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

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

Moblog: 9th St in Minneapolis

If you do not want the car in this craigslist ad, you should have been aborted in the 4th trimester, playa. This is what KITT would have looked like circa '72.

Or better yet, help this guy find the lady of his dreams.

Driving back from northern Minnesota in stony, uncomfortable silence forced me to entertain myself with all means at my disposal. This included sinking to reading the owner's manual for Ang's car. But the more I read, the more enthralled I became. I learned so much about cars and how to drive them that I am now invincible on the road and shall drive that way forever more. Look out, Johnny Left Lane, I'm driving up your tail pipe and spritzing you with lavender!

First, we are introduced to a very important symbol that is used throughout the manual. This circle with a slash through it means, "Do Not," "Do Not do this," or "Do Not let this happen." For example, an artist's rendering of your ass being gang raped prison-style might have one of these on it. Note that I said "might."


This diagram warns that if the seatbelt is not properly buckled, passengers with particularly veiny penises could find their members irreversibly entangled in the straps.


Warning: electric ottoman!


I wasn't really sure what this one meant. Science geeks with snow-capped slopes on their heads ahead???


In the event of a rear-impact crash, a metal rod will impale your baby via the rectum.


This either means that boogers picked while driving should be wiped under the seat or illustrates the proper hand signal for requesting sexual favors from a back seat passenger.


Please, please, PLEASE do not jill off while driving.


Driving is the perfect time to contemplate what a douchebag you've become.


The following three photos illustrate the horrible truth -- auto manufacturers use paralympic medal winners for crash testing purposes. I think I'm going to be sick.






Exhibition of gang signs while buckling of seat belts is strongly discouraged.


Seat belts can be useful for the restraint of particularly raging erections.


Dry humping of steering wheel may cause pregnancy.


When driving by attractive women walking down the street, yell "Unggghhhh... I smell that sandwich baby! Check out my pickle!" while making a jerking motion on the seatbelt.


Children under 12 should never ride in the front seat, particularly if they have no soul.


"We see you when you dream. We know you didn't finish your almond pudding. We see. We know. You die."


Seat belts are useful for restraining step-siblings from exploring each others bodies out of burgeoning sexual curiosity during long trips.


If you have to give your buddy's stoner girlfriend a ride, keep the shoulder belt undone so she can give you road head in exchange for sizzling beef brisket.


This is what it said in the manual word for word: "That's what you get for adopting a brown baby, bitch!" Once again, this car manual has brought tears of pain to my eyes. Love, don't hate, you stupid auto manufacturer!! This car was built on racism, and I'm getting out of it RIGHT NOW! *sound of car door slamming and angry footsteps*


Children in car seats must be monitored at all times, but may be looked at with contempt and disgust.


"God, I wish you had never been born."


Warning: children are anchors that will sink your life to the bottom of an ocean of responsibility and despair.


If gigantic ball appears before you while driving, speak to it calmly in soft tones and ask it to please move aside so that you may see the road.


Air bags are not for practice make out sessions by business men.


"Mmmph! Ohhhh... yeah, daddy like... mmmm... smack."


When purchasing old iMacs at pawn shops, it is recommended that you secure them in the trunk or back seat.


When you no longer love your wife, it is best that you make her ride in the back seat.


Vehicle is not recommended for transport of World War II-era naval mines.


When using car exhaust to commit suicide in garage, please ensure someone will find you within 48 hours to avoid damaging the upholstery. This will retain maximum resale value at the estate sale (which will consist entirely of your death car and the shoe box full of Garbage Pail Kids in the linen closet).


Leaving keys out for children to find, start automobile, and accidentally roll into a lake and drown is pretty indicative of your overall parenting skills.


*glug*


Brace head before using back seat for rough sex.


If you must leave your child alone in the car, trips to the casino on a hot day in July are best. This gives the child time to think about your family history of heart disease and incarceration.


"I have so little to look forward to. And can a motherfucker get some water or a moist towelette over here?"


