Like other communities in the Twin Cities area, Eagan hasn't been immune to the spike of foreclosures. Granted, it is not nearly the epidemic that has swept north Minneapolis, but one doesn't have to look very far even in the suburbs. In fact, just a few doors down from me is one such property. The previous owners, who seemed like nice enough people based on the few conversations I had with them, apparently couldn't keep up with their mortgage. After an extended and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to sell their home to get out from under their debt, they ended up getting foreclosed on. That was well over a year ago. So far this spring, the yard on that property hasn't been mowed even once, and the grass and weeds have grown completely out of control, which is strange because the yard was maintained somewhat regularly last year.


I'm sure Ang has become sick of me commenting every time we've driven or walked by that yard the last couple of weeks, "You know, I should complain to the city about that. The bank is as responsible for maintaining their own property as anyone else. Look at this! It looks like total shit." Yesterday after the drive past the waving blades of headed-out grass evoked images of a field of spring wheat, I decided that enough was enough. I used the City of Eagan's website to verify that city code was being violated, and got the email address for their Code Enforcement department. I also searched on the Dakota County website to find that the property was owned by CitiMortgage, Inc, part of Citigroup. I knew the city would have access to the same information, but I wanted to know which bank was thoughtlessly shitting up my neighborhood.

Here is the bulk of the email I wrote to the City of Eagan.

...I'm writing to you out of concern over the property at [address removed] , a rambler at the corner of [intersection removed]. This property has not been occupied for a year or more, and it does not appear that any lawn or other maintenance has been done on the property at all so far this spring. As of this morning, the grass and weeds throughout the yard still had not been cut. Not only is this an eyesore in our neighborhood, but more importantly I fear that the appearance of an unoccupied home will be a target for thieves in search of copper piping, possibly endangering the residents of nearby homes...

I hoped reminding them of the widespread rash of copper theft of late would inject a little more urgency into the matter. I sent that email just before 9 am, and shortly after noon, a city employee responded:

"...Thank you for contacting the City of Eagan to report the condition at [address removed]. We already received a complaint regarding this property, and it is being processed by Code Tech [name removed] under case number [removed]. If no response is received within a couple days, we will contract to have the lawn cut..."

In other words, they will cut the lawn and bill CitiMortgage, Inc. I wonder if this is CitiMortgage's standard operating procedure? Instead of contracting out to have the yard regularly maintained and paying people to organize that mess for all of their properties, it's probably cheaper for them to just let the neighbors get pissed off, complain, then have the city come in to do the work for them and pay the bill (I'm also willing to bet some neighbors just give in a mow it themselves). Wait a month or two, and let the cycle repeat. Pay for about 3 mows, and the summer's over.

I'm curious to see how quickly the City of Eagan will follow through on mowing over there. Particularly since I'm looking to move next spring, I'd also like to know how quickly and thoroughly other cities and suburbs around here handle this type of situation.

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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Dear ABC's Extreme Makeover Home Edition,

For years, I have endured numerous hardships. When I was 5 years old, I slipped at the pool and fell on my ass in front of all of the other kids. Then the swimming instructor yelled at me for running around the pool. Another time I took the license plate registration tabs for all of my dad's grain trucks. Thinking they were stickers, I stuck them on the walls inside of my cardboard playhouse. He yelled at me and spanked me! Then another time my grandma got mad at me for telling her to shut up, a girl turned me down when I asked her to the prom, and I ripped my favorite Helmet shirt. I had surgery on my balls, had to wear braces on my feet for a year or two, then had surgery on my throat, and later two surgeries on my ears to fix a congenital defect in my ear drum. Then I was rubbing one out; it shot under my desk, and I never found it. I got a blister, I stubbed my toe, I got angry about traffic, and yesterday I didn't shower and smelled bad. So as you can see, you totally need to give me a new house, pay my mortgage, and drop free shit on my ass like hot donkey piss from the sky.

The sooner the better with the free shit.

Tickles and nuzzles,

-Jeremy

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

"I love you even though you're frigid."

"I love you even though you're an asshole."

