When a Lakeville man awoke to find cops with flashlights in his bedroom, he was all "What the fuck, man?" Then the cops were like, "Your fucking garage door is open, your front door is unlocked and open (just a few feet from where your kid is having a sleepover), your keys are in the ignition of your pickup outside, and WE were like 'What the fuck, man?'"

First, lock up your house with your kids inside, for crying out loud. Garage door open, house door open (or at least unlocked, depending on whether you believe the cops' reason for entering the house), keys in your truck. Dude, you aren't living in friggin' Mayberry! Just a month ago, a guy just a few miles away in Burnsville left his garage door open and his house door unlocked, and got stabbed and left for dead as the assailants set his house on fire and stole his car. Luckily he managed to survive.

Now should the cops have gone up to Dad's bedroom after already speaking with the kids? For as irresponsible as dear Dad was, the cops may indeed have gone a bit too far. Maybe they sincerely had the best interest of everyone in mind, or maybe they were completely exasperated at the carelessness of this dude and wanted to scare the shit out of him to teach him a lesson. More than likely, I'd guess it's a mixture of the two.

Either way, Dad's lucky he didn't wake up to find either one of these cops standing over him:

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 know the proper placement of the shrimp fork and coffee spoon in a table setting for a 12 course meal, and you may know that it is impolite to ask someone how much money they make, but do you know how to take a proper dump? Poor dumping manners have cost people their jobs, their friends, and even their spouses. Don't offend the ones you love by taking a dump like a frightened coppersmith. Bring them closer by taking a dump like an emotionally available gerontologist.

Ladies

For a proper ladydump, the fairer sex must be mindful of the clothing they are wearing. Short skirts must be pulled down no farther than mid-calf, and jeans and pants, including sweat pants must be removed prior to sitting down on the commode. Upon removal of the pants, the woman should fold them neatly, then remove her underwear, and use them to bind her ankles together tightly. I will then knock thrice on the restroom door. She should whistle if the coast is clear, and scrape her foot on the floor if someone else is in the restroom. If no one else is in the restroom, I will come in, join her in the stall, and film her peeing with my new high definition video camera. I will leave the camera with the woman, walk down the street for a nice chai tea, and sip at it tentatively while she films herself defecating on a sheet of rice paper. She will page me with a call back number of 911 when she finishes (she will NOT call me, as that is rude, clingy, and weird), and I will send a bicycle courier to retrieve the camera and the soiled rice paper from her. Once I receive the camera, I will roll up the rice paper, slice it up, and serve it to a high school biology class, then will show them the video to make sure they know they just at shit-sushi. Then the lady the lady should put a doily on her thigh or something.

Gentlecocks

For men, a proper dump is more about the utensils at hand. As he sits on the commode, to his immediate right should be the salad plunger. To the right of that should be the main plunger. To the left, in order, should be the soup plunger, the melon plunger, and the fiber strand plunger. In the lap, the man should have a pocket watch in order to mind the time, for a proper gentlecock will never take more than 2 hours to unburden his tract. If the colonic unleavening is in danger of exceeding this time limit, without exception, one must wipe, stand, wash the hands thoroughly with soap and warm water, walk to the news stand, and purchase a copy of Cocks Between Jugs: Gentleman's Edition. The man must admire the eponymous cocks between jugs for no less than 5 minutes, and return to the restroom to complete his digestive duty. Should the toilet become plugged, great care must be take to carefully analyze the contents of the bowl to determine which of the aforementioned toilet plungers should be used (fiber strand plunger for long, stringy leavings, the melon plunger for fruity chunks, the soup plunger for diarrhea, etc).

Transvestites and Transexuals

Unfortunately, they are beholden to both sets of rules at the same time. Tell you what, I'll just bring the magazine with me when I bring my camera to save you a trip.

by Gary "Lo-Tide" Westin

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

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

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

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


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



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



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



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

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

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Max via IM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Alexis finally got her column on how to give a good blowjob published in vita.mn after a small bit of controversy. Alexis, your columns are almost always quite entertaining, if not informative, and while you do occasionally provide offhand examples of what not to do, I feel that I must supplement your blowjob column with detailed examples of brutally bad oral techniques. This will not only be of use to women who want to avoid poor beejetiquette but will provide some guidelines for women who actually wish to give a piss poor hummer. Perhaps this desire is out of spite, revenge, or even boredom, but this isn't my concern, as long as I'm not the subject of the substandard jock slobber.

