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.

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!

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

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

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

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

A review of a hot beef sandwich in Lakeville.

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

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

Sparber Fans
A review of natural herb bitters.

A vinyl oddity.

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

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

More bawdy verse, including references to necrophilia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A review of a cheesy pulp female spy book.

A review of some awful spaghetti candy.

(Jesus Christ, Max, write much?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

I think Ass Peanut Man was someone who left the company recently, as I haven't seen peanut nor ass hair of any magnitude worthy of mention since he left. But a rotating cast of diet-challenged characters continues to parade across the warped stage of stall two with startling frequency and proficiency. In fact, I believe we have added a new character, who I call Pumpkin Pie Ass. Every few days or so, Pumpkin Pie Ass will splash down what appears to be a bushel of pumpkin pie filling sprinkled with a healthy dose of nutmeg. It's as though he stepped up on to the seat holding a couple of pumpkin pies fresh out of the oven, raised his arms high and straight above his head, and released the pies into the commode. The result is a bowl spattered up to the rim and beyond with a thick, glistening coat of harvest ochre, the sight of which would spur Martha Stewart to drop in a pine cone and a handful of toasted pecans and deem it worthy of a blue ribbon at the state fair.

Dear family members and friends, please stop emailing me video files. Seriously, is this fucking 1996? And not just little video files but 10 and 20 megabytes worth of long-dead chimpanzees peeing on Big Wheel-riding toddlers who have since graduated from law school. HA HAAAA -- stop it! If a video file is sent to you as an attachment, I guaran-fucking-tee you that it's been circulating around the internet for a decade or more. Ever heard of a little thing called YouTube? I'll bet you can find that video there or on any of the myriad video sharing sites created in recent years. But either way, don't send it to me. Mom, this includes you (even though you will likely never read this since you vowed long ago never to return to my blog after deeming it "just awful").

I would like to publicly thank Northwest Airlines for the email they just sent me that did not contain their holiday greetings to me, but directed me to a link where I could find their holiday greetings to me. This is the kind of warm, heartfelt connection with the customer that so many companies have let fall to the wayside. Now that I know Northwest Airlines cares so much about me, I will surely have a happier holiday and a more prosperous 2008. Thanks, Northwest! You could have thanked me by not having shitty customer service, unpalatable, unhealthy, and overpriced in-flight meals, or the worst on-time flight record in the industry, but you sent me a link to a flash file. Bra-fucking-sarcastic-va!

Ronny stood on my desk to wipe while I was in Vegas. I returned to work today to find my keyboard covered with ass peanuts the size of clown cars. NOOOOooooo...!!!!

Earlier tonight I received the following message on Flickr:

Hey there-
We noticed today while looking at the excellent photos from
yesterday's Zombie Pub Crawl that you've tagged about what
seems like 50 photos with "zombiepubcrawl2007" that are
really nothing more than photos of a plate of nachos and a
stuffed dog with fake blood splashed all over it. I mean
sure, throw a pic or 2 of your "zombie dog" on there, but
there are seriously a dozen pics of nachos in the photo
pool and it's just a little annoying to have to click
through them when we're trying to look at pictures of sweet
zombies. Can you take the zombiepubcrawl2007 tag off all
the pics of the nachos, Miller Lite cans, and your ugly
zombie dog? People looking for pics of freaky zombies
don't give a shit about that stuff, to be perfectly honest.
It really gets in the way to have to look at a dozen
closeups of greasy nachos.

Thanks,
Everybody else looking at the zombie pub crawl pics

I responded to her polite request with the following uncharacteristically reserved message:

[Name removed], I removed those photos from the zpc photo group, but I'm not removing the tag. Next time say please.

I had uploaded the whole set of photos and assigned that tag, among others, to them en masse. On the one hand, I can see her point about the nachos and beer can photos -- which added up to maybe a dozen photos -- not really being ZPC related, which is why I removed them from the ZPC group (I hadn't intended to add them there in the first place). However, has sending a stranger an alternately sarcastic and snide email ever accomplished anything? Well, perhaps it has, but not with me. You don't like it? Tough shit. I will add whatever tags to whichever the fuck photos I wish. In fact, I think I'll upload some photos of my spread open ass, a Midol, and a toothbrush holder full of Kalamata olives and tag them zombiepubcrawl2007, as well. Welcome to flavor country. Population: suck my dick.