Should your penis become entangled in the controls, step on it repeatedly.


Driving is complicated!


Please do not operate automobile in prevailing westerlies.


Press middle button to launch heat-seeking missile at the asshole on the phone who just cut you off.


This is how many drinks you can drink and still be ok to drive.


In case of unavoidable impact with deer, turn on your windshield wipers to prepare for the initial gush of blood.


If the deer runs away, accelerate. You may still get to run that fucker down.


Breed.


Breeeeeeeeeeeeeed.


Car comes equipped with everything you need to dismember and dispose of a body.


No, that isn't "the shocker." You're missing a pinky. You know, for the stink.

Coworker sitting in the car behind another coworker driving us back to the office from lunch, tailgating a pickup, and fiddling with the radio: "If that guy slams on the brakes while you're playing with the radio, and my head goes up your ass, I'm going to bite."

For more fun with my coworkers, read the latest lunchtime tale from Ronny Gunz.

Last night I was lazy (for the most part). I watched a few movies I'd Tivo'd off of HBO HD, including A Prairie Home Companion, Thank You for Smoking (I had seen it in the theater but wanted to watch it again), and the dark comedy The Chumscrubber. Then somehow I managed to muster the energy to lift weights and run 3 miles before heading out in search of an ice cream fix at Dairy Queen. Unfortunately it was later than I realized, and they were closed. Fuckers. Make that shit 24x7 or put a soft serve vending machine out front. On the way to DQ, my sunroof was open, my radio was blaring, and I noticed something in the road up ahead. More accurately, I notice something towering 10 or 15 feet above the road. It was an errant sprinkler by the theater going stark raving apeshit. Instead of making it's appointed circular rounds, it was jetting into the sky and all over the road. Shit! My sunroof! By the time I noticed it, it was too late to slam on the brakes. I let off of the gas and desperately hit the close button for the sunroof. It sealed itself shut just in time for my car to be battered by 20 gallons of water traveling at terminal velocity. I laughed maniacally at my water-avoiding reflexes and gave the finger to the world. That's right, fuckers! I'm that good!

But I sure wish I could have had some ice cream.

I'm not sure I trust these donuts for the sole reason of their name. I don't want any "O" cream in my donuts, much less Mel's O cream.

I'm fucking going for it.

Fucking shit! I just picked up my car from the dealership. I was expecting a bill of a little over $500, but it was over a fucking grand! I double checked the invoice, and sure as shit, it all added up. I took it in for the 60,000 mile service and to take the winter tires off on Friday morning and was informed that I needed new brake pads, etc. This was not surprising, as I've had the car for exactly 5 years (as of today, in fact -- happy anniversary *ball squeeze*). Obviously I'm not happy about paying $1000, but I'm actually not pissed at the dealership. When the guy called me about the brakes Friday, I was trying to get shit done at work and didn't pay much attention. The number I thought I heard would have been suspiciously low even at the most cut rate auto mechanic for that kind of brake work. I'm sure he was quoting me for the front and rear brakes separately. Regardless, fuck!!! And in continued search for the bright side (very uncharacteristically so), the good news is that I can afford this because I got an unexpectedly large tax refund when I originally thought I'd have to have to pay in. The bad news is that I was hoping to use that money to do some travel this summer. Eh, I might still be able to afford Denver.

Oh, and I took a Pepsi from the complimentary fridge in the waiting area before I left the dealership. I wasn't waiting, but fuckers can give me a Pepsi for $1000. I should have taken some cookies, too, but I wasn't hungry.

My title has nothing to do with the subject of this post (nor does the photo to the left), but wouldn't that be cool to yell at a guy before roundhouse kicking him in the throat?

The good news is that I'm rid of the PT Cruiser. I love tapping ass as much as the next guy, but my tail tagging quotient was too high with that thing. I was getting approached so much that I had to repel the chicks by spraying myself with Axe body spray. Because contrary to the commercials, that shit smells like Malathion and Old Spice got mixed together in an old can of turpentine. Then a hobo puked sickly sweet smelling Cisco into it.