The Sugar Scraper

Some women get a tad toothy in their fellatial technique, particularly if those teeth are snaggled in nature. While the occasional enamel-on-rod contact may hit a gentleman's reset button, it normally is something that can be ignored long enough to blast her uvula back into her spine. The sugar scraper, however, is akin to using one's top front teeth to strip mine the caramel and chocolate off of the cookie in a Twix bar. Unfortunately, when a real, live fleshy penis is involved, the analogous caramel and chocolate are replaced with layers of skin and the occasional prominent vein. The man's erection usually wilts instantly, and it is not uncommon for him to bleed to death within minutes.

The Bazooka Joe

Much like chewing absentmindedly on soft bubble gum or onion patch cud, the cock ingester gnaws viciously on the head and shaft, leaving the man's genitalia looking like someone ran a strawberry cheesecake through a wood chipper. If the recipient doesn't bleed to death, he usually shoots himself in the hypothalamus before enduring dozens of reconstructive surgeries and a lifetime of carting around a battle-scarred dick that looks like a frightened pufferfish.

The Serious Blowjob

This was conceived by Coco, who often pantomimes the act while dining in classy lounges and supper clubs. The performer of the serious blowjob has a stern look on her face, sucks on the cock like she is trying to remove the stubborn wrapper from a drinking straw at Arby's, and maintains uncomfortable, glaring eye contact with the recipient at all times, as if to say, "I see you, buddy boy. I know you're up to something, and I swear I will figure out just what that something is." The recipient likely will maintain his erection and ejaculate with some delay, but the entire experience will be quite uncomfortable, as no one likes to get the stink eye, particularly when getting their knob gobbled.

The Chastising Blowjob

Another Coco creation, the chastising blowjob is the natural extension of the serious blowjob. Unlike the serious blowjob, the blower knows exactly what shenanigans the blowee has been up to, and will stare angrily at him while wagging her finger at him. "For shame, dude who's cock I'm sucking! I know it was you who ran over the neighbor kid and drove off without saying anything. I'll continue sucking, but I am very displeased with your actions." The recipient's guilt will make it very difficult for him to maintain his erection, and it may take hours for him to ejaculate, assuming he does not break down in a tearful confession. "I did it! I admit it! Hey, I didn't say stop. Keep going!"

The Trojan Whore

The woman disrobes, gets on her knees, opens her mouth, and leans in as if to suck, but at the last millisecond, headbutts him in the peaches and absconds with his wallet. The man is left writhing in pain and concern over potential identity theft and damage to his credit rating.

Epilogue

Ladies, please keep in mind that using these techniques as a distraction for the sole purpose of engaging in criminal activity is unladylike behavior, unless -- as in the case of The Trojan Whore -- the crime is intended as punishment for the cock-bearing party. Maybe he slept with your roommate or tricked you into climbing into a cargo van for a 6-man gang bang -- frankly I don't care. Just promise me that you will use this information only for the purposes of misandric and selfish gratification.

Viagra is a decade old. My favorite quote from this article:

"But a lot of people look to Viagra for personal happiness, thinking a hard penis can resolve relationship issues," and they end up disappointed, added the doctor and author of the book 'The Viagra Myth.'"

Are you implying that a hard penis can't solve relationship issues, my good doctor? A hard penis can solve any relationship problem you throw at it. Need to spice up the sex life? Whip out a hard penis and smack her on the chin with it. Need to discipline your significant other for spending your rent money on furry boots? Whip out a hard penis and bitch slap her across the face. In fact, the answer to every problem is hard penis.

Problem: A meeting's attendees are rudely talking amongst themselves, paying no attention to your presentation.
Solution: Who needs Robert's Rules of Order? Swing a hard penis at a coffee cup, sending it sailing into a wall. The explosion of shattering porcelain will get their attention in a hurry. Furthermore, emphasize your point by replacing your Powerpoint's bullet points with photos of your hard penis.

