Right now two people close to me are in desperate need of a j-o-b in the Twin Cities area. And no, I am not one of those people. [crosses fingers] Do you own a business or otherwise have hiring power and are in need some assistance? Jobs in or *very* close to Minneapolis or St Paul proper are ideal. Give a motherfucker some love. I guarantee both of these people are good shit. In the case of one person, even a temporary gig will do. You know where to reach me.

And yes, I realize I have included absolutely no information about either of their skill sets or professional backgrounds. Stop asking me so many god damn questions.

Ang and I met up with Coco, Max, and Lesley at Unique at Rice and Larpenteur in St Paul on Friday. Coco, who is currently in search of a job (i.e. she has too much time on her hands, and you really should hire her), made me a fake wrinkly nutsack, replete with a pair of rubber band-covered testes. I have to admit I was a bit taken aback when she plopped this squishy, rubbery man sack into my hands.

But then I got over it.

Is it ironic for a box to lick a pair of balls, or is it just unusual?


Rubbery balls with a candle penis. And a donkey and a little girl for some reason.


While Ang and Lesley looked at dresses, the rest of us got into the wigs.


Oh! Where's your finger?


A purple monkey watches as an effeminate young boy and a gassy girl take a dump in a rose bush. No wonder it blooms so brightly.


Creepy boy-doctor looks down Barbi's strapless dress for a long gander at her breasts, at least what remains of them above the point where the car accident lopped off the rest of her body. "Yeah, Dr. Lovespoon likes to listen to his own cock with the stethoscope while he does his thing. You may have only half a rack, but it's the right half, baby."

More from Wednesday's kinky four-way webcam chat.

Go over to Ang's blog for some snapshots from our webcam chat with puppets, people, monkeys, two-headed ducklings, and dongs (no dong photos there since hers is a my-parents-read-this-and-I-care-what-they-think-of-me blog).

And I find myself apologizing once again for my lack of attention to this blog lately. Our social lives have been frenetic the last few days, and I also am neck deep in a kitchen renovation (or remodel, whatever you want to call it) project. In the last couple of days, I have:

-Replaced the regular electrical outlet in the bathroom with a GFI outlet. It's recommended for safety reasons and will be one less strike against me during an inspection once I put my house on the market next year.

-Masturbated in the basement with enough voracity to cause stress lesions on my shaft and taintal areas.

-Replaced my 70s-era, craptastic dining room chandelier with a fancy ceiling fan light with a thermostatic remote control.

-Wrote my name in poop on the neighbors drive way. With my neighbor's own poop.

-Removed all 18 cabinet doors from the kitchen cabinets and removed all of the handles, hinges, and strike plates. All of the cabinets, doors, and drawers will be painted, and all of the hardware (handles, hinges, etc) will be replaced. I then plan to replace the slides for all of the drawers so they open and close more easily. This is a pain in the ass, but it's much cheaper than replacing all of the cabinets, and hopefully it will be a better return on investment when I sell. After that, I'm applying the same cabinet treatment to the built-in china hutch, taking down the chicken weather vane wallpaper, and painting the dated-looking wainscoting. After that, I want to do something with the counter tops, but that will probably be a fall or winter project.

This is a new and improved version of this photo that Ang, Coco, Max, and I took on a whim last night at my house. Trailer house photo in the background courtesy of Flickr user dbjorn.

Saturday was my 32nd birthday, and I hereby declare that it was the best birthday party and the best birthday overall that I have ever had. We partied until nearly 5:30 am at Maison d'Afterglide (ok, well I curled up on the living room floor and fell asleep near the front door somewhere around 4 or 4:30 am). And never has there been so much implied (and actual) female toplessness in my home. At least not all at once. I'm not joking.

There are photos. So many photos. But alas, you cannot see most of them. I'm serious. It was that kind of awesome party. I'm so glad Ang and I had the foresight to take Monday off. I'm still recovering a little. That's why I'm going to be lazy and simply link to my Flickr set.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the game with the plastic cup vaginas, I'll post the full details on that later, too.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.

Warning: this post contains a couple of mildly NSFW images of artistic and/or cartoonish boobs. So save your muffiny rub-off until you get home, butternut.

