Showing posts with label commentary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label commentary. Show all posts

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Ultra conservative scientists invent "e-penis"

A group of ultra conservative scientists, deemed so radical that even the Tea Party has consistently distanced itself from their views, announced that they have invented a device meant to wean homosexual men from what they have called "the sure hellfire of the gay lifestyle." Craig Jeaenus, president of the non-profit Scientists for Christ and Such, said Thursday, "We've tried literally slapping the dicks out of the mouths of these young men, but their taste for penis -- firm, rigid, throbbing... hoo boy. Sorry, I'm perspiring a bit. Excuse me. Their taste for penis knows no satiation. We believe we have found a solution to cure these muscular, well-oiled sailors -- er, I mean men -- of their sinful lust for the male member. Oh dear! I didn't mean to erection -- gah, I mean drool! I didn't mean to drool."

Jeaenus went on to unveil a large cylinder with a penile appearance, not unlike a sex toy, with the exception of the glowing red base and smoke-like steam billowing from the faux urethra. The device is called the e-penis. Designed to be used for behavior cessation similar to quitting smoking with an e-cigarette, the e-penis is loaded with cartridges full of simulated semen, the essence of which is emitted in the steam into the mouth of the user. Over time, the user loads cartridges with incrementally decreased percentages of artificial semen until finally the e-penis spouts nothing more than water in the steam. 

Scientists for Christ and Such has been distributing free e-penises and semen cartridges to gay bars and clubs in major metropolitan areas throughout the United States since early April. So far, the reviews are as glowing as the end of the electronic phallus itself. Dan Carrington, a 34 year old accountant from Phoenix, has been using the e-penis for over 6 weeks. "I love it," said Carrington. "I haven't taken this darn thing out of my mouth for more than a few minutes in weeks. It's wonderful!" When asked how far along he is in the cessation program, he laughed. "Cessation? Oh, I threw away the watered-down cartridges the very first night. They keep giving away full sets of cartridges everywhere I go, so I've been sucking down the high test stuff the whole time. Full steam ahead!"

When a recording of Carrington's interview was played back for Craig Jeaenus, he appeared agitated. "No, that is not how he's supposed to use it!" He furiously scribbled notes on a legal pad, reached into a desk drawer, pulled out an e-penis, and drew it toward his lips. "Sorry, this helps me think." He loaded in a semen cartridge clearly labeled "100% Strength," mopped sweat from his brow, and inhaled deeply.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Last remaining still camera manufacturer to cease production

For millions whose hobbies are rooted in yesteryear, it has most certainly been a tough few months. Polaroid will soon stop producing its once-synonymous instant film (and has thus far declined to license its patents). And recently QRS, the last maker of player piano rolls, announced they are abandoning the rolls to focus on more lucrative digital player piano technology. As if that wasn't enough, Canon has announced they will no longer produce still cameras of any kind. No digital, no film. Canon, Olympus, and the other camera makers, including those who manufacture camera parts used in mobile phones, have all moved on to 3D video capture technology. Canon also announced that its next generation of 3D video cameras will record a scene down to the molecular level, allowing scientists to remotely study inaccessible and inhospitable environments and for perverts to peek down a subject's underpants. What a marvelous time we live in.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Guest blogger: A Friday everyone can enjoy

by T. Rub Bangins

Hey ya'll. My name is T. Rub Bangins. The 'T' is for "Travis" and the "Rub" is for rubbin' you the right way. I made the bulk of my fortune during the 1980s selling cans of Conklin machine lubricants door to door. These days I mostly spend time with my grandchildren, forward unverified email stories about women being kidnapped from supermarket parking lots, and look for charities to donate my money to. Recently, however, I decided it was time to start my own non-profit group. Its goal is to take back the Friday after Thanksgiving, the Friday we now all know as Black Friday. Now look, I don't have anything in particular against black folks, but you all already have Kwanzaa and Martin Luther King, Jr. day. Why do you need another day? And why can't anyone else have that day? It shouldn't just be Black Friday, it should be Oriental Friday, Some Sort of Spanish Friday, and Canadian Friday. So everyone, give some money to my Take Back Black Friday Foundation so a little China kid can buy a quesadilla maker at Wal-Mart for the door buster price of $7.99, too.