Today Ronny Gunz posed a question to us: would you kill 10 puppies to cure cancer? The unanimous answer was yes. Then the stakes were raised. Would you kill 10 children to cure cancer? Matt said no way, but I didn't blink before saying yes. Weigh the lives of 10 children against the half-million Americans who die of cancer each and every year and who knows how many people worldwide. Do I get to pick the kids? For the sake of this exercise, let's say that I do not (in other words, no cherry picking of terminally ill children, likely future career criminals, etc). Ten kids die a quick death to save millions upon millions of people, including countless other children, from dying slow, painful deaths. Granted, I'd probably never sleep through the night for the rest of my life, and I'd would likely be spending those sleepless nights in a prison cell or mental ward.

If you would like to participate, I will take it a couple steps farther:

What animal species would you be willing to completely eradicate from the face of the planet in order to cure the following diseases and medical conditions? Additionally, how many human children would you be willing to snuff out? Answer on a per-disease basis.

• AIDS
• breast cancer
• lupus
• Parkinson's
• schizophrenia
• mild joint pain
• a slightly itchy testicle

Given the mandate that you must wipe the following groups of animals from the mortal coil, what disease would you want cured in exchange for their eternal and systematic obliteration? Choose one disease or condition per animal group.

• cats
• dogs
• pandas
• house flies
• plankton
• the 215 most adorable kittens ever
• a cancer boy's companion dog
• the most succulent of the land-based, meat-giving animals (cows, pigs, chickens, and turkeys)

I trust you to be truthful, but your answers will be recorded, analyzed, and sent to the FBI so they can catch you before they find half a hooker stuffed into a barrel in your rented storage unit. You fucking psycho. You already sicken me.

If ever there was a justly propagated stereotype, it is about men and their difficulties maintaining proper targeting while urinating. I like to think that I'm relatively careful, but even I have problems. I'm not talking about getting dropped off at home half in the bag, stumbling into the bathroom, and pissing into the trash can by mistake. I'm talking about day to day peeing. The very nature of the standing pee means there will be splashback. Within 24 hours of cleaning a toilet in a penis-laden household, there will be dried, yellow pee spatters on the rim. There will be pee splashed onto the floor around the toilet and the wall behind it. Even with mitigated pressure, this is unavoidable. Try pouring a glass of grape Kool-Aid from an 2 or 3 feet above the lip while standing over your brand new seersucker pants, and you'll see exactly what I mean.

Ang lives in a cozy condo in St Paul, just north of downtown. Her bathroom is comfortable, but is small enough that storage space is at a premium. This isn't at all unusual for buildings of a similar age. Unfortunately not long after we started dating, the cabinet above her toilet fell right off the wall. We discovered that the previous owner had quite obviously half-assed the installation. Not a single screw holding it up was anywhere near a stud, and it was only a matter of time before it came crashing down.

Now with even less shelf space for her makeup, hairdryer, curling iron, and other items typically found hovering a torso and head's length over a vagina each morning, Ang took to storing these items in an overnight bag next to the toilet. This immediately concerned me, given the splashy nature of the male pee. Despite my concerns, I kept quiet and simply made all the more effort to relieve myself with diligence and vigilance. But it bothered me. Each time I stepped foot in front of the toilet, I stared at that bag. That dark, red bag. Its darkened canvas would never readily reveal its regular exposure to a fine mist of pee. It was if time would slow, and I could see each minute, glistening droplet raining down into the bag and onto its contents. Then I would picture her waving these items around her face and hair, covering herself with an invisible powder of dried urine. Inhaling it. Breathing it. Digesting it. Knowing my imagination was getting the best of me yet again, I would shake off the thought (and my penis) and leave the bathroom without further concern.

As we got ready to go to bed at Ang's place the other night, I went into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and proceeded to rain down my pre-slumber liquid fury into the commode. Within moments of unclenching and reaching full flow, a sudden movement above the toilet rim caught my eye. I soon realized the toilet seat was falling back down. Shit! Instinctively, I hurriedly reached down to grab the ring so it wouldn't cross my stream. Unfortunately in the rush to reach the toilet seat in time, I lost my footing for a moment, causing a solid arc of yellow liquid to land squarely inside of Ang's overnight bag.

From the horrific bellowing coming from the bathroom, Ang immediately knew a urine-related incident had occurred.

