Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts

Friday, May 08, 2009

Afterglide charm school: how to lose friends and throw down the cluck

Inspired by Bunny's recent incorporation of Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People into his life in an effort to be more charming, I have decided to do the exact opposite. I shall be a complete and unrepentant ass -- moreso. I will interrupt people in the denouement of their stories with skeptical questions. I will come to work in the morning, ask my coworkers how they are doing, and before they can finish their first sentence, wave my hands in front of my face and growl a disgusted status update of "Feign interest!" and walk away. Ang's attempts to initiate intimacy will be met with me immediately beating off and announcing, "No thanks, I'm done." And instead of a Mother's Day gift, my mom will open her local paper this weekend to find a planted fake obituary for me. So I hope you'll join me on this odyssey. I may not die alone, but dammit, folks'll wish I would.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

Jack-o-Lantern Off

Last night we invited Max, Coco, Connie, and Ioannis over to carve inappropriate jack-o-lanterns, or if you will, dirty pumpkins. Prior to everyone's arrival, I was inspired by the aforementioned phrase to create a drink called the Dirty Pumpkin. The only dirty thing I could think of was to try to make it a dirty martini. Slap some gin in there, olive brine, cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice, and an olive garnish, and you have a delightful drink that tastes as ungodly horrible as it sounds. I gave Ang a sip, and she nearly vomited on the couch.

The evening was a nice break in my own home away from the ongoing renovation projects and was an excellent excuse to give things a long overdue tear of organization, vacuuming, dusting, sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, and disinfecting. This is the cleanest my house has been in months. This will last 48 hours before it's covered in drywall dust, nails, and hobo turds.

Connie supervises and Ang documents as Coco gets stabby with a pumpkin and Max does some sort of spoonless hand jam.

Max gets turned on when Coco cuts gourds.

Ioannis grins knowingly before he unveils his naughty lantern.

To be honest, I'm not sure what my jack-o-lantern is doing. He either just has some sort of pumpkin penis for a mouth, or he is eating a severed dick attached to a bulbous uni-ball.

This is why I don't want to go to prison... for less than 30 years.

Ioannis goes all Matrix on his shit.

Blam! Ioannis reveals his nasty stank spread-eagle ho pumpkin. I'm not sure why she doesn't have a head though. Maybe it's actually a Butterball?

Ang attempted to create a pumpkin with the word "BOOBS" carved into it, but the first 'B' got messed up, so she had to make big square eyes and dedicate it to METAL! It's not explicitly declared, but specifically she meant vagina metal. Meanwhile, Coco's devil dances about, dragging along his gigantic, burdensome demon cock.

Oh, mouth wang pumpkin, look at the mess you made. Have you no self-control?

Ladies and gentleman, the dirty pumpkins!

Friday, August 22, 2008

Minnesota State Fair 2008: Hazy dancer

Note: Photos forthcoming; Ang has my camera in her purse (right next to my balls)

Spurred by Max and Coco's desire to see Sharon Jones at the band shell by the Leinie's Lodge at the Minnesota State Fair, I agreed to Ang's desire to join them, Rich, Jen, Brandi, Lulu, and Loomer. This was against my better judgment, as I assumed that going to the fair on opening day would put us shoulder to shoulder and foot to dick with sweaty throngs of morbidly obese, inappropriately exposed, corn pone gawkers dragging their bacon-greased, pockmarked jaws, guts, and breasts on the sweltering pavement behind them. Typically the process involves driving to one of the free park and rides, finding it's full, going to the next one, waiting behind enough people that 3 free shuttles (these "shuttles" are actually full-sized Metro Transit busses) come and go before you can get on one. Then you stand on the bus between a farting, sweaty fat guy and a fatter mama pushing a quintuplet stroller containing exactly one child and a rattle, spend 30 minutes in line to buy a gate ticket, and then spend the rest of your time trapped between or struggling to get out of the way of electric carts struggling to pull the weight of a 600 lb women, toddlers running apeshit and unsupervised around your ankles and between your legs, and outstaters who only come into "the big city" once a year for the fair and don't seem to understand that, unlike the Piggly Wiggly populated by you, a tumbleweed, and the butcher, someone is walking a foot behind you at any given moment, and you can't just suddenly fucking stop dead in your tracks to eyefuck a pork chop on a stick.