T. Rub Bangins is a 64 year-old billionaire residing in Kansas City, Missouri. He is unknowingly racist but probably means well.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The solution to our nation's traffic problems has been found

Not since this man's solution to drought has such genius been applied to a modern plague. In the comments on this Star Tribune article about the growing traffic problem on I-94 heading west out of the metro area, someone going by the name "tblgyn" (table gyno??) says, "A cheap way to add capacity to the lanes is to increase the speed limit to 75 or 80. That would allow more cars to pass thru this area on existing lanes. A minimum speed of 75 in the left lane may also help."

Well, there you have it. The solution to all of our traffic problems is to have everyone drive faster! That will increase road capacity! Then again, if you can manage to hit 50 on I-94 West in Maple Grove at 5:30 pm, let me know.

Also, the following solutions to various problems have been found:

-The solution to the lackluster capacity of our nation's power grid is to push more electricity through it.

-The cure for cancer is to have less cancer.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Republican mailer

Usually I don't like to get terribly political here, but I opened my mailbox today to find this mailer from the Republican Party of Minnesota. I was struck by the caption and photo on the left.

Now, forget about the legitimacy of the claim for that this particular candidate, incumbent State Representative Sandra Masin of District 38A, is for wasteful welfare spending. Take a look at this greasy meat head. Ass glued to his duct-taped couch, remote at the ready for flipping through game shows, Oprah, and reruns of CHiPs all day while messy, greasy potato chip crumbs tumble onto his stinky wife beater. Oh, and he's drinking a Red Stripe and is Detective Stabler from Law & Order SVU for some reason. To me, this says that the Republican Party of Minnesota sees all recipients of welfare as lazy, slovenly dirtballs. Really? Sure there are habitual abusers and deceivers of the welfare system, but are you telling me that every single person on welfare doesn't actually need the help?

And let's just cut straight to it, I feel like they used a skinny white guy in this ad because they knew if they created the ad they really wanted (see below), they'd be exposed in the hotel hallway for what they really are.

Monday, October 06, 2008

It's ok, people. Just start doing what you did before.

There are reports of $2.99 gas in some areas of the metro. It seems plausible since gas was $3.09 at several stations in Lakeville this morning. So it's officially over. I'll bet you feel pretty fucking stupid for trading in your double-engined Lincoln Navigator now, don't you? I foresee mass abandonment of hybrids by the side of the road and upon clovered hillocks. I, for one, am going to take my gas-sipping 4-cylinder coupe to the old trash burning pit on the family farm, douse it in paint thinner, and light it ablaze. Then I'll take the insurance money and use it to buy a spare tire for a Land Rover. It'll have to be a used tire though.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Jeremy gives advice on raising children (again)

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

Monday, August 11, 2008

Starting them young

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

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

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

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

Friday, August 01, 2008

Your problem is apparently my problem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, June 20, 2008

Wake up! Your barn door is open!

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:

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

A proper dump

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.


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.


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.

Monday, May 26, 2008

BBQ review with Lo-Tide

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.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

God Sees

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.

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

Monday, May 19, 2008

Google is disturbed by me

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?

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Jeremy On the Fucking: Extra Points For Breaking the Bed

This week I won't be answering a question because none of you fuckers ever send me your fucking questions to!!! 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.

Friday, May 09, 2008

Black babies are discount babies

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.

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Jeremy On the Fucking: By the Boot Straps of Zeus

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

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

WCCO and the red light blogging district

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:

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.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Jeremy On the Fucking: A Terrible Job

Alexis finally got her column on how to give a good blowjob published in 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.


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.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Hard solutions

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?