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.

I probably will not have too many exciting work related bathroom stories to tell, as I avoid the public restrooms here like the black plague for many of the reasons Jeremy has already written about in beautifully disgusting detail. No, I don't use the trash can under my cube desk, we have a single unit unisex bathroom on each floor and I will absolutely not go unless it's in one of those. Mostly, it is to keep people from starting conversations with me or having to listen to two women babble on and on and on instead of leaving, like they should have 15 minutes ago. Also, pooping in front of people is hard. (heh) Besides, the world has enough Superheroes fighting Poop Crimes right now.

[...]

It was at this point during my typing that I took a quick, yet unexpectedly interesting bathroom break. The very single stall unit I feel so lucky to have has been tarnished, tainted, abused and I'm afraid I'll never feel the same about it. Here I thought that as disgusting as human beings can be, it's sure nice that I've never had to deal with it at my office. Perhaps the cleaning crew gets to the bathroom before I do, or perhaps the creepy, stainless steel "prison bathroom" feel of it kept people away. Whatever it was, I was thankful to have my fortress of clean solitude. As of this afternoon, that has been violated with our own ass peanut culprit. There are no theatrics involved here as they were resting peacefully on the floor and not shoved into the tampon dispenser or climbing the walls. However, they were not alone. Joined by a couple pieces of corn (yeah. no, seriously) and what looks like a chunk of pizza crust, these two delightful last shreds of someone's dignity stared me down as I entered to take care of my business. (aka, the BBQ burger I had for lunch.) Unlike Jeremy, I will not be investigating to find out who is responsible, but like Jeremy, I have shared some pictures with you. If I can't share my life, what good is it?

This was the first little guy that caught my attention. It truly is corn.


Bringing it in for a close up. You can almost smell it, can't you?


Just in case you weren't sure what everything is, I've been kind enough to show you.


Before that happened, I was going to tell you why I hate elevators.

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

Yesterday I received a very important bulletin from our reporter in the field, Ronny Gunz. If you have followed one or both of our blogs, then you are likely familiar with our ongoing struggles with determining the identity, motivations, and potential medical conditions of a phantom sprinkler of ass peanuts in our workplace. Ronny has apparently caught him red-handed. He directly spotted this person exiting the stall, then went in to drop an even prime of his own. He found the toilet seat littered with ass hair and peanuts.

I'm done washing my hands after I shit or piss. No one else does it, so what's the point? Why bother to scrub my hands raw up to the armpits with hot, soapy water each and every time I use the can? I'm just going to end up touching door handles, parking meters, hand rails, and elevator buttons that thousands of other jerkoffs have touched after having their digits separated from raw feces by a millimeter of wet, disintegrating toilet paper. That should be plenty of barrier between me and disease-ridden, poisonous shit that I squeezed out of my colon, right? Soap and water? I say fucketh thee vigorously! Now let's grab a big ol' handful Doritos from the communal bag.

I make fix. Yes. You enjoy.

My comment links are messed up due to some changes I made to my template. Just hold tight. I will try to get them fixed when I have time later.

UPDATE: You can still post comments by clicking an individual post title (if you aren't already on the post page), then scrolling down to click "Post a comment"

You caught me, Gunz. I hold my pee in the bathroom when other people are in there. But don't take advantage of that, man. That's just mean. You know why I do it. Certainly you can identify. You walk into the bathroom, and someone is deucing in the stall. You start pissing, and right then, the stall dweller obviously finishes his business. You hear the familiar rustling of wiping, pants being pulled up, a belt buckling, and a zipper being returned to its upright and locked position. Someone is about to walk out of that stall. God dammit. Who the fuck is this in there? Am I going to get stuck talking at the sink with that hyperhappy, overly friendly douchebag I want to sock in the throat with a sturdy brick of depression? God, I hope not.