"Alright, what happened in there?"

I hesitated for a moment, sizing up the situation. "Um... I peed in your bag next to the toilet."

"Aw shit!"

By this time, I had finished my business, flushed the toilet, and washed my hands. I opened the door to let her assess the damage for herself. Before I could say another word, she had grabbed the bag and was emptying its soggy contents into the bath tub.

Jesus! I just pissed in her bag. The least I could do was clean things up. "Oh, God. No, let me--"

"It's alright, I've got it."

I paced around in the hall for a few moments and returned to find her scrubbing the floor. Again, I offered to clean it up, but she responded, "Well, I'm already elbow deep in it anyway." She finished cleaning the floor and moved on to the spattered wall. After several minutes of furious scrubbing, she stood, apparently satisfied that the job was done. It was at that point that I noticed that a significant amount of it had sprayed into the cubby in the wall where the toilet paper roll sits. "Um..." I pointed to the cubby. She looked, sighed, scrubbed dutifully, then inspected the toilet paper roll itself to find it miraculously unscathed.

With her having completed the disgusting task of soaking up and cleaning my pee, I felt safe divulging the fact that if it had been her that had peed all over my house, she would be the one cleaning it up, not me. She laughed, so I'm not sure how serious she realized I was being. I didn't ask her to touch my pee. She volunteered. I wouldn't.

So now sitting beside Ang's toilet is a tightly zipped plastic freezer bag full of her peed-on beauty products. I still question the placement, since it doesn't solve the issue of external splashback, but at least the risk of filling the baggie with several inches of hot, steaming piss has been mitigated significantly. I only pray she doesn't find out it's been me shitting in her hamper and not her cat.

I was in high school the last time I went to ValleyFair, and about 10 the time before that. Still remembering how much I had loved the rollercoaster and those gravity-defying, breathtaking rides, I decided to get in touch with the fearless kid I once was. First stop: Power Tower, the shot upward. As I sat, buckled into my chair, my glasses sitting in a box on the ground, feet dangling free, I clung tightly to the bars surrounding my body and hoped that it wasn't going to be as frightening as I'd suspected. Within a few seconds we were flying towards the sky at over 50 mph, and as much as I tried, I could not enjoy it. In fact I hated it to the point of near-hyperventilation. We came to a stop at the top and started to float down gently when Jeremy asks me if I'm doing alright; I choked out a barely audible "no" while fighting back tears. It was that terrifying to me. Once we were safely back on the ground I began to breathe more normally.



On the ground I thought, "Of course it's that terrifying; you hate heights and you haaate the feeling of falling, why did you think that would be any different?" I had just hoped that it would be exhilarating and awesome.



We walked around a little as I shook off the experience and we spotted some folks with beers in hand. Yes. Let's get a beer, sit for a few minutes and relax. We laughed about it and agreed that if he wanted to go on the downward shot, I would happily sit on a nearby bench and enjoy the view. With most of the beer gone, we discussed what we would do next and settled on Wild Thing. You can probably see where this is going. I was certain that roller coasters were fine! You're more strapped in, you're not as far off the ground and there isn't that feeling of being totally out of control, but what I hadn't expected was the near 90 degree first drop that brought my ass off the seat. That wasn't even the worst part! No. After another 45 or so seconds of fear and loathing we went through a tunnel that was pitch black with the exception of the strobe light effect of the flash while our pictures were being snapped. I don't think I could describe my agony any better than this picture (of the picture, we're cheap) does on its own:



When Wild Thing came to a stop at the station, I bolted down the ramp and into the park. This time I wasn't able to hold back the tears, but only wipe up after them. Thankfully, it was dark and nobody witnessed this pathetic display of wussy. There would be no more rides for me tonight. As much as I had really wanted to be that kid again, it was never going to happen. To quote Erica, "It's hard getting old, isn't it?" Indeed.

Once I stopped shaking we were off walking around the park again. One of the disadvantages of visiting ValleyScare is that not all rides and attractions are operating, so our choices are limited to those with the most "scare" factor. Jeremy hadn't yet been on Renegade and with a lack of many other choices, I was left to hang out at the entrance while he waited in line and took a ride. He apparently encountered quite the character while waiting in line, but I'm sure he can tell you about that. When he emerged, about 30 minutes later, I had completely calmed down, no thanks to him, and was ready for one last attraction before going home.