The bad news, aside from smelling like bum vomit and bug spray, is that my brakes pads need to be replaced, and they couldn't finish that work today. But now I've got a decent Acura TSX as a loaner for the weekend (I would have preferred the TL, a car I became intimately familiar when I drove one for a month when this same dealership fucked up my car a couple years back).

UPDATE: I failed to mention that between the 60,000 mile service (oil change, various filters replaced, detailed 70-some point inspection), the new brakes pads, removing my winter tires and putting my all seasons back on (they're supposed to be all season but are shit on snow!) this whole shebang's going to run me around $500. Mommy!

Aw yeah, taintlickahs! Check out my sweet ass ride from Enterprise Rental. I took my car in for its 60k service today, and they realized they were out of loaners. So instead of tooling around in a nice Acura TL or similar luxury ride, I got the PT Cruiser from Enterprise Rental down the the road (on the dealership's dime). It handles like a soapbox racer and does 0 to 60 in 20 minutes. Try not to cream your squirrel covers, ladies. I know firsthand how difficult it is. I've gotten laid like 5 times just since I picked this bad boy up. And I lost count of the road head.

Yesterday it was a record 81 degrees here in the Twin Cities. The average high for this time of year is around 45, so that means there were more people running and walking around our myriad lakes than aimlessly milling about all of the world's Old Navy stores combined. That factoid sounds suspicious, but I got it from my dog-eared copy of The Asshole's Almanac, so it has to be true.

Reports from my dear mother indicate that it's even been unseasonably mild back home in the topography-free hinterlands of North Dakota. This sounds nothing like the arctic seasons of yore (I know using that word makes me sound like I should be wearing a tunic while playing a lute and singing songs about dragons and stout bridge trolls, but I like it, so piss off). It was not uncommon for school to be canceled due to roads blocked with snow drifts several feet in height, winds that could blow over a Ford Escort, or temperatures that could freeze urine solid while it was still in your bladder.

Our farm was near the start of the hour long school bus route, so we had to be up bright and early every morning to hop on when it pulled up around 6:30. Since we could see it barreling down the road from several miles away, we would wait in the warmth of the house, then bolt outside as soon as stopped just a few dozen feet from the front door. We were particularly thankful for this curbside service when the brutal winds whipped stinging snow across open fields, but getting on the bus so early had its disadvantages. Ignore the obvious factor of having to get up so early, because when you're 7 or 8, you tend to keep more respectable hours. In bed by 8, up before 6, catching early worms, all that jazz. And it's easy to do at that age when you never stay up all night banging a "vulnerable adult" you picked up at a church rummage sale or freebasing a mixture of crystal meth, cumin, and airbag powder from a late model Honda.

Once in a while, if the weather was borderline, the buses were halfway through their route before the superintendent finally decided to shutter the school. So you had to get up obscenely early, clean up (with soap even!), put on 15 layers of clothing, and inhale diesel exhaust on a loud, rattling deathtrap with no seat belts doing 60 down a rutted gravel road, only to have the driver get the call to take everyone back home because they decided to close the school. In other words, they decided that the weather conditions were so dangerous, that it wouldn't be safe for kids in town to walk to school or for vehicles of any sort to be on the road. Thanks for not waking up early enough to make that decision about an hour ago, jaggoff. "Hmm... I should probably get up to ensure the safety of all children in the district, including farm kids, but I need another solid 30. [wipes burned airbag powder residue from cheek and falls back to sleep]"

One abysmal winter day when I was 8, the bus pulled up amidst blinding, swirling, wind-blown snow. We were the third family on the route that winter. My brother went to afternoon kindergarten and didn't ride in the morning, so until the next stop many miles away, it was just me, the mustachioed bus driver, and two morning kindergarteners. The driver powered through one hardened snow drift after another, launching our tiny, seat beltless bodies into the air like shuttlecocks in a badminton match.