After Ang cleaned herself up from Friday night's shenanigans, we headed out on Saturday to explore some thrift and antique stores. As you can tell from my many past posts involving thrift stores, you already know that I live for this shit. The first store was more antique than thrift, but at least we got to enjoy the Donkey Party.


The basement of the store was mostly clothing. I quickly browsed the small selection of men's clothing, checked out the weird mannequins, and came across these groovy lamps. They look like 60's outer outer space-themed comic book characters. Max and I had enough of watching the ladies try on clothes (they kept doing it in the dressing room, and it was hard to see through the slats in the door), so we walked to a book store across the street.


Once the girls were done, we headed over to another store where I found this horrific Rosie O'Donnell doll, or "Rosie O'Doll." To make it worse, it talks. Even worse than that, the real Rosie O'Donnell talks, too.


Why, oh why did we not buy this velvet boobie painting?


High Steppin' and Fancy Dancin'.


We live in a colorful world.


After wandering the massive store by myself, I bumped into Ang. As I followed her into a corner room, I looked up and spied this masterpiece.


"Go forth and do the bidding of thy master, the dark lord Satan. Also, check out the bottom part of my juvenile vagina courtesy this sickeningly and inappropriately short skirt."


Sign: "Don't touch me!! I'm not THAT kind of girl! 'NO!' means 'NO!'"
Jeremy: "Surreptitious boob touch! Tune in Tokyo!"


This mannequin recoiled in fear when I waved my fist at it in a threatening manner. "You hear me, woman?"


Before we went out for dinner and drinks, we made a pit stop at Nobbie's, a party supply, costume, and novelty store of mammoth proportions. It was there that I lived out my fantasy of having 6 boobs on my head at once. I tried some sweet talking on the ride into town, but Ang, Lesley, and Coco shut me down. Strangely enough Max was ok with it though. I politely declined his offer.


C'mon, Ang, fart! Let's light this place up Statue of Liberty style!


Space man Max.


"This store is monitored 24 hours a day by a gay cowboy."


I tried to talk Max into giving his hat to the gay cowboy, but he was not pleased with this suggestion.


"Teach your child the joys of killing while their minds are still malleable."


The image of a child holding a machine gun disturbs me far, far less than the creepy look on this kid's face. I half expect him to pop out of my linen closet and ask for a hug. No, you may not have a hug, you pumpkin-headed little freak.


"On your mark! Get Wet! Throw!" for the vibrating shark.


After our boobalicious escapades, we headed over to The Homey Inn, the first and only bar I've ever been to that serves champagne on tap. You can get sweet champagne or dry. I preferred the dry. By the way, don't let me forget that I still owe Max three fins for our dinner that night. He might get pissed and burn my shoulders with his jet pack.


The bubbles tickled my penis. Ang did not. Something about not wanting to do it in front of three other people. Oh, please!


After dinner, we headed over to The Lynx Lounge, an establishment that is usually patronized primarily by African American customers, but they're welcoming to everyone who comes in the door, including people like me who are so white that you can see their heart beating through their chest when they are shirtless.


At the Lynx, I got hammered and yelled at Ang for puking in the bed and for not cutting the crusts off of my sandwich a couple of months ago.


There was a lot of photo snapping going on under the table. Someone (I swear, not me) snapped this keeper of Coco's legs.


Oh, look! Is that Max snapping photos under the table? Hmmmmm...


Ok, now you've crossed the line, bub. One more and...


Hey! I told you to stop taking pictures of my girlfriend's goods! Hold on for just a sec, would you? *honk honk* Anyway, like I was saying, you've got some nerve, buddy boy!


That evening, we met up with some of Max and Coco's old Omaha friends. Ang was a bit worse for the wear from her drinking the previous night, so she and I cut out early and were in bed by 1 am. Everyone else stumbled back to the hotel around 3.

With sadness and fondness, we left dear Omaha early Sunday afternoon and headed home with me behind the wheel the whole way. In the car, we expressed our hopes that we would find wipes for Scottish babies when we stopped for gas. Wouldn't you know, we were in luck! "Ay, I be pinchin' a penny out o' this frame, don'tcha know. Gimme a minute, and I be pinchin' a loaf."


Coming next: Robot penises, Jeremy's road journal, and creepy mannequins

Warning: this post contains photos of hurl. 'Nuff said.