Carn-Evil is really a fun house set up with zombie clowns, 3-D paint and strings hanging from the ceiling that felt like spider webs. It was good old-fashioned scary fun without fear of death and I got to honk a clown's big red nose.

On the way home we stopped by the Dairy Queen for a couple of blizzards. Despite the realization that I'll never again be that undaunted, spunky youngster who can ride roller coasters, I had a pretty good time. Maybe next spring I'll give ValleyFair another try.

The last time I went out to ValleyFair was almost exactly a year ago. October is the time of year when they turn the park into ValleyScare, a dark, misty, haunted land echoing with tortured moans and horrifying screams. Towering ogres, rattling skeletons, and the spirits of the dead and damned watch over its patrons with glowing red eyes. I've been to ValleyFair countless times, but I was so thrilled by last year's Halloween transformation that I had to return. I suggested it to Ang a couple of weeks ago, and her eyes lit up with sheer delight. "Yes, yes, YES! A thousand times yes!"



The time was set, and at long last, our evening of chills and thrills arrived. Our first stop was the Power Tower. Personally I prefer the towers that drop you, but they were only running one of them, and the line was a bit long. So we did the one that shoots you up like a bat out of my ass. As we strapped ourselves in, we could barely contain our giddy glee. The anticipation swelled and swelled, and just went it was about to become unbearable, WOOSH! We hurtled into the air at 50 miles per hour. I shrieked like a child and laughed maniacally. As we neared the top, I heard Ang nearly hyperventilating. When we were lowered to the bottom and off the ride, I tried to act reassuring, but inside I was livid. What the fuck, Ang?!? How DARE she harsh my amusement park buzz! Was she going to be a complete pantload like this all night?

We walked away from the Power Tower, and Ang seemed to get her legs back a little bit. Trying to keep the edge out of my voice, I asked her again if she was alright. As she reassured me she was alright, I noticed a beer stand. Yes! Let's get some booze in this chick's system and loosen her up a little. The beer might calm me down and make it easier to crack open her panties later. Within a few minutes, it was clear we were both far more mellow. She even agreed to ride Wild Thing with me with a bit of enthusiasm. It was looking like our fun night wasn't ruined after all! Here's a photo of how excited she was:



We finished our beers and slowly made our way to Wild Thing, stopping to gawk at all the various macabre decorations along the way. By the time we reached the roller coaster, she was smiling and laughing, seemingly back to her old self. But the ride was a disaster. She screamed, cried, and did everything short of pissing herself. God dammit! She shit-tanked my fun again! By this point I could hardly speak to her, so I just wandered off to Renegade by myself without saying much more than "I'll be back in a bit."



Renegade is a wooden coaster that just opened this year, and I hadn't ridden before, and I was damned if her sniveling and crying was going to keep me from my last chance to ride it until May. And let me tell you, it was worth every minute in line. That motherfucker was a nonstop twisting, tilting, teeth-chattering adrenaline rush!

After a run through some stupid 3D clown maze thing, we headed to DQ and had ourselves a Blizzard. At least Ang didn't burst into tears over that. I'll never go to ValleyFair with her again.

A decade ago, I was a bright-eyed (bleary-eyed), optimistic (pissed off) young lad destined for greatness (mediocrity). Back then, I ran a little website on our college web server that was -- surprise, surprise -- about shit. This was the hardcore stuff, as apparently I had a much stronger stomach in those days than I do now. People sent in stories and photos of their unloadings of various impressive shapes, viscosities, and masses, and it all had quite the following. In fact, the average daily traffic to my blog still doesn't match the traffic that crossed my humble page about shit and the shit lifestyle, or "shitstyle" as I've never, ever called it.

Probably the most interesting submission I had came from a reader who wondered if she could send me a sample of a new novelty pen she was trying to market. I had long since completely forgotten about this wonderful pen until I found it while doing a recent top-to-bottom cleaning and reorganization of my belongings. May I introduce to you, the turd pen*. If I remember correctly, her process involved paper-maché and a liberal coating of shellack or other sealant. It's functional, versatile, and guaranteed to be the pen your coworkers won't steal (unless you work with me).