Problem: You are the first to arrive on the scene of a horrific car accident.
Solution: If there are open flames, bat them out with your hard penis before they reach the gas tank. If there isn't enough time, quickly rip the roof off of the car with your hard penis, instruct the victims to grab onto your hard penis, and use it to lift them to freedom and safety.

Problem: You're being robbed at gunpoint.
Solution: Stab the perpetrator in the chest with your hard penis. Nothing stops crime faster than a cock-ruptured aorta.

Problem: You're walking with your friend, and he gets robbed at gunpoint.
Solution: Put wood to pavement and pole vault away from the scene with your hard penis. You can call the police for help once you're safely at home and have had a good night of sleep. Be certain to dial the phone with your hard penis.

Problem: You want to serve ice cream, but your only scoop is in the sink with the dirty dishes.
Solution: Use the uncut hood of your hard penis to scoop up the ice cream. Flick the shaft with your thumb to release the ice cream into the bowl. Do it quickly because your cold penis won't be hard much longer.

Problem: You've forgotten your email password.
Solution: Use your hard penis to click the "Forgot your password?" link.

Problem: You have a hard penis.
Solution: What part of "the answer to every problem is a hard penis" do you not understand?

Yesterday Ang announced that she wanted to go to Valu Thrift Store at Sun Ray in St Paul. I had hoped to just sit on my ass all day, but considering I found a lovable little guy called Shelf Chimp at Unique, their sister store in Burnsville, I couldn't possibly say no to tagging along. Alas, there was nothing as spectacular as Shelf Chimp, but there were plenty of smaller curiosities.

One shelf was full of creams, perfumes, ointments, shampoos, perms, and makeup. The labels seemed to indicate that they had either been discontinued by the manufacturer and unloaded onto various thrift stores or that someone found a bunch of products that expired circa Mork & Mindy and decided to endanger one or two people by giving it away rather than endanger the environment at large by throwing it away.

Impact Volume Retention Perm's label says "For looks that demand attention." For hair so high that potential johns can see you from three blocks away. Warning: not for use on public hair. 70s bush is one thing, but no one wants Spanish Inquisition bush.


On the topmost shelf, there were about a half-dozen or so flowery bottles of Breast Friend brand Premenstrual Breast Creme, which apparently was manufactured for a company based in Woodbury, MN. Apparently this product "Encourages regular Breast Care."


The side label:
The Breast Friend line of products is the only one specifically formulated to promote breast self-examinations and breast care.

Breast Friend Premenstrual Creme encourages women of all ages to develop a routine of regular breast care.

How does it do that? By just having this statement on the box? "You've been encouraged!" Or does constantly buying this cream and developing a routine of slathering it on their breasts help women make a mental connection between the cream and the self-exam?

A portion of the profits from the sale of this product will benefit Breast Cancer Research and Breast Cancer Awareness Programs.

I'm not implying this company's intentions weren't good -- and given that my mom is a breast cancer survivor, this is a subject of concern to me -- but these kind of statements on products claiming to give money to a cause are irksome. "A portion" can pretty much mean whatever they want it to mean. Twenty-five percent? Ten percent? One-sixth of a percent? If you're committed to a cause, give us a concrete value.

On the another side of the label comes this:
DIRECTIONS: Apply an ample amount of creme to each breast using a slow circular motion. Repeat as often as desired. Wash hands immediately after use.

Should you notice any changes in the breast before or during your menstrual cycle, complete a thorough breast self-exam after your menstrual cycle is completed using Breast Friend Shower Gel or Moisturizing Lotion. If you detect any abnormalities contact your physician immediately.

Breast Friend is not a substitute for an annual medical examination by a physician. It is recommended that you have annual mammograms. Use of this product will not prevent the development of or guarantee the discovery of any abnormalities.

Then why use it? How it is of more value than regular moisturizing lotion or a cooling cream? I'm willing to bet most women who saw this product on store shelves or wherever it was sold asked themselves those very questions and left it where they found it.

CAUTION: Avoid the vaginal area. Adult use only. For external use only. Keep out of reach of children. Wash hands after application. Avoid eye contact.