This past weekend we drove to Omaha, Nebraska with Lesley, Max, and Coco in a road trip that came together relatively quickly. Max and Coco lived in Omaha and wanted to share with us the retro wonders of this well-preserved blast from the past. From its swanky, leather-bound steak houses to its still-swinging lounges, Omaha might seem to be an oasis in a sea of the Starbuck-fucking of America (some might call that "progress"), but I would recommend visiting soon. Who knows how long Omaha can keep from being turned into a giant Costco. "Welcome to Costco. I love you."

When going on a long road trip with me, I recommend you buy me a quart of Gas Treatment. Otherwise, I will surely treat you to my gas.


In the middle of Iowa, we ran into this school bus. We all made fun of it because it's a Ford Taurus. Ha ha! How small are these schools out here? Then we got up next to it and saw that it was for a school for the blind. I felt a moment of guilt. Then I remembered these kids are blind, and that cheered me right up again for some reason.


On our second and final pee break, I entered the single stall bathroom after Max to find this neat stack of clean coffee cups on the sink. Either this is how the gas station spot drug tests their employees, or Max was making some really disturbing coffee in there.


Finally the moment arrived, and we were in Omaha. And even though it was a ratio of three girls to two guys in the car, it was clear that Omaha would be a total sausage fest.


We had one large room reserved for all of us at the Satellite Motel. Are you starting to understand what I mean by "retro" yet?


The Satellite Motel is a round building with enormous pie wedge-shaped rooms on two floors and what appears to be a single room on a third floor with a panoramic view of a car repair shop, another motel, and a bus bench.


All joking aside, the Satellite Motel was actually not too bad. Every single room wall is solid, sound-stopping concrete block, and it seemed reasonably clean. And the price for housing 5 people? A whopping $11 per person per night.


Ang approves of our accommodations.


After freshening up (having a huge orgy), we headed out to Johnny's Cafe for some Nebraska-style meatened yums.


Ang was so excited for steak that she decided to attempt one of Max and Coco's patented jumping photos. Instead she actually took off into the air and got sucked through the jet engine on a 737. Amazingly, she survived, and fluttered gently to the ground like a crumpled Wal-mart bag.


At Johnny's, you can get meat, seafood, or meat AND seafood. Slow down, god dammit! I can't decide!


I tried the bloody mary at Johnny's. It was a little thicker than I'm used to with bloodies, but it was also longer and girthier, so I was fine with it.


"None of the animals in this room were served to you tonight. - The Management"


This painting hung behind our booth. It appears to be a hunter offering a curious bib overall-clad farmer a coffee enema. I just don't understand art sometimes.


Stab!


We shared an order of onion rings, which were actually onion chunks. Hey, it all tastes the same, but I want some truth in advertising when it comes to the shape of my food.


Uh, waiter, send this back to the kitchen. You clearly have brought an Omaha Strip Steak intended for a Mr. M. Rare.


Lesley, shows us her jazz hands. I later showed the whole table my conga balls.


Speaking of balls...


In addition to my steak, I ordered a side of crab legs to make it surf and turf. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, as I got about halfway through the steak and was done. I made my way through most of the crab legs with help from Ang, but I decided to stop short of feeling like I would burst and just started putting ice cubes in the melted butter. Hey, check it out, everyone! That's what's in my arteries now!


The door to this place is crazy. Check out the detail on those animals.


We saved the tiny cows for this door. It was either that or tiny cow on a stick. Actually that sounds delicious. Somebody get on genetically engineering that shit for me! Screw in vitro meat, man!


Johnny's had many of its original menus on the wall. A prime rib meal for 2 bucks. God damn. I can't even drive my car to work on 2 bucks of gas anymore.


We were going to go out for drinks, but Max wasn't feeling terribly well, so we just hung out in the room and drank, played Buzz Word, gabbed, and snacked. Actually Max probably wishes we would have just gone to the bar and left him the fuck alone so he could rest.

Apropos of nothing, Banana Twins! I'd slide my banana between those twins any day! Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa. God, I'm predictable.


Ang drank a lot of rum and Diet Coke (to be fair, so did Lesley and Coco). I stuck to beer because I'm not a big fan of rum. Once Max fell asleep, I put a Banana Twin in his mouth.


"Is it in, yet?"


Max may have been sick, but he still whipped our asses at Buzz Word.


Coco dressed up this Pop Tarts box. Say ah!