Over the next several miles, the drifts grew both higher and longer. Eventually even the inertial energy of a 12 ton bus couldn't power us through the packed snow. Wheels spinning and kicking up a white cloud, we slowed to a crawl and soon stopped dead. We were stuck but good. The driver muttered in disgust under his breath and sat quiet for several minutes. He was likely thinking of how he could get out of this jam himself without radioing into the school for a tow, thus exposing how stupid he was for not turning back and reporting the road conditions. In a pure moment of genius and inspiration, he turned to me, the oldest and clearly wisest child on the bus, and asked, "Jeremy, can you drive stick?"

Can I drive a stick? CAN I DRIVE A STICK?!? Motherfucker, I could drive a stick before my feet could reach the clutch. That's how we roll in North Da-cocksucking-kota, fool! That's all he needed to know. "Ok, you put it into reverse, and we'll get out and push on the front of the bus." He was prepared to put some heavy duty muscle into this mission. When you are willing to yank a couple of 5 year old children off of a bus to push on the front of it in the middle of a blizzard, you are not messing around, my friend. "Roll those sleeves up and PUSH, or you only get the 16 pack of Crayolas instead of 64. Heave, you stubby-legged little bastards, HEAVE!!!" So there we were, miles and miles from a single other soul, a skinny, mop-lipped bus driver and a couple kids barely old enough to no longer be categorized as toddlers pushing away, and me gunning the engine like a jet before takeoff.

I learned a lot about myself that day. Despite my tender age of 8, the driver didn't need me to prove that I knew how to drive a stick. He just took me at my word. Sure, for all he knew, I was a boastful little prick who didn't know a clutch from a parking brake, and I could have easily accidentally thrown it into 1st and mowed him and the Kool-Aid gang down like meat-filled candlepins. But he trusted me implicitly and showed me where inner strength comes from. It comes from blindly putting the lives of you and two 5 year old children into the hands of an uncoordinated, overeager third grader. That shit's pure balls and heart, guy. Balls and heart.

Epilogue

It may be difficult to believe, but all of the pushing by all of the kindergarteners in the world couldn't have freed that bus. The driver had to give in and radio in for a tow. When Jeremy giddily reported his bus driving adventure to his parents after school that day, they were super pissed and called the superintendent. The driver was temporarily suspended from his job and had to live down the embarrassment in our tiny community for years afterward.

This driver was just one of many characters to haul the precious children of our town over the years. Let's not forget the guy who got pulled over for a DUI with kids still on the bus, the dude who drove with his legs while playing cards with the kids in the front seat, and the old man who's coveralls quite obviously were never laundered, as they were perpetually covered in stains from snot and spit impressively launched onto his back by a kid sitting in the back row. Some of those drivers are dead now, and most of them should be. God bless them, every one.

For about 6 years years I drove an older rustbucket of a Ford Explorer 4x4. Well, it wasn't that way when I bought it, but for about half that time, every time I slammed the door shut, big chunks of it would fall off. There were several piles of rusty metal and dust in my garage on either side of where I parked it. On rare occasion, I miss it, usually when there is a foot or more of snow on the ground, and the plows are having trouble keeping up. But the thing handled for shit in 2 wheel drive, and you couldn't drive more than 45 in 4 wheel drive. And in reality, 4 wheel drive was 3 wheel drive because one of the hubs wouldn't lock. Then there was the minor issue of extreme difficulty in turning off 4x4. On older 4x4's (and perhaps certain newer models for all I know, though I'd be surprised), when you wanted to go back to 2 wheel drive, in addition to turning it off with a button press or shifter throw, you had to put it in reverse and back up a few dozen feet or so to unlock the hubs. Sometimes my few dozen feet would have to stretch out to a quarter mile or so. Yeah, that's convenient. Wait--I guess I don't miss that piece of shit at all come to think of it.