First, I will NEVER avoid the vaginal area. And why avoid eye contact? Is it because of the shame brought on by using such a silly-ass product? I also have grave concerns over a topical cream where women are instructed to rub it all over their breasts but repeatedly warned to get the shit off of their hands as soon as possible after they're done.

"My little angel, would you help mommy apply her Breast Friend?"


"Intrstd Chipmunk iz Intrstd"


Barbie looked lonely, so I gave her a friend.

by Wade Swafford

The brakes are going out on my Monte Carlo so I agreed cover an extra shift at the machine shop because I needed the extra dough to take care of my mint ride. I had been standing for about 3 hours straight, just staring and welding when this dude comes over and tell me to stop. I'm breaking some shop safety code because my shoe is untied. I tell him, "Guy, I haven't taken a step in three hours, okay? I'm not going to trip and fall." I went to get back to welding when this guy stops me from putting the lid down on my welding mask. I'm practically dead on my feet guy. Don't give me this, not 14 hours into my double. "Get your hands off my helmet," I tell him. He said, "Not until you tie your shoe." So I'm all, "What's the matter with you, dude? You got shit up the ass?" He said, "What?" I said, "What's the matter with you? You got shit up the ass?"

I didn't have anything to eat for dinner and didn't feel like heading to the grocery store so I went to the Subway in the strip mall a few blocks from my place. I get in there and some guy is ahead of me giving the sandwich maker a hard time. He kept telling her to "make the sandwich upside down." So the lady turned the sandwich upside down and he got even more mad. They did this a couple of times and the guy just kept saying, "No. Not like that. Make the sandwich upside down." I was so fucking hungry I couldn't take it any more. I was so hungry I was about to dry-heave all over Subway. Instead of dry-heaving I ended up yelling at the asshole ahead of me who wanted an upside-down sandwich. "What is the matter with you, guy? You got shit up the ass? Huh? You got shit up the ass?"

"Fuckin' interns are running Fox 9 tonight, I swear to god." I was home just winding down from work and sitting in front of the tv. I was watching Judge Mathis -- I love the chemistry between him and his bailiff, Doyle -- when the sound goes to commercial in the middle of the case. It was kind of funny the first time because it looked like Judge Mathis was promoting Tampax or some shit. But the fourth time the comedy had run its course for me. I was mad because this was not helping me wind down from a long day at the machine shop. It was winding me up. And finally Judge Mathis disappeared completely -- right at the ruling, no less -- and all I got was the Fox 9 error message. "What's your problem, Fox 9? What? What's that? Oh! You must have shit up the ass!"

Wade Swafford has shit up the ass (up and to the left) courtesy of Eda Cherry.

by Jimmy Steeps

Hay now I never said I was down with the gays but I aint mad at em niether. No gays never tryed to rimrod me in the pork pie so I respect that shit man. Thanks gays. We cool. So anyways I was down round the corner and saw ther was this new bar. I went in and was all like motherfucker what kind of fuckin bar is this and dude was all shushin me and shit. YOU DO NOT SHUSH THE STEEPSTER GOD DAM! But then I callmed my shit down and dude tells me its a GBLT bar or some shit. Well shit son I love me a fuckin BLT! Wats the G for I says? Gravy? Fuckin gravy on my BLT would be the shit and shit god dam! No, no no dude says. He says it stands for GAY! Im like WHUT?? Fuckin Gay? What you mean? So he starts talkin and shit Im like look as long as they aint no fucking jizz on my sammich I have the BLT. G or no G son. Im hungry like a motherfucker. Dude trys to talk me into some cheezy wontons. Its there specialty or some shit. No I said gimme the god dam BLT. You talk the shit all up and this is a GBLT place so cook that shit up son. So dude serves me up my Gay BLT and I be god damed if that wasnt the best fuckin BLT I ever had.

Jimmy Steeps likes BLTs, guns, and tennis.

I was asked to publish the following open letter, which I think is supposed to be addressed to leaders in the Jewish community. I had trouble reading the handwriting, but I'm pretty sure I got it all. I think.