Hours rolled by, and before we knew it, it was nearly 3 am. Soon we all settled in. I had a little trouble falling asleep, but as I finally started drifting off to sleep, Ang suddenly sat straight up in bed, and as the words "Are you OK?" came out of my mouth, a high pressure stream of vomit came out of hers. None of it hit my side of the bed, so after she ran to the bathroom and began retching in there, I rolled over and muttered an annoyed, "Jesus Christ."

As poor Ang put on her own little episode of As the Hurl Churns, I laid awake, while on the other side of the room, Coco tried mightily to stifle her laughter. Finally, she returned to bed, and we both slipped into unconsciousness.

Several hours later I awoke with the urge to pee. A flip of the bathroom light switch revealed a small part of the horror Ang had unleashed on the unsuspecting crapper. The floor in front of the toilet was smeared in vomit that had dried to a burrito shit brown. The back and sides of the toilet were awash in more chunks of steak and shame. I turned to the towel rack for a towel and discovered that the hand towel was also covered in chunky stomach contents stew. In horrified disbelief, I cried out, "For fuck sake!" But don't call David Caruso into this crime scene quite yet because I knew exactly what had happened. Ang, half-asleep and fully drunk, had kindly attempted to clean up the mess that she had made. Unfortunately without her glasses or full access to her motor skills, she succeeded only partially. I dutifully cleaned up as best I could so no one else would have to stand in it, peed, and went back to bed.

In the light of morning, the subject of Ang's vomiting escapades was inevitably discussed, and she revealed that upon entering the bathroom, she barfed onto the closed toilet seat before she could open it. We pieced things together and learned that most of us had cleaned up some of her vomit remnants at various points throughout the night. Here is a delicious sample.


Coco shocks our puked-on comforter while Ang throws the devil horns.


We fretted a little about leaving this mess, albeit somewhat cleaned up, for the family that owned and ran the hotel, but we agreed that we'd tip them when we checked out. I pictured them cleaning it up with our toothbrushes then simply rotating the comforters clockwise to another bed instead of giving us clean ones. But all was well. Perhaps Max's small pharmacy sitting out on the night stand garnered us some sympathy. "Aw, one of them has the Campbell's Chunky Flu. Let's clean this place up all nice and sparkly and leave extra clean towels." Since we had them fooled, I followed that up with a blast of glossy latex diarrhea in the dresser drawers before we checked out. I call it the Dutch Boy.

Coming up next: the robot penis challenge, champagne on tap, and notes from my road journal

Loren: "When's this rain gonna end, Liberace? Care for a wing?"

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

Aaron likes how smooth my codpiece is. This is what happens when you drive so far into suburbia that you have to stop for an oil change and a haircut on the way.

More photos from Jason's snaptabulous suburban birthday bash from:

-Ang
-Max
-Amber
-Erica
-And the birthday boy himself

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Jen, aka jenc17 is this many:

And this dirty little beggar needs to soap up his digits before I let him work in my textile mill circa 1834.

The evening began with tapas, sangria, and fellowship at Solera. As most of my friends know, I get very excited about beverages and fellowship. Obviously Amber does, too.


Alie and Hedy, you call that being fully engaged in the conversation?


Much better.


Amber receives training on the proper camera settings and framing for the perfect shot of the birthday girl. "I want Rich in the frame but not in a distracting way. Now if you set the exposure a little higher, you might capture my natural glow..."


Max: "I swear to God if Jeremy snaps another picture..."
Courtney: "I don't know what you are, little round food thing, but you are getting in my belly!"


Max: "That's it, Jeremy!" [throws down napkin, slides across the table, and smashes a pitcher of sangria over Jeremy's head]


When they know the eyes of the cameras are on them, Ang and Jeremy are the perfect couple.


But when he doesn't realize he's being photographed, Jeremy hurls racial epithets like hookers through a plate glass window.


It was a fine meal. Though there was very little company with all of the text messages, twitters, and games of Breakout.


After dinner, we headed over to 414 Sound Bar which Rich had reserved for a couple of hours for the party.

"Say, ladies. Have you seen my latest play? It's called Max Sparber and His Fine, Fine Bitches."


This is a fairly accurate representation of the atmosphere. Dark, bluish (the lights in the floor can change colors but were blue the entire time we were there). Imagine a DJ making thumping dance music come out of his thingy and random three-in-the-dee animations and movie clips projected on all of the walls, and you're there with us.