I know we've had a really mild winter here in Minnesota, particularly around the Twin Cities, but I've had my fill. Perhaps it's being spoiled by the lack of snow and relatively mild weather, but when we had a foot of snow dropped on us over the weekend, I didn't shovel my driveway for shit. Come Monday morning, I opened my garage door, threw my little 2 door RSX into reverse, and gunned it down the driveway as if Nancy Grace were standing at the end of it. Splat! Once I was in the street, I put in in first, steered to the side a little, then blasted my way back up the drive way into the garage, and rocketed my way back to the street again. Up yours, mother nature! I had cleared myself a path both for driving and walking down to get my mail. If anyone wants to visit me and can't park in my driveway or walk up it, they can take a flying assfuck.

Though with another foot supposedly on the way over the next couple of days, I may regret that decision. I have a feeling that tomorrow's workout will consist of shoveling instead of running.

While I'm on a cocksnogging bitch-roll, where in your car's manual does it say that your hazard lights make it legal for you to park wherever the fuck you want? Now I can kind of see the hazards being flipped on if you're double parked. Yes, you are still a douchetackler and are blocking traffic for your selfish convenience, but you are reducing the odds of your ride being plowed into by an ice cream truck. So actually I would prefer you turn your hazards off. I would laugh with unbridled delight at the sight of your minivan scattered in pieces across a half block and your insurance rates going through the roof.

But how does turning on your hazards make it legal to park in a handicapped spot? I have yet to hear of a traffic cop pulling out his ticket pad only to exclaim, "Oh! They have their hazards blinking, sufficiently warning us that they only plan to be inside briefly to purchase a scratch-off lottery ticket. Surely this means that they have the ability to predict that their trip inside will not interfere with the needs of a disabled person in a van who needs that space to exit their vehicle with a chair lift. Well, let me just flip my ticket pad closed with a flourish, dust my hands thusly, and walk away, satisfied and lulled into complacency by the reassuring constant blinking of their hazard lights."

But the most common place you see this is in front of the supermarket, Wal-Mart, Target, or other stores with a fire zone out front explicitly marked "Fire Lane. No Parking. No Waiting." Evidently dumbasses seem to think if they flip their hazards on while they leave their car at the curb to grab a gallon of milk, that magically legalizes and legitimizes what they've done. No, ass plug. You are now parked illegally, are blocking emergency access for fire trucks and ambulances, and have lights flashing on your vehicle drawing further attention to that fact. You are not only an oozing asscrack potentially endangering people's lives for your convenience, you are an idiot.

My little Acura RSX, my pride and joy, is over 4 years old. Despite the minor ding it received a few months ago, most people find it difficult to believe it's a 2002 model. I've tried to take good care of it, even keeping the inside as clutter free as possible. However, there have been a lot of asses in and out of that car in 4+ years, a lot of mild Caribou mocha spills in the mornings, and a few ripping good farts dropped by myself and others (ok, mostly me).

It's been a while since I've given the inside a good vacuum and scrubbing, so I've noticed lately that it gets a smidge funky in there after sitting out in the hot summer sun all day while I'm at work. Not a rotting corpse or burning dog turd smell, just a stuffy, ever so mildly offensive hot restroom smell.

While in the laundry aisle at Cub Foods a few days ago, I remembered that an old flame from a few years back once told me about how she once worked at a used car dealership, and they'd put dryer sheets in cars traded in by smokers to cover up the cigarette stench. It seemed worth a shot, and though I had dryer sheets at home, I spied Downy dryer sheets with Febreze in them. Double whammy, bitches!

Tonight before going to pick up my friend Mary to see a movie, I finally got around to putting a few sheets in the car. I decided to go all out, placing one each under the driver and passenger seat, two underneath the back seat, and a couple back in the hatch area. I climbed into the drivers seat and inhaled deeply. Mmmm...flowery and fresh! Not a hint of ass or even yeasty stray vagina! Since it was a sunny and mild evening, I opened the sunroof and both the windows, cranked up the optical victrola, and rolled toward Apple Valley to Mary's house. When she got in the car, I excitedly asked her, "smells good, doesn't it?" She replied that she thought she'd smelled something as she approached the car, and that it smelled like fresh laundry. Upon confirming her olfactory instincts, she suggested that perhaps ONE dryer sheet would have been sufficient to start out with. Now that she had mentioned it, the smell did seem a little strong.