You pinch your stream, slowing it to a trickle. C'mon, douchebag, fucking hurry up in there! You going to use up half the roll or what? You realize you don't have enough juice to outlast this guy, so you clamp down and stop your stream entirely. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! I want to get out of here, man! Finally he emerges from the stall, but you can't look to see who it is. Turning and accidentally making eye contact while your dick is in your hands is bad protocol. That shit'll get you punched in the kidney in some circles.

He dawdles at the sink, apparently scrubbing his hands up to his shoulders. And what's he doing now? Is he... HE'S WIPING DOWN THE FUCKING SINK!! DUDE! Come the fuck ON! Hurry up!!! Finally you can't wait any longer. You risk looking like you are just standing there quietly holding your penis, so you let the last drops dribble out and flush. You cautiously emerge to find Ronny Gunz, shiteating grin on his face, trying to out wait you to see just how long you'll stand there without peeing. You're an ass, Ronny.

Dear guy on the phone within earshot of me,

Please discontinue the following practices during phone conversations:

-Alternating between calling a woman "miss" and "ma'am" in the same conversation. She's either married, or she isn't. She can't be both. Pick one and stick with it, or stop addressing her by anything other than her name. The only way you could sound more ridiculous would be to address her as "sir" and "ma'am" in the same conversation.

-Raising your voice at the end of every sentence and phrase, including declaratives and imperatives, in a manner that makes it sound like you are asking a question. "Hello? Thank you for calling [company]?? My name is [name]??? ... You need to contact someone in our [department] group???????" Have some confidence in what you're saying for crying out loud! Or at least simulate confidence.

-Using the word "guesstimate." It's never appropriate. Ever.

-Ending each call with "Have a great rest of your day!" Aside from the awkward phrasing, you seem to imply that they should only enjoy the rest of the day. "From the time you woke up, to this very moment right here, I hope you had the shittiest day possible. And I hope you were anally violated by an anteater's nose."

[concern for our language and for you]

-Jeremy

Yesterday's post about the mysterious leaving of a single ass peanut on the top of the toilet tank wasn't enough analysis of this situation. Through the following diagrams, I will prove that, save manually plucking and placing an ass peanut with purpose, it is physically impossible for the average human being to get ass peanuts on the back of the toilet tank without great effort.

Diagram 1 - Allowing slight variances in posture, this is the usual seated position for a person of average height who is engaged in defecation into a toilet of standard dimensions. You will note the "ass peanut sprinkle zone" outlined in green in the diagram.


Diagram 2 - When inconsiderate ass peanut sprinkling occurs, the usual scenario is for the pooper to stand, hover his ass over the toilet seat, and furiously rub at his crack with toilet paper as if he were trying to wash tar off of the bumper of a Buick. In this case, the sprinkle zone is confined to the toilet seat and immediate vicinity.

Diagram 3a - In a previous post, I discussed a scenario involving ass peanuts spread several feet to the front of the toilet bowl. For a sprinkle zone of this nature, the pooper would have to stand, walk a few steps forward, and commence wiping.


Diagram 3b - For a frontal sprinkle zone per Diagram 3a, the pooper may also have hovered with his face over the bowl. Perhaps he was hung over and had to vomit, deciding to maximize his efficiency by wiping his ass at the same time. Frontal sprinkle zone is achieved.


Diagram 4 - Now we get to the subject of this study. Again, discounting the pooper using his fingers, tweezers, or perhaps salad tongs to extract the ass peanut from his butt hair or from a scientifically feasible sprinkle zone, the average pooper would actually have to stand on the toilet, hover his ass over the tank, and scrub away.


Diagram 5 - Another mildly plausible explanation is that the pooper is some sort of freakishly gigantic victim of a pituitary gland issue and can simply hover his ass over the tank from the floor. I do not know anyone of this height, so this scenario is highly unlikely.