Turd pen is great for writing thoughtful essays about the conflict in Darfur.

Turd pen. Buy one. Love, Jeremy.


*A rudimentary google search came up with a site selling the "Doo Doo Doodler," created by Wendy. The pen looks remarkably similar, and the name Wendy seems familiar. I suspect this is the fruit of her squeezings.

Lady and gentlecock
Photo by YanniIf you read this blog regularly, you know that I am a refined man of distinction. You also know that I am a true gentleman at heart. I care a great deal about the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex, particularly my dearest, the lovely Miss Angela. I feel it is imperative to protect proper ladies such as Angela from the more offensive reports and odors produced by the manly bottom. For this reason, fellow gentlemen, I pass along this maneuver so that you may use it with your wife, significant other, or paramour. No, it is not a sexual maneuver (please, this is a family blog!), but it is a maneuver that will be cherished and appreciated by your bed mate once they realize the suffering from which you have protected them. When you feel a particularly noxious emission of gas pressing for release from your anus, hold the sheets tight to your torso with the arm farthest from her, throw your free arm around her chest to form a tight seal with the sheets against her body, and push in such a manner as to fart. This move will protect your fragile lover from your ass vapors and could very well save your relationship.

P.S. Don't make my mistake. A few moments later, I always forget and lift the covers ever so slightly to excitedly sample my wares. This releases a potent, high velocity stream of methane straight up both of our nostrils, causing her to shriek in horror and knee me in the nuts.

Despite my many and varied disgusting personal habits involving hygiene and sexual pleasure, I pride myself in drawing a line in the sand over the activity in which I will engage in public. You will never find me caught in the beam of a cop's Mag-Lite cranking away on some butterspread ass on a primary school merry-go-round at 2 in the morning. Nor will you ever find me purposely forcing a prolonged, yet snappy fart in front of others in public. That shit is low class. And you know I'm all about the class up in this sopping 'tang rag. That isn't to say I won't fart in public at all. Sometimes you accidentally let one go, or the gas pains are so intense that you just have to shamefully and quietly slide a hissing butt whisper under the radar. And if there is a place to release the quivering shame, it is in the aisles of a Wal-Mart.

In the summer of 2002, I stopped by Wal-Mart in Eagan on the way home late one night to pick up a few things. As I wandered the aisles, I was overcome with the urgent push of a massive gas pocket roiling about my innards. Being the polite, classy motherfucker that I am, I turned my head an quickly scanned the aisle, felt assured the coast was clear, and unleashed a cacophonic trumpet blast that would have made both Dizzy Gillespie and John Cage proud. As I spun around to move to the next aisle, I nearly tripped over a small boy directly behind me. The look of terror in his saucer-like eyes told the tale. You see, this poor young lad was precisely ass high to a 6-foot Jeremy, far too short for me to see in my hasty pre-fart search for human life. I had released every cubic milliliter of my triumphant ass symphony directly in this child's face.

I took advantage of the boy's stunned, horrified silence (he likely did not dare speak, lest he accidentally inhale and taste the dissipating remnants of my vapors), and hurriedly exited the store before he could cry and run screaming to his mother. His look of shock and fear will be forever burned into my memory, but he is the one that must live with the image of my denim-clad man ass and the rush of warm, moist air flowing through his sinuses and down his throat. He will either grow up to never play in the marching band for fear of being placed next to the tuba, or he will overcome his fear by growing up to enter a twisted world of underground fartatoriums, paying strange men to pass gas his face. And as his tearful mother clutches him to her bosom each night as he cries himself toward restless slumber filled with nightmares of hurricane-force flatus burning, my eyes well with tears. Tears of uncontrolled laughter at the thought of the poor little shit who got a faceful of my thunder.

With all of the time I've been spending away from home lately, The General has been feeling lonely. Her basic needs are met, but she doesn't get a lot of mommy-kitty bonding time these days. I know it's been bothering her, not because I'm a crazy cat lady and take her to cat psychologists or animal psychics or think she speaks to me, even though I'm pretty sure she once called me a bitch, but because she has her little ways of letting me know she's unhappy.