--

Dear jewish pope, my buddy and I were talking the other day and I made a ham sandwich and I offered him some and he was all like NO WAY DUDE! I was like why not and he was like BECAUSE IM JEWISH YOU DUMB FUCK! I said SETTLE DOWN DONT CALL ME DUMB!! Then he told me all about how jews dont eat pig stuff like ham and bacon and well anyway I stopped listening but i think it was because pigs used to be poisond by guys that didnt like jewish guys. I totally get it but its hard to poison pigs now because they get looked at in the packing plant. IS THIS PIG POISON? NO HES FINE LET HIM GO THRU. Stamp! Approoved! He gets put in the slicer and grinder and is made into unpoisond meats and hog cheeses. So anyway jewish pope you can straten your tall yamaha hat and dont worry any more because ham is safe. You can write it in your toro. Just thought Id let you know. Thanks for listning.

-Immaculate Sanchez, Jr.

What sluttier than fucking a governor for money? Well, nothing if you're counting individual acts, but throw in spending a week on the Girls Gone Wild bus with the world's sleaziest douchebag, aka Joe Francis, and that ups the slut-o-meter by a good 33%. In 2003, Ashley Alexandria Dupre was in Miami to celebrate her 18th birthday. After getting jackbooted from her hotel (I'll bet it was for doing something slutty), Dupre ended up on the GGW bus and stayed there for a week. Most girls just show up and quickly flash their tits or lick some 'tang for an hour or two and that's that. But Ashley's a special breed of slut. She stayed on the bus for a week, making full-length videos. Nudity! Check. Lezzing out with chicks (as opposed to lezzing out with guys??)! Check! "Get on the slut bus... don't need to discuss muuuuuch! Cover this chick in pee, and set yourself free." For her efforts, she got some dollar dollar bill, ya'll. And a bus ticket home. Now, her million dollar money hole will be shown to the world without her getting further compensation. Sounds like the video will be on the GGW websites soon. Yours for the viewing if you've got $30 in the couch cushions. Hmm... I like nude chicks, but I don't like paying for them. Or even for videos of them.

I'll just wait until someone rips it and puts it out in a BitTorrent file.

After soon-to-be-former New York Governor Elliot Spitzer was outed as a whoremonger and adulterer, we learned that he had dropped about $4,000 on one night with "Kristen" and had spent about $80,000 total with her high-falutin' escort service. I fired up my trusty UNIVAC, crunched the numbers, and calculated that to be 20 rolls in the clover. Now media outlets are reporting that he used the service 8 times. That is TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS per whore. Or if you will, 10,000 bones per bone.

Of more prurient interest, the identity of "Kristen" has been revealed as 22 year old scrumptious strumpet Ashley Alexandra Dupré. I won't bother to post the photos of Miss Dupré, as they're plastered across the 'net as copiously as the terminal velocity semen streams nearing countless screens of pervs jerking off to her MySpace profile. But in my humble estimation, she is not worth $10,000 to fuck just once. A thousand dollars, maybe two at best.

Perhaps Governor Spitzer was wet behind the ears when it comes to the economics of being a "hobbyist" (a john). As someone who has a real life hooker as a friend, I could have apprised him of the going rates for rented poon. That is why I have written a comprehensive guide to fair market values of prostitutes called The Afterglide Encyclopædia Vaginæ (gratuitous graphemes added for the appearance of class and authority) .

Excerpt from page 43 of The Afterglide Encyclopædia Vaginæ:

"Though it is considered to be in extremely poor taste, requesting a thorough gynocological exam of a lady of the evening is not against the hooking code. Much as one might have a used automobile inspected by a mechanic prior to purchase, a hobbyist may commit to the transaction strictly contingent upon the results of inspection. The hobbyist may insist upon the services of an inspector with whom he is familiar, however said inspector must be a licensed and reputable OB/GYN. The hobbyist may not just have 'some guy' pry the escort's money hole open with a speculum, at least not without paying her an 'Eiffel Tower' fee."

