charge $75. It also doesn't mean it won't totally look like a vagina named Zuul.

Hi, my name is Jeremy. I travel the country from store to store rearranging merchandise on the shelf into configurations that suggest compromising positions. Take hand blowing half face guy and Saint Feelzgood here. TJ Maxx paid me a lot of money to put these guys into this arrangement. Or actually I paid a lot of money to get out of jail when they called the cops when I refused to leave the store then wandered into the bedding aisle and wazzed onto a beaded throw pillow.

Several weeks ago, much to my chagrin, Ang ran out of toilet paper at her place. To me, this situation is inconceivable. Toilet paper is like food (though I wouldn't recommend you eat it, particularly that which has already been used) in that it is a staple of life itself. Actually let me clarify -- toilet paper is a staple of civilized life. Without toilet paper, we are left to spin jagged, dry pine cones about in our sphincters or scrub ourselves madly with pages ripped from the Russian bride section of the Sears catalog circa 1928. At least catalog pages were absorbent and non-glossy back then. If you actually still received the Sears catalog, you might as well be pawing at your muddy crack with a cellophane wrapper off a Werther's from grandpa's candy bowl. Surely this would lead to a breakdown of what few wispy tendrils of reason remain clinging to our shriveling orbitofrontal cortexes. So here we are, peering down from the crumbling edge of sanity without a shred of shit tissue to be found.

Of course, because my intestines are constantly listening, just waiting for that chance to leap into overdrive at the most inopportune time, as soon as I realized we had almost made our way through the last roll of toilet paper, I was immediately seized with the Vulcan nerve pinch squeezing 10 feet of my intestines into a wad of dirty meat the size of a pecan. I couldn't waste time running down the street looking for sweet, sweet absorbent phone books. I had to unburden my bucking mule and fast. I ran to the bathroom, jumping over Ang, the cat, and a bag lady with a shopping cart, dropped my shorts, and pushed out a thick, sputtering cloud of rank hunter green pea soup, ham chunks and all. It all happened so fast that by the time I finished, it was 2 hours earlier. But now it was time for the recovery effort. "Ang! Can you bring me the roll of paper towel?" Surprisingly, it only took a few sheets and 8 flushes, but my ass was now Bounty clean.

The next day, I arrived at Ang's place, took a leak, and found that she had not yet purchased any toilet paper. I was perplexed. In the two hours between the time she gets home, and I arrive after work, surely she could have bought some toilet paper, right? No. She forgot. HOW CAN YOU FORGET TOILET PAPER?!? You use it to clean nasty shit from your ass! To make matters worse, of course, I had to shit. With just a couple sheets of paper towel left, I had little choice but to take the risk and sat down for the blowout. Fortunately it was far more rigid of a dump than the previous day's leavings, but it soon became clear that the two sheets of paper towel weren't going to cut it. I would have to hop in the shower and do a manual extraction. Once I was finished, had washed my hands with battery acid and an acetylene torch, and dried myself off, I knew that I would have to take matters into my own hands. And I wasn't talking about my freshly expelled fecal matter.

Over lunch the following day, one of my coworkers wanted to stop at a convenience store to pick up a couple of things on the way back to work, so I thought it would be a good opportunity to pick up some ass wipe. I expected to walk out with a forty dollar 4-pack of Charmin, but all they had were single, individually wrapped rolls for sale. I figured one would be enough to get us by until we made a supermarket run, so I plunked down my cash for some shit smear, a bag of peanut M&Ms, and a Diet Pepsi, and we headed back to work. Not surprisingly, that night I opened the toilet paper to find it was the equivalent of wax butcher paper with sand and glitter glued to it. And it was so thin you had to unfurl about 20 feet of paper to get the equivalent of a single sheet of name brand paper. Yet the roll never seemed to get smaller. Days passed, and we bought a huge family pack of toilet paper, but the roll of awful gas station toilet paper just stayed the same size. At my house we went through roll after roll, week after week, but the stubborn roll gas station toilet paper at Ang's WOULD NOT DIE! Eventually I took to wasting it on purpose. I used it to towel off after showers, made a pair of pants out of it, and used some to replace the cat's food for a few days. It shrank by maybe a couple of millimeters in diameter. Finally, almost a month after I purchased gas station toilet paper, today the last sheet was torn from the cardboard tube. We rejoiced and spent the afternoon rubbing ourselves with single sheets of Charmin as thick as a fire blanket.

As long and as daunting as the nightmare roll of toilet paper was, we learned an important lesson in economy this past month. Yes, we have been trying our mightiest to be far more cautious with our money lately, and yes, this was a step too far in thrift. But it's good to know that if we ever fall on hard times, we can buy 6 months worth of toilet paper for $2 at the gas station. And with all of that cheap, greasy food we'd be eating, we'd probably need every sheet. I wonder if truck stop restroom condoms are as good of a deal?

Since it appears that no blogger in this town will take on the topic of ingesting of odd food, I guess I'm going to have to do it my cockslinging self. Last week I quite randomly stumbled across the website of Güd Füd, maker of chocolate and fruit jelly-filled marshmallow snacks. I decided to order their free sampler (you pay a couple dollars for shipping and handling).