Diagram 6 - It has been suggested by multiple people that there could be a second shitter conspiracy going on here. Is someone lurking in the shadows spreading ass peanuts and undeserved blame? As we can see here, it is possible that a ceiling dweller, perhaps some sort of inverse CHUD, could have removed a ceiling panel and sprinkled his ass pennies from above. However, the Cirque du Soleil-like physical coordination and possible damage to the lower back make this yet another unlikely scenario. And so I reach the same conclusion...



It is clear that some asshole stood on the toilet and sprinkled butt nuggets on the tank. You fucking sick monkey!

The tree is gone daddy gone. It's down to the stump. They're coming tomorrow or Tuesday to grind the stump out. The insurance adjuster comes tomorrow, so we'll see how badly the insurance company dicks me over. They said they'd cover removal of the tree, or at least the portion that was resting on my house. The rest of it comes out of my pocket. I could have left the standing portion be, but the tree was old, obviously unstable, and it would have looked like shit back there. I wanted the whole fucking thing gone.

And I still do not have power. A tangled mass of branches had come to rest around the mast on my roof where the overhead power lines connect to the house (our neighborhood is one of the last in Eagan that still has overhead power lines coming to individual homes). Dakota Electric was in my back yard yesterday connecting all of the other homes back up, but couldn't do mine until that tree was gone. I just left a message on their outage hotline, and hopefully they can get out here tomorrow.

Despite the generous offer from my brother and his wife to let me stay at their house until the power is back, I decided to sleep at home last night. Perhaps it was paranoia about having the only dark house on the block or some macho man and his castle bullshit, but it's my house god dammit. That's where I sleep. I opened up all the windows, and slept quite comfortably. Even today it wasn't too bad in there. Thank God that 90-some degree muggy shit is gone for the time being. I will do the same tonight.

One disadvantage of not having electricity is that when you have to make a duke at night, you have to do it with candles lighting the way. So I took a romantic candlelit dump last night. Unfortunately the only way I could tell I was done wiping without lighting it on fire near the open flame was to smell and taste it.

I have a shitload of photos and video of the tree removal and some snippets of the fire down the street, but I'm too exhausted to fuck with that tonight. Regular blogging will resume once I have power and internet back at the house. I love you like autumn chipmunks.

The other day, one of my coworkers brought us a flyer he found in his apartment building. *I've changed the person's name to hide their shame.

Hello everyone,

My name is Lisa Kensington* and I live in apt. [apartment number removed]. I'm the Avon representative in the area. I see a lot of you have already taken the brochures down by the mail boxes. I will be putting a lot more brochures down there fro the women and the men. Please feel free to drop me a line if you want to order anything from the brochure. All of my information is at the bottom of this note so feel free to use it for questions and to place your order. I will need any and all orders by 8-20-07.

Thank you,

Lisa

P.S. have a great week or two.

Lisa,

Thank you for leaving brochures down there and for offering to give both the men and the women a 'fro. Personally I don't think I'd look very good with a white boy afro though. You'd really have to perm the shit out of my hair, and that is a junior high yearbook photo I don't want to repeat.

I hope you don't mind if I give you a bit of constructive criticism over your flyer. It's too goddamn wordy. I know, I know, me calling someone too wordy is like the pope calling a bishop too Catholic. But I dash shit off for a halfass blog. I'm not trying to sell anything (except shirts -- somebody buy a titfucking shirt already!!!). You need to get to the point. You've got too many definite articles going on there ("the women and the men??"), and you really didn't need to point out that the name, phone number, and email address at the bottom of the page is how to get in touch with you. I think even the mouthbreathers and baby droppers had that figured out before finishing the first sentence. When you're selling something, you need to get straight to the point. People don't want to read, think, or look at things.

Also, are you getting out of the business? "Any and all" orders must be placed by August 20th? Or do you know something we don't? Is that when the world ends? You're making me nervous because you only wished us a great week or two. Or are you just being a bitch? "Y'all can have a great week or two, but after that, I hope your life falls to shit." That's just mean and uncalled for, Lisa. If you're going to be that way, I'm not going to buy any of your shitty makeup or steer testicle-scented cologne that has been tested on homeless people kidnapped from underneath railroad bridges. How do you think their "week or two" went? Blinding and asthma-inducing, that's how.