After a bite to eat, we went to see "Accepted" (surprisingly funny, despite the utterly preposterous plot, or lack thereof) and came back out to the car. I threw the door open and was immediately punched in the face with a wall of freshness. Flowery, dew-covered meadows and fresh linen were forced up my nose with the pressure and force of a fire extinguisher. Freshness overload, dude. We got in the car, laughing about the ridiculously strong odor of the dryer sheets. I offered to fart to cover up the smell, but Mary respectfully declined. Though I did let loose an unplanned and flavorful belch mid-sentence during the drive back to Apple Valley. But alas, it was not enough to counter The Freshness.

Prior to the dinner and movie outing, I had a moment this afternoon where I was concerned about my butthole tightness. I'm sure I've mentioned it in passing here a few times, but there is a medical phenomenon colloquially referred to as "pink sock." Essentially the rectal mucous membrane loosens such that it hangs out of your asshole and looks like it's got a pink sock sticking out of it. I'm not sure why, but I've had a recent spate of particularly greasy deuces, causing me to go through roll after roll of toilet paper. Today this left me with the feeling of a protuberance or foreign sensation in my browneye region. My first thought was, "Muthafuckin' PINK SOCK???" Then I realized this was silly. How would a greasy poo pull out a pink sock? Unless I had a particularly loose butthole to begin with I guess. But that shit is virgin back there. Exit only, save a curious pinky or two. Regardless, perhaps it's time to add some cheek squeezes to the old workout routine.

Over lunch on Thursday, I rushed home (it's a 15 minute drive) because I forgot my phone there, was going to run errands after work, and wanted to have it on me just in case. I'm naked without my phone. What if I see an accident and need to call for help? What if I'm IN an accident? What if I have the urge to call my mom, fart into the phone, and hang up? You just never know, and my slightly obsessive compulsive nature would lead me focus so intently on not having my phone that all joy and focus would be lost for the rest of my day.

A few days beforehand, the temperatures had rocketed to nearly 100 degrees, causing heaved pavement on several roadways throughout the metro. One of them was on I-35 northbound in Burnsville just before it splits off into 35W and 35E. The center lane had heaved up slightly, which MNDoT addressed by placing warning signs that essentially said "Hey, the pavement failed up there. Careful and best of luck. XOXOXXOO, MNDoT" Yes, thanks for fixing it.

I had noticed this bump on my way home from work the previous day and avoided it by getting into the right lane. Unfortunately the car in front of me took the "careful and best of luck" route and hurdled over the heaved up section at 75+ mph, sending a piece of loose pavement directly into the plastic bumper of my car. There is now a lovely black impact point and series of scrapes in the bumper of my silver goddess. Although the more I look at it, it doesn't look terrible. I could probably patch it up reasonably well with an epoxy kit of some sort. I soldiered on, retrieved my phone, ate a bowl of soup, and headed back to work.

My mission after work--find and purchase two pairs of shoes, one every day pair for work and general milling about, and one funky, casual pair for going out (dates, out to the bar, etc). For most straight guys, myself included, shoe shopping ranks right up there with eating hepatitis-infected poo or having a mime jiggle our balls while we yodel. Yet my pickiness over my shoes falls somewhere in between that of a drunken cowboy and an understudy for the role of Rum Tum Tugger. I am not a slave to fashion, but I know what I like. To further complicate the selection process, my shoe size of 14 makes it more than a little daunting to find shoes that fit well. Outside of the sneaker world, many manufacturers do not make shoes larger than size 13. Combining all of these pain-in-the-ass factors usually restricts my shoe shopping excursions to being an annual affair.

