Even in my sleep-deprived state this morning, I found myself doing some mental math on the drive to work (I tend to try to do most simple math, like calculating the tip at a restaurant, in my head to keep my brain from withering). The question that popped into my head was, "How many ounces of jizz I've shot out since I bought my house?" Why pick the move-in date of my house? Who knows, though I have been thinking about the house a lot lately given my remodeling stint.

So let's say that spread out over the entire 8 years (well, technically 7 years, 11 months, but let's just tack on that extra month), including masturbation and the full spectrum of sexual activities with a partner, that I shot a load a couple times a day on average. This would include dry spells of a few days where I didn't have time to raise my flag, periods where I've been in a relationship and was sexually active but didn't wack it all that much, and also those years of long, boring weekends single and alone, painting the ceilings with thick eggshell (and don't forget the glossy enamel finish).

8 years x 365 days/year = 2,920 days

2,920 days x 2 angry yanks/day = 5,840 angry yanks

[admittedly this is where my estimation gets hazy, as I have never measured the volume of my espoogens, but lets say 1.2 tablespoons on average, or 0.6 fluid ounces]

5,820 angry yanks x 0.6 fluid ounces/angry yank = 3,492 fluid ounces

Let's break 3,492 fluid ounces (US fluid ounces, mind you) down into a few different measurements. And no, these I didn't do in my head. I would have had to drive all the way down to Iowa to have enough time to calculate these conversions in my head.

In England, you could have bellied up to the bar and ordered 181.7 steaming Imperial pints of my wazz.

In the United States, that's 218.3 of our weak-ass little tiny pints. Bitches be cheated!

You could have filled up your gas tank with 27.3 gallons of my thick and creamy swimmer salad. If I charged you $4 a gallon, I could have made $109! And your car would run like a rocket from Hell. Ladies, if it ever gets too expensive for you, stop by and I'll top off your face and rack for free.

And on the subject of fuel, I could have filled 0.65 petroleum barrels with sack sauce. Oh, and I tried so hard to fill it to the brim, too. [frowns for all]

According to the Bible, that would be 4.55 baths, 27.3 hins, and 327.4 logs (tee hee!)

You could have walked down to the local farmers' market and haggled for 2.9 bushel baskets full of freshly squeezed Minnesota Jeremy juice.

0.4 hogsheads. I probably couldn't fill it all the way because staring at that severed piggy head while I spanked away probably wilted my stiffy.

11.7 pecks of pecker juice!

God dammit! I think I just got stung by a wasp or some shit. Oooohh. Owie, owie, owie. Look at it. It's all swollen and purple. It's also throbbing and sensitive. And it appears to be leaking pus. No, wait. I just have an erection. False alarm everyone. I just wish I hadn't doused it in iodine.

Today is Poop for Peace Day. It is a day when all of humanity comes together in the knowledge that we all share the same experience. We all laugh, we all cry, and we all poop. So as you're pooping today, think of one world coming together to rock a rank mega-duke, holding hands (after washing them) and launching said poop into the sun in an act of unity. It doesn't matter if you're American, Chinese, Canadian, North Korean, Indian, Brazilian, white, black, brown, yellow, red, Christian, Hindu, Muslim, or Atheist. You poop. We are one in shit.

Love, Jeremy

Part 2 in a provocative series examining your health in the eyes of Reader's Digest and the societal impacts of you shutting the fuck up and reading this post.

A healthy work environment includes an uncluttered workspace, ergonomically arranged computer equipment, and a few personal effects like flowers, plants, and a collar with about 25 square feet of frill.


When writing a "lifetime" guide to health, be sure to include as many elements as possible to date your illustrative photos, such as a popular band name and recording technology that will be all but defunct within 10 years.


Something isn't quite right with this photo, but I can't put my finger on it.


Much better.


Once you retire, you should consider taking up a hobby to keep your mind sharp. This couple passes the time by torturing young backpackers kidnapped from a Slovakian hostel.


Often, young people who have distinctly different outlooks than their peers become outcasts. This boy's classmates have shunned him for his repeated attempts to rape them.


When the cleaning lady found Mrs Schuller's body in the foyer, it was clear that Mr Schuller had discovered her poorly concealed affair with the junior varsity track team. Could it have been the photos on MySpace?


The cleaning lady unwittingly contaminated the crime scene by undressing Mrs Schuller's corpse and crying on it.


Oh dear. Apparently Mr Schuller retired to the master bedroom and shot himself, as well.

Ok, seriously, cleaning lady, what is your fucking problem? Call 911!


Steven Seagal neck snap! Kee-yahhhh!


I don't think it's happening tonight, buddy.


Early Scientologists and a primitive E-Meter.


"Alright, I'm going to show you a series of videos in which I appear in various stages of undress and arousal. But it's ok, I'm a doctor."


"Ok, you're blood pressure's good. So what did you think of the videos?"


[from inside] "Hey, you didn't go out on the roof, did you? You still have 3 more hours of video to go!"

Aside from a bunch of booby cream, another treasure I found at Valu Thrift at Sun Ray in St Paul on Saturday was a 1984 book about personal health from Reader's Digest. If there is an authority I trust when it comes to my health, it's Reader's Digest. I also rely on the Saturday Evening Post for investment advice and get ideas for spicing up my sex life from Collier's.

Note that this is the complete manual. Not a partial one. However, it also says it is a lifetime guide. The fact that I bought it for a dollar at a thrift store seems to indicate that its claims are false and/or its previous owner is now dead.


On the inside title page, we find a primary-colored Stephen King and his family hiking through long grass on a cloudy Maine day. Mr. King has chastened himself by securing his fitness trousers shut with a padlock. Or maybe it's to keep out the Lyme disease-ridden deer ticks that his wife and children will be picking from their scalps and genitals.


Clearly they stole this photo from the spandex section of the 1983 LaBelle's Christmas catalog. If she hikes those bottoms up any further, she can use them as a sports bra.


Women like to compare fat rolls, blubber, waddles, and pooches. But do they have to do it in line at Subway?


Women, to measure your fitness