My treats arrived in the mail yesterday, but I was rather busy, so I put them aside and didn't try them until today. Given the Asian text on the package and the Las Vegas address, I'm not sure if this is a creation of this company, or if they just purchased the rights to import them. According to the package, they are manufactured in China, so who knows. I couldn't help but delight in the whimsical illustrations of anthropomorphized marshmallows with their soft craniums being penetrated by various food objects.





The marshmallows are actually somewhat flat discs, not the cylindrical ones you're probably accustomed to. Here the chocolate marshmallow is either crying in pain from having a Hershey Bar jammed into his skull, or is giving you a knowing wink. Or he's having a knowing stroke.


The grape jelly-filled marshmallow man apparently has a convenient green handle on his cranial hemorrhoids for easy removal.


"Ha ha! Ha ha haaa! Stop it! Hee hee! Stop it! My brain. Hee hee... oh... ooh... blrrrmm... gurgle..."


Wink! You've been jabbed in the salad with a strawberry shank!


Ripping into the chocolate-flavored marshmallow treat. The marshmallow itself was what you would expect. It tasted kind of chocolaty I guess, but it definitely had an artificial flavor.


The grape marshmallow. Not bad, not bad. Kind of like eating a marshmallow filled with Smuckers.


May I show you my purple slit?


Strawberry. Let's see. Oh, this has a nice flav-AH HAAA!!! Marshmallow vagina! I'm saving this one for later. I'll be in the bathroom.

I think this kitchen remodeling project is finally getting to me. When I woke up this morning, Ang farted, and I answered the sprayer on the new faucet I installed last night. Leave a wet message at the toot.

This seems like the trendy thing to do on the internet google webs today, so here is Manga Jeremy.

Dear employer, enclosed please find a bank check in the amount of $272.15 to cover the cost of my excessive use of company-provided toilet paper on Tuesday. Additionally, within 3 business days, you should expect to receive a bank check delivered by certified mail in the amount of $1,007.85 to cover related overtime for cleaning crew labor, cracked ceramic tiles around the toilet, a shattered light fixture, stained carpeting and drywall in the hallway, pockmarked and speckled ceiling panels, and a disintegrated toilet flange. Oh, and a replacement polo shirt for one of the VPs. Tell him I'm sorry about those stains, but curry sometimes doesn't agree with me.

Yours with the love,

Jeremy

At what age is it appropriate to give a child a cell phone? Not a simple GPS kid-tracking phone with a "Call Mommy" and "Man Bad Touchy" button, but a full fledged phone replete with ring tones, text message service, and the tantalizing option to be a bluetooth douchebag. There is a young girl (I'd peg her at about 10 or 11) from a few doors down who rides her bike around the neighborhood invariably jabbering on her phone or texting, yes TEXTING while riding her bicycle. With no helmet, mind you.

First, why does a child this age need a cell phone? Maybe she needs to post to her Bratz blog or Tweet about her training bra riding up when she hits a pothole. Or maybe she's stuck in 2004 and is trying to organize a flash mob.

Secondly, where are her parents? Forget for a second the fact that they clearly aren't requiring her to wear a helmet while biking, and let's focus on their cell phone training skills. As a parent, if for whatever reason, it really was crucial that you give your child a cell phone, would you not instruct them -- nay FORBID them -- from using it while in motion on their bicycle? Considering this girl frequents the stretch of pavement right in front of her own house, I'd guess her parents are too busy watching television and/or completely not giving a shit about their child endangering herself on the daily. They fit right in with the family next door to them who continued to allow their kindergarten age children to play in the street unsupervised even after a UPS truck almost ran one of them over.

Ang fucking hates this girl, and I can't say I blame her. Ang once encountered her riding directly toward her in the middle of the street, yakking away on the phone, and had to come to a complete stop in order to avoid running her over. The girl continued by, looked right at Ang and sneered, "FUCK YOU!" Fine, bitch. Next time you get run over. I can't wait for that news story. "Child of worthless parents, who probably talk on the phone while driving and pay as little attention to the road as they do their children, run over by big-ass Chevy. Child learned behavior and shitty attitude from their parents and is now dead. Darwin vindicated."

Since it doesn't show up in the "posted by" section of my posts because of my blue hot dog/pink taco customization, I wanted to call attention to the fact that my comments will now appear with my real name (and nickname), Jeremy "King Skidz" Gibbens so you don't wonder, "Who the fuck is that?" I've never really hidden my real name; you can find it in the credits of some of my videos and links to my blog. I just felt weird about the whole pseudonym thing. Plus I own a lot of guns, so I'm not worried. Guns don't kill people; I do. Usually with suffocation though. With a Fruit Roll-Up. And nasty gas. Horrid, horrid gas. Quite stinky. Yep... Sure thing... What's that? We have another 60 seconds? Um... how about a recap of the weather, Sven? Oh, he left. Wanna see a magic trick?