With both my funky and daily shoes in ratty repair to the point they were causing me blisters, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and venture out on a shoe quest. Over the years, I have owned at least 7 pairs of variations of the same model of brown Rockport walking shoes for my day to day activities. They're casual enough to wear with jeans while running errands but decent enough to where with khakis in a business casual office setting. They're also extremely comfortable, durable, and most importantly fit my gigantic clodhoppers. Looking on Rockport's website, I saw that Marshall Field's in Burnsville Center carries their products, and since that's just a few miles from where I work, that was my first stop. Unfortunately, the selection of men's shoes there is shit, and they didn't carry my beloved model. Piss on them--I continued to the Mall of America, which has an actual Rockport store. Ever my savior, they had them. But the salesman had me try a new model that had Reebok DMX cushioning built into it. Definitely a lot more spring and support than my old standby. At the same price as my usual choice, I decided to give them a rip. So far they're quite comfortable. Though I may still take the salesman's suggestion of sending the old ones in to be resoled and cleaned for $40. That's less than half of what a new pair usually cost.

This is where the marathon began--funky shoes. Store after store after store had nothing remotely like what I was looking for. And the stores that had anything I liked didn't have them in my size. Cool green sneaks at Puma--the biggest was a 9. Next! Shafted again on two different pairs at Bostonian. Nutty fudgekins. After walking several uncomfortable miles in my old Rockports, I realized it was now time to bite the bullet and drive all the way to Calhoun Square in Uptown Minneapolis. I didn't remember the name of the store, but I remembered there was one that had a large selection uber funky shoes to my liking (unfortunately at commensurately high prices).

On a perfect, sunny June evening with low humidity, Uptown was a madhouse of motorcycles, cackling throngs of hipsters drinking and dining on patio and sidewalk eateries, bewildered pedestrians, and overly brave bicyclists. I slowly maneuvered my injured car through the unwashed masses, parked in the ramp adjoining Calhoun Square and made my way inside. I stumbled my way to the store in question, which I found was called Bay Street Shoes & Accessories. After pawing through their clearance table and finding nothing, I carefully eyeballed their wide selection. The prices made me cringe. $100, $150, even $200+ price tags were the order of the day. This is yet another reason I'd hoped to avoid this store. I sighed as I recalled the $40 sneakers at Bostonian that didn't quite fit. After much careful internal debate, I decided to inquire about an orangey (I'm terrible describing colors--see the photo) pair of Campers at $125 (gulp) and a reddish pair of leather Kenneth Coles at $180 (double gulp). The perfectly coiffed, supergay salesman in the pink polo shirt cheerfully congratulated me on my selection, particularly lavishing praise on the Campers, and disappeared into the back to see what was in stock. The Kenneth Coles were not in stock, but he had the Campers in a European 13. Praise be to Jebus, they fit perfectly and were reasonably comfortable. It was bipedal destiny.

Prior to this, I was not familiar at all with the Campers brand, but evidently they are quite popular. As I purchased my impromptu dinner at Jimmy John's before leaving Calhoun Square, the young sales girl cooed as I set my bag on the counter to pay for my purchase. "Ooooh! Which Campers did you get? There is a pair of their boots I would just die for." I knew then that I had selected well. A gay man and a teenage girl dug my shoe purchase. I was the bees fucking knees. With an unbearable 3-1/2 hours and nearly 50 miles of shopping and driving behind me, I pulled into my garage at home, kicked off my sweaty Rockports, and settled in for the evening, assured I will not have to shop for shoes again until next summer, perhaps even the following fall. Suck it, retailers.

While if I found myself stuck behind this group on 494 (I'd say 35W, but when does traffic on 35W ever go faster then about 23 mph?), I'd drive up their tailpipes and rap them on the backs of their skulls, I totally dig the point they made.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-5366552067462745475

I've hinted at my relatively anal retentive parking habits a few times here before.
While I'm not as obsessive as I was when I first bought my brand new Acura RSX in 2002, I'm still somewhat careful about where I park. I try to find an end space where I will be unlikely to get dinged. The last few months, I've really relaxed my parking standards (my finish is not quite as pristine with normal rock chips and wear and tear, so why bother?).