The Afterglide Encyclopædia Vaginæ is now available on Amazon for a mere $14.95 (cash only, to be placed in an envelope on the dresser prior to the transaction).

by Jimmy Steeps

Fuck sup with all these fuckin lippy ass motherfuckers wantin to be presdint god dammit? Sumbitches all like "God dam im a fuckin black dude vote my shit cokcsuckers" or "fuckin vote my ass in cuz i got tits an a fuckin snack bar up my god dam snatch sho you right". Either that or they all "This war god dam we aint goin fucking no where. Fuckers stayin right there mebbe I sent more fuckers there how you like me now god damn sumbitch!" Fuck all you fuckers. I aint vote your shit for nothin man. I dont care you aint white or gots a fuckin hootnanny down your pants or you sat in a fuckin war box for buncha years. You all the same god dam ass fuckers whut got us up in this shit in the first place. God dam fuckin shit man! Im votin for Lootenant Worf man. THat notty headed wolf face mother fucker set your shit straight I said! Fire a mother fuckin futon torpeedo up your ass pucker you god dam sally britch wearin pretty boy!!

by Wade Swafford

I just started watching porn in HD and I'm so fucking excited. I feel like I'm living in the future now or something. Mint! Don't get me wrong, the Picasso porn used to do it for me -- a LOT -- in the same way a lady leaves some article of clothing on in order to leave something up to the imagination. That's not the case for me anymore. I don't even get that theory now. I have fucking seen the light with this HD shit.

I zoomed in on a money shot once and saw sperm pooled in the corner of Little Oral Annie's eyes. Seriously. Her blue eyeliner was smudged from some moist cock-play and I could literally see individual sperm swimming in her eyelid fold. Those were some happy sperm, blissfully ignorant of how soon their lives would end. It was like having one of those fucking ambient aquarium dvds on; calming. The little fuckers probably felt like they were in Club Med. It got me off and I went to sleep and dreamed about getting together with all of my sperm friends for a VIP party on a porn actress's face. Now it's like I'm dreaming in HD. Before I'd wake up in a cold fucking sweat after my Picasso Porn nightmares. Fuck that noise.

Another night I was getting off thinking about this chick Janey Erickson from high school Junior year. I lost my virginity to her in a hallway in high school. She didn't know it, I didn't really know it until I put in this 1980s porn the other night when I started to think of her. Thinking back on it, I remember her giant fucking bangs being the thing I focused on when the front of my pants filled with warm rice pudding that day at school.

So I put in some '80s porn that was redone in HD and suddenly, instead of getting off, it was like I started a goddamn scientific research project. Conclusion: I think the giant hairsprayed '80s hair actually attracts sperm, like static electricity or some shit. I frame-by-framed a guy blowing his wad and there was spatter hitting the chick's forehead bush that should have been smacking her taught, sweaty, double Ds. I also saw an instance where the sperm seemed to be literally getting pulled out of some guy's wiener when the porn actress's face got closer to the fly in his stone-washed Guess jeans. That's right. Not shooting out, but being pulled out. This was a bad-dream sequence in the plot of the film. Obviously coming that soon isn't cool. But this HD shit has totally cleared this guy. His premature cum shot was totally not his fault! It had to have been the Aqua Net. Does aqua mean sperm in some other language? Because it should. Fuckin' Sperm Net is what it is.

So this is why I think I lost my virginity like this my junior year in high school -- I saw Janey Erickson from a couple feet away and I spattered in my pants. It was like I had no control! Now I realize it was her Aqua Net bangs. Not me! Not me being a teenager with dick with no concept of timing. I lost my virginity from just a couple of steps away to her mangled Aqua Net hair tiara. One of my sperms actually escaped through my button-down fly and managed to snuggle up in her sticky bangs. Some nights I still get off just thinking about that. It's like my pants were the deadly, acidic vaginal fluid; my sperm pooled in a cooling mass grave in the front panel of my jockeys. But one strong soldier made it through to the egg, i.e. Janey's golden orb of bangs, and actually achieved zygote status up there. That day there was life atop Janey Erickson's forehead bush. My little sperm stayed up there the rest of the day; I know it because that Aqua Net shit is everything-proof. I had a theory about it then, but HD porn has straight-up proven it. Nothing escaped '80s bangs. Nothing. Maybe that's why chicks with a gummy mane get me off; I like control or some shit.

Wade Swafford is currently inspecting some spoogey bangs. He may or may not be somehow related to Eda Cherry.