"MMMM mmmph... beer... good... om nom nom... mmph."


"Jeremy! How many beers are you going to drink tonight!?"


"Mmmph... glug... I dunno... mmmph... how many do they have?"


"Apparently not enough. You and I are having a little talk when we get home, mister!"


"...mmmph... sounds good... mmmm laldaldllaldllalllaaaaa..."


Oh merciful crap! It's a photographic circle jerk!


This is the part where I accidentally drank someone's LSD milkshake.


Stop laughing at me! Augh! AUGH! The couch just told the table to spit Mountain Dew on my shin bone! I need air! Get me the hell out of here!!!!


No! Get away from me, birthday devil... You're not taking me to Hell. Nuuhhhhhhh UHHHHHHHHH!!!! [strips off clothes and writhes on the floor, sweating profusely]


More and more friends filtered in throughout the evening. And DeRusha was either eating cake with his fingers or looking for a place to dispose of a soggy wad of chewing tobacco.


When fog started coming out of the vents, we thought it was part of the dance club ambiance. But we soon found it was oxygen-robbing Halon 1301 gas. Here is Ang blissfully unaware approximately 20 seconds before she passed out and turned blue.


Ang and Courtney danced like they just didn't care.


Ang and Courtney dance the fucking SHIT out of that dance! Lesley is amused.


"Hey, Ang! Check it out! I'm dancing! I'm really dancing!!"

"That's nice, Jeremy. Can I stop holding your beer now?"


While no one was looking, I pinched Ang's ass. Hard.


Alie acts coy as Ranty starts eyeballing a patch of drywall she'd like to rip out.


Elizabeth, probably the only qualified dancer amongst our group, shakes it with Andy.


"Buy me a couple more of these, and I'll dance even better!"


How many drinks did Alyssa watch Jason down that night? Good question!


Alie tries to sneak a sip of Lesley's adult beverage.


Hey, there's the birthday girl herself. Hey, Jen! How are you liking your party so fa-- Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were squatting on the floor to take a pee. I do appreciate you covering up the hollerin' hole though.


Ang can sing, dance, and drink at the same time. Later, she also juggled 5 bocce balls and a bloody chainsaw.


"No WAY! She did not juggle a chainsaw!! Did she?"


Jen: "Elizabeth, I have to pee again. Care to join me?"
Elizabeth: "Sure! Here goes... Aw, shit! I forgot I'm wearing jeans!"


Even though I was so tired that we ended up leaving around 11, I can say without exaggeration that this was one of the best birthday bashes I've ever participated in. Happy birthday, Jen!

Be sure to check out photos of the entire evening here, here, and here.

Hedy invited us to a New Years Eve bash at her friend Sarah's place in Minneapolis. Given her building's proximity to the douchey club scene, I had visions of swerving to avoid head-on collisions with drunk drivers and installing a cow catcher on the front bumper of the car to scoop up and cast aside stumbling drunks congregating in the streets. But we arrived a little after 8, found a free parking spot on the street about a block away. We also left the party a little before the bars closed at 2 am and completely avoided the crush of taxis and high-heeled, short-skirted girls leaving steaming sprays of chunkless vomit in the frigid snow.

They handed out party hats, but mine was a little small.


I felt even worse when I realized I could fit my entire penis in it.


Ang and Loops were all like "Fuck you, tiny hat that Jeremy's penis can fit into!" They showed that hat what for.


Ang taught me something that night. Apparently her eyes are "up here," wherever the hell that is. I told her that I didn't care because her rack is "down there."


Alie stands guard while the wine bottle borrows my penis hat.


About an hour before midnight, I felt like such an idiot. Those tiny hats aren't for the penis, they're nipple hats!


Don't cross the streams. It would be bad.


The Good Scientist and Ang smoked a thinny.


Ang, no! If it isn't my cock, you shouldn't be suckling at it so provocatively.


I caught Hedy off guard and unposed. Did you know that this is how she normally looks?


As the clock quickly ticked toward midnight, Hedy frantically filled our champagne glasses.


Everyone who's anyone was at this party. I was there. Ang was there. Hedy was there. Even Kevin from Minneapolis showed up! We were quite thrilled that he finally showed up to an event. Amber is now double pissed that she didn't come.