Note that I refuse to make my parking issues a problem for other people. You'll never find me parked at a 45 degree angle across two prime parking spaces. I'd rather walk across the length of the parking lot than be a prick. I also try not to make it an issue for passengers. I offer to drop them off at the door if it's going to be a hike to where I end up parking.

Unfortunately, last month I paid for my sphinctoral unclenching with my very first door ding. A large Suburban driven by an unknown person we will call Asshole McGee decided to park in the lot at work about 6 inches from my car. They put a minor, but highly aggravating ding in my passenger side. I was pissed, but I will survive.

So it became obvious I needed to clamp my buttocks a bit tighter again when parking. I started parking in and end spot in a corner of our parking lot (I get to work relatively early in the morning and usually have my choice of parking spaces). Today, I ran out for lunch to find that a minivan driver we will call Fucknut McAsswipe had parked (no exaggeration) THREE FUCKING INCHES from my car. Unless Kate Moss was driving this thing, there was no physical way they could have exited their vehicle on the driver's side! Granted, they did not ding my car, but it made it very difficult for me to back out of the space without scraping the shit out of both of our vehicles.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes I pull into a parking spot and realize I'm too close to one side or I'm all cockeyed. You know what I do? I BACK THE FUCK OUT AND FIX IT!! Why? Because I am not a lazy asshole. What gets me is this person had to have realized they parked that close. Instead of getting out of the driver's side, they had to have taken the effort to get out on the passenger side. WHY????????

All throughout my lunch break, I plotted revenge. Key the van? Nah, it's a rusty shitmobile. They won't care. Flatten a tire? Chuck a dead hooker through their windshield? *sigh* That would be satisfying, but not worth the risk of being caught. No damage done--a cooler head prevailed, and I decided to let it be. Next time someone parks too close to me though, I'm taking a dump on their hood.

Hmm...I've realized that lately my blog has slowly devolved into--well, like any other blog. I was determined to make it fun and random like me. Like listing states I've pooped in or cryptic messages about conspiracies that don't exist. The last couple weeks, I've been just posting shit that's happened to me. How lame is that? Who the fuck CARES about my day to day life other than me? No one, that's who. I have little illusion about my audience posting here. It tends to be my friends and family and the occasional random passers by and looky loos.

But I've found that posting my pedestrian, mundane day to day bullshit to be a good diary. In the past, my email has been my diary. But at the moment, I'm not really regularly corresponding with anyone to the point that I relay my goings on.

So I could just make some stuff up, but I'm too lazy right now. Today, I drove to Bloomington to have the snow tires I'd bought online put onto my car and balanced. Ironically, the roads were terrible today. I didn't realize it was supposed to be snowy like this all day, so it caught me a little off guard when I rolled down the driveway (in my car--I waited to roll down my driveway naked until I got home).

It was a 2 hour wait, so I wandered over to Au Bon Pain across the parking lot for lunch. I'd never been in one before. Had a mocha and a turkey sandwich with swiss on a multi-grain roll with jalpeno mayo. Not bad. I passed the time by reading today's Star Tribune, chatting on the cell phone with my mom, and reading cnn.com on my phone. That took up a little over an hour. I wandered over to Cub, drifted aimlessly, wasted $1.50 on 3 tries at a hideously creepy Christmas doll in the claw machine thingy (I need a white elephant gift for a party after Christmas and thought that would be hilarious). I had nudged it perilously close to the chute, but ran out of quarters and was bored with the endeavor. Some lucky kid is going to get an easy shot at a psychologically scarring doll that looks like a real child painted in 1930's era racist blackface with a teddy bear suit on.

But now my car has snow tires, which worked great on the way back (last winter, I got stuck spinning at intersections several times with my old tires, and was determined not to have that happen this year).

Now it's just a new battery (possibly) and my 40k service in a couple weeks. Yee frickin' haw.