I discovered, however, that opening night is the night to go to the State Fair. It took us 2 minutes to find a parking spot at the park and ride, we climbed directly aboard a nearly empty shuttle, and we had perhaps 2 or 3 people in front of us in the ticket line (and discovered that tickets were discounted that night). When we walked in, I was floored. While it was clearly bustling, it was practically a ghost town compared to my previous visits. This was the most laid back, stress-free trip to the fair I have ever had. And you couldn't have asked for better weather. With the exception of a few minutes of drizzle and gusty winds at the beginning of the show, the humidity was low, and the temperature and slight breeze was perfect.

Some people at the fair had more fun than others. Take the dude who was baked into the ionosphere who approached me as we sat in the benches in front of the stage, waiting for the show to begin. He had been pacing around in a tight circle to the point that other people were following his pacing trail, mocking him behind his back.

He leaned in. "Are you relaxed, man?"

Ang and I had sprawled across one of the benches saving seats for Jen and Rich, who had ventured out to get something to eat. I thought this guy was trying to start some shit about him thinking we were occupying more than our fair share of relatively prime seats. "Just waiting for the show to start."

He persisted. "Yeah, but are you RELAXED?"

"Uh..." No, because you're making me nervous, you bleary-eyed fruitcake!

He got a crazed look in his eyes and practically whispered, "Do you know what the fuck is going to happen in a few minutes?" and abruptly danced away. Yes, danced. I scanned the area for a backpack full of C-4 and nails, but didn't see anything, so I figured he didn't know what the hell he was saying any more than I did. Plus it's hard to take anyone as much of a threat when they make their exit with a little Phish-in-the-mud dance jam.

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

Expanding the blogging kingdom

Tonight we had a fucking hilariously fantastic time with Muscleyarm at The Strip Club in St Paul. We all agreed that we wished we could go on forever and ever and end in a metaphysical merging of our beings. But alas, it is a Tuesday, and we all have shit to do in the morning, like work, recover from drinking, work, poop in a bucket of Ultra Pure White Behr paint at Home Depot, and quietly seal it shut, so on and so forth. But for now, we need to be satisfied in the knowledge that we will make the brain love sometime in the future. I also hope there will be booze and meat there. Seasoned meat without a hint of ass hair. I fucking hate seasoned ass hair meat.

Thursday, July 17, 2008


Has a lonely robot found a friend at long last?

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Three hence all the richer

Today I'd like to recognize a few milestones. First, Ang is 30 years old today. Happy birthday, cuddle-tits. Much love. [throws several awkward gang signs]. And a couple of days ago marked a year since she and I first met.

Today is also the 3rd anniversary of the first post on a blog that would soon come to be known as afterglide. At the time, I still didn't quite have a grasp on the possibilities of the whole blogging thing (I'm guessing some of you would argue that I still don't). And there's no way I could have foreseen the wonderful friends I've made online and off both directly and indirectly as a result of blogging. This includes meeting Ang.

So everyone, raise a glass, touch a boobie, or slap a wang in honor of the birthday girl, to friends, and to love. C'mon, you can do one of those things. I'm doing all three at once right this very second.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Getting people jobs

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.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

A special satchel from a friend

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."

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Webcam weirdos

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.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Drinkin' and shootin', shootin' and drinkin'

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.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Max and Jeremy Go For a Ride

Best birthday ever

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.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

(Road) trippin' balls: Omaha part 2

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

Monday, April 21, 2008

(Road) trippin' balls: Omaha part 1

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.


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