Lesley, Ang, Kevin, and Ice Cube are happy that it's finally 2008. I'll bet Kevin from Minneapolis and Ice Cube have never showed up to YOUR party on the same night, you fucking losers!


The evening ended with a safe, sober ride home for a very drunken Ang, as well as two more of Hedy's friends. Just call me Mr. Responsible (though I drank during the last half of the drive so I would be drunk by the time I parked the car). And there you have it. Happy 2k8, fuzzy dick. I'll be back to lint roll your scrotum in 2009.

Elfin holiday greetings from Ang, Jen, Rich, and Jeremy.

Jeremy's Togetherness Song lyrics

Christmas! Christmas time is great!
[unintelligible]
Christmas and Hanukkah together!
[unintelligible] great! BOOP!

"I just love what you've shoved into my box!"Well, it's that time of year again, folks. It's finally time to review the best and worst of this year's holiday gift items. Whether you're looking for a tech toy for Dad or the latest fashion accessory for your girlfriend, I've got all the figurative poop on what's bright and what's shite.

Girlfriend or Wife

I've bought Ang a few nice things. But since she keeps a close eye on this blog, I can't really tell you what I got her. But I'll review the items in such a way that won't spoil the surprise.

Gift #1 - My only complaint is that this gift is too heavy. I pulled a groin muscle lifting it off of the store shelf. I can tell you that it's got a quality build, wasn't terribly damp, and that you eventually get used to the smell, particularly if you grew up on a farm or near an oil refinery. Overall I give this gift an A-.

Gift #2 - This one was a little difficult to find. In fact, I had to order it from overseas due to some legal issues surrounding getting caught buying or selling them in the United States. I tracked down a guy selling them online. I gave him my social security number and bank account number. It looks like he took a few thousand dollars out of my account as a deposit. I trust I'll get that back when the item arrives. I can't wait to see the look on Ang's face! B+

Gift #3 - Ronny sold me a couple pounds of this stuff. Kind of looks like oregano. For some reason, he put raw eggs in it. But he gave me a 25% discount and said I was "OK to buy." I'm not sure what that means, but it must be good shit. B+++

Mother

My mom, though she has verbally vowed to never visit my blog again, could be reading this, so again, I can't really tell you specifically what I bought her.

Gift #1 - This one looks pretty good. The box is classy (you could also say that about my girlfriend), and I think there is a button on it. I had to open it up to make some modifications to it, but I think Mom will appreciate that. It also came with a bale of hay. A+

Gift #2 - It's red and shaped like part of my anatomy. I tried to find a purple one to make it more realistic, but the gun shop wouldn't sell it to me. A+

Gift #3 - I bought this one in California. No eggs in this batch, but I was blacklisted from the buy list after I tugged on the dude's tunic. C+

Brother

My brother doesn't read my blog much, but just in case...

Gift #1 - I wasn't allowed to get just one of them, so I had to buy like 5, which is total bullshit. He's getting all of them. I just hope he has enough room in his pants.

Sister-in-law

She reads my blog for sure, so I can't say what it is.

Gift #1 - There was only one of them. There's some sort of button on it, but it didn't do anything when I pressed it (you could also say that about my girlfriend).

Step-dad

I'm still shopping for this gift, but I'm thinking of getting him a CD of trance music or maybe some lavender-scented hand lotion with lilac crystals to keep his hands moisturized when he's hunting deer. I'll bet he'd like that. A+ for my idea and F- for you if you don't agree.

Friends

Mostly your friends shouldn't get gifts if you see them regularly because they get the gift of seeing you so much. I tried to convince Angie that was particularly true for a girlfriend, but then she rolled off of me and told me to go home. She wouldn't even let me collect my trousers and sweater vest first. I don't care: A+

Everyone else

Signed photos of me masturbating. Enough said. A++++++ and a sticky cuddle.

Ah, yes. Musical bingo. It's been quite a while since Ang and I have attended, and it's been even longer since there has been much of a turnout. Obviously we were thrilled to be there.


Now I'm still playing with my new camera, so I hope you'll forgive the rash of weird, shitty attempts at artsy fartsy crap. Most of the photos ended up being unrecognizable blobs.

First up is the color accent feature. You select any color, and then it will filter out all colors but that one. Abysmal Chick and Hedy appear to have been drinking fermented Kool-Aid.