My entire condo is hardwood floors or linoleum with the exception of a 6 sq foot area of my bedroom covered with a pink shag rug. Yeah, shut up, I like it. It's the softest rug I've ever owned and it's wonderful to put your feet on first thing in the morning instead of the cold hardwood. I'm assuming this because it hasn't exactly been cold, but I digress. It's also the most difficult thing to clean if something with oh, I don't know, chunks mixed with liquid, for instance, happens to fall onto the rug. And by fall, I mean intentionally puked on by a pissed off cat. Why do I feel she does this intentionally? She hates that rug, refuses to walk on it and if she happens to accidentally land on it during one of her late afternoon satanic possessions, she will MAUW! exactly like she does when I kick her and run full force in another direction. She does not hairball the rug randomly or often, only when I've been gone for more than a day, or if my brief stops at home aren't enough to keep her happy. Also, there are almost 700 rugless square feet she could be horking on. When I'm around, she barfs on the kitchen floor like she knows she should.

Her second act of rebellion is hairballing my fucking bed. Thank god for duvet covers that can just be tossed in the wash.

Her third, and possibly most disgusting yet, is what she did last night. When I am home alone, she will curl up on my pillow next to me when it's bedtime. As she settled in, I noticed the weird yet distinctive smell of cat urine and figured she must have been curled up in her litter box, as she does sometimes when I'm vacuuming or making a lot of noise. It's not delicious and I wish she'd stop, but it seems to soothe her. It does nothing for me. I checked her out and she didn't seem to have any body fluids stuck to her coat, so I assumed she must have just recently relieved herself. General Mauw's PooPing Palace is only about 10 feet from my bedroom, anyway. Well, what I discovered this morning was her message in the form of a giant, sticky puddle of "you should stay home more often" pee-pee in front of her Palace. Seriously, she has never, ever freed the stream on my floors before. Unfortunately, I didn't give myself enough time this morning to clean it up before work, so it'll be there in all its glory when I get home.

I suppose in some ways I totally deserve it, because I'd be pretty upset if the human I hired to pet me when (and only when) I gave a shit was paying more attention to cute boys than to me.

PETA related disclaimer: no animals were injured during my complete discomfort having to clean up hairballs and puke from an impossible-to-clean piece of fabric, nor am I gone as often as I make it out to be. Also, I don't kick her that hard. So, don't harass me about being mean to my cat or I'll make you spend a day with her.

A reader who wishes to remain anonymous sent me the following email. It has been edited to protect the reader's identity and place of work and has been posted with their permission.

Sorry to hear about your problem with ass peanuts. At my work, we have a slightly different problem. I call it "[Piss] Pond." [Piss] pond forms most frequently between January and late May as a result of urinal users... pissing all over the floor. This is caused by various things, such as reading while urinating or talking on the cell phone or simply just not paying attention. It's very disgusting. We'll also occasionally get pubes on top of the urinal, which is mystifying. How do pubes get five feet off the ground?

I hope you catch this Jimmy Carter wanna-be and punish him properly, which should include much embarrassment.

There is nothing like standing in a puddle of another man's urine (unless you're standing in a puddle comprised of the urine of multiple men). The best part is hitting dry tile as you walk back to your desk and feeling the SCHLICK SCHLICK SCHLICK of your sticky shoes peeling away from the floor with each stride.

Now that you mention it, pubes on top of the urinal are a mystery of nature almost as perplexing as ass peanuts on top of the toilet tank. One can understand how someone could shake loose a couple of stray hairs as he knocked the remnants of dew from his lily, but to get them on top is quite an accomplishment. Either the offender is about 6' 11" and wearing stilts, or he's shaking his manhood with such vigor that hair flies up in the air like a cloud of coke in Britney Spears' nursery. Perhaps urinals need hair nets hanging from the top to keep the pubes at bay. It would be like the nets they have hanging up behind home plate to keep foul balls from knocking a toddler's jaw out of joint and lodging in his nostril. Except it would be for pubes, man.

Best of luck keeping dry. Perhaps you need some of those disposable booties on your shoes like surgeons and Intel guys wear.

-Jeremy