Look here, motherfucker. I don't expect you did a lot of shopping around before you answered our "massage" ad, so don't come in here all pissed our girls ain't tight like an Isotoner. Where else are you going to get services like the Greek Toaster, Snake Bite Blowjob, and the Ice Cold Karl for the price of a dumpster juice tug and run? Nowhere! You just got your mallow marshed for $14.99, and you're demanding your money back? Get the fuck out of my 500 square foot fake Bloomingdale's prostitution front in a strip mall and never come back. And I'm spreading the word to every provider in town. Next time you want your mayo scraped, you can save yourself the effort and go behind the rib shack for a self-service dry rub with a potato peeling glove.

I can think of multiple reasons why I would not purchase this downtown Minneapolis resident's microwave.



So is this a specialized microwave specifically for sharts? Does eating anything you cook in it cause you to immediately brown your trousers? Or is this a microwave for cooking your sharts? Which would raise the question of why you would microwave your shart. Most importantly, did you clean it thoroughly with boric acid and a cluster bomb before you posted it for sale? I guess it doesn't matter. I prefer sharting in my convection oven anyway.

On second thought, would you take $15?

Caribou Coffee near I-35 and 185th St in Lakeville. Oh, and the answer is actually Vitamin BIZ (or B₁₂ if you're a stickler, which is much easier than writing C₆₃H₈₈CoN₁₄O₁₄P).

Tonight we had a fucking hilariously fantastic time with Muscleyarm at The Strip Club in St Paul. We all agreed that we wished we could go on forever and ever and end in a metaphysical merging of our beings. But alas, it is a Tuesday, and we all have shit to do in the morning, like work, recover from drinking, work, poop in a bucket of Ultra Pure White Behr paint at Home Depot, and quietly seal it shut, so on and so forth. But for now, we need to be satisfied in the knowledge that we will make the brain love sometime in the future. I also hope there will be booze and meat there. Seasoned meat without a hint of ass hair. I fucking hate seasoned ass hair meat.

The kitchen remodeling project continues. I had new countertops delivered last week, but before I could install them, I had to rip out all of the drywall behind the counters. Why? Because the previous owners covered the wall with mortar and grout and tacked on shitty fake plastic bricks. While I was at it, I decided to up the insulation level a little (it gets cold behind those cabinets in the winter) by dropping in some fire retardant expanding foam. Luckily this stuff is easy to cut once it's dry because I got a little carried away in the corner.

When possible, practical, and above all, safe, I like to help people. However, we live in unfortunate times where people prey on our sympathies to score a quick buck, a drink, a fix, or whatever their ulterior motive may be. Now, that being said, I will agree that not all people asking for a handout are grifters, drunks, or drug addicts. But the seedier folks have pretty much fucked it up for everyone else. With few exceptions, my policy is to never give a handout to someone on the street. I give money to reputable charitable organizations whose missions involve helping the less fortunate. I don't appreciate being handed a line about "my car broke down, and I need bus fare." But if a guy walked up to me on the street and said, "Hey, dude, I'm trying to get drunk. Help me out with a couple bucks?" That truthful motherfucker might just get a five-spot in his hand if I've got it because his honesty would be refreshing.

This morning as I exited Ang's building to leave for work, before I had completely closed the front door behind me, a morbidly obese woman in her 40s or 50s (hell, she might have been a haggard 30 for all I know) waved me down and hollered at me from across the street, "Excuse me, are you driving?" As she asked the question, she was already crossing the street toward me.

Shit, I had a pretty good idea where this was going, but I answered truthfully, if not curtly, "Yep."

She weezed from her 20 foot walk, "My car broke down, and I'm kind of stuck. Could I get a ride? It's just over on Earl Street."

Um, hell to the fuck no! Like I'm going to let some strange, smelly bitch into my car to stab me and rape me in the ass with a bent meat thermometer. Plus I was in a hurry to get to work. I had a lot of preparations ahead of me for a 12:30 meeting and couldn't afford to take time out to play public transit to just anyone who walked up and asked. Never breaking my stride, I replied, "Sorry, ma'am, but I need to get to work."

Well, she didn't like that response at all and was visibly agitated, but she pressed on. "Well, can I get a couple dollars for the bus, I just--"

"I don't have any cash, sorry." (I actually didn't have cash, not that I would have given her any)

Well, clearly I didn't understand the gravity of her situation (never was there an explanation of why she so desperately needed to get to Earl Street), and she grew more agitated and barked, "Well, Earl Street is just a little bit that way," pointing farther down 6th Street.

I knew full well where Earl Street is; it's about a mile down the road and would only take 2 minutes to get there. But that was completely beside the point, and I was really getting annoyed with this pushy, sweaty land cow. "I know where it is, and that's the exact opposite direction I'm going. I need to leave for work now."

She realized she wasn't going to get anywhere with me, and continued on her way acting incredibly incensed that I wouldn't help her out by letting an unkempt stranger into my car to sweat all over my leather and bust up my shocks or give her money for the same sob story, true or not, that a thousand panhandlers use every day. As I got into my car, she flagged down an older maroon Buick that had just pulled up to the 4-way stop, headed toward Mounds (helpful vagrancy tip -- try flagging down cars that aren't headed in the exact opposite direction you're going). It took about 3 seconds for the dude to drive away, leaving her in the crosswalk with steam pouring out of her ears at the nerve of these people.