Jen has been chewing on her sweater. She rejected numerous requests from others who wanted to do the same.


Ang is happy that my request was one of those that Jen rejected.


Alie must have taken a photo of my penis. It's not that god damned funny, Alie!


The color replacement feature on my camera gives Alie that special Satanic glow she's always wanted.


This would be an incredible photo if I hadn't turned on the color replace for green. I suppose I could have photoshopped the green back out, but something about Abysmal Chick and Hedy with mold growing on their face while a plate of green vomit sits in front of them -- it comforts me.


Abysmal Chick's face melts when the breeze shifts and crosses my unwashed ass.


Blogging all-stars pose until they're blue in the face.


Tim whispers to Alie that her panty line is showing.


Everyone tries to hide Alie's panty shame with their glasses, but they stop dead in their tracks when she slaps her knickers on the table and punches Aaron in the ribcage.


Lesley gives a long thumbs up to musical bingo. Or is trying to hitch a ride the hell out of there.


Just 5 more of these to go.


I never realized it until last night, but there's a titty on the ceiling. When Ang wasn't looking, I stood on a stool and suckled on it. Fucking sweet.


Alie turns red and cries when she learns they took all of our favorite beers off the menu. I swear they are trying everything in their power to drive us away. Hmm... I might not be terribly far off base.


I drew this guy for you. His name is Action Jackson Jackson Action. He loves you so much that he just peed in your ashtray.


The more I drink, the clearer the beer becomes, and the blurrier everything else gets. I need to drink more.

Aaron: Jeremy would be proud of the fart over here in my office

Ang: Was it you?
Or just an aroma wafting by your face from an unnamed assailant?

Aaron: sweet tones of gourmet cheese and hints of garlic - it also has a bit of an oak flavor
oh, it was me.

Ang: That was a beautiful description. I feel inspired.

Aaron: it was full bodied.
like a fine wine - it goes through about 3 flavors before you swallow

Willie emailed me last night to tell me of a discussion he had with his son Sam the other night. For twenty minutes, they had a debate about Scooby Doo. Willie was insistent that Scooby Doo defecates, however Sam, wise beyond his years, knew that Scooby was not real and therefore could not poop. Willie's argument was that Scooby is a dog, all dogs poop, so therefore Scooby Doo must poop.

Sam was swayed somewhat by this logic, but after several minutes of contemplation, he still didn't feel like that was the best place to leave the debate. “You know what daddy? Scooby doesn’t poop in the yard he poops in the potty!” Scooby Doo can talk, can walk upright in a pinch (no pun intended), and most certainly wouldn't squat outdoors six feet from the downspout to unroll his coil like a savage beast.

Willie and Sam ended the discussion agreeing to disagree, but I'm sorry to say, Willie, that I tend to agree with Sam. Scooby, while not a monocole-sporting sophisticate by any stretch of the imagination, has both the higher intelligence and physical capability to properly sit on the toilet. I believe wholeheartedly that when Scooby feels the UPS truck knocking on his back door, he exclaims, "Ruh roh! Rotta roop!" and rushes off to the bathroom (again, I never said he had any class). Like a human, he can perch upon the toilet, hind legs dangling, and he can flush the toilet with his front paw afterward. However, I will concede that Scooby does not have the manual dexterity to unfurl toilet paper from the roll to rub on his mudhole. But dogs never wipe anyway, leaving Scooby free social reign to hop off the toilet, hunks of crap clinging to and swinging from the fur of his haunches, to eat a 6-foot high sandwich with Shaggy in a lingering cloud of weed smoke.

Personally, I am thrilled that Scooby can do his doo in the toilet. This has to make life much easier for Shaggy et al. Can you imagine if Scooby shat on the asphalt of every abandoned amusement park they visited? Fred would step in it with his suspiciously fabulous loafers, squeal with horror, and dab at the soles of his shoes tentatively with his neckerchief. Though I have a suspicion that Scooby is one of those thoughtless clods who forgets to flush his fetid turds from time to time, leaving them for Velma to discover and cry, "Jinkies!" This is a small price to pay, as the aforementioned alternative is far worse.

So here's to you, Scooby Doo. But please remember to flush. If you can do it consistently, I'll buy Shaggy some sheep shears to cut the dried crap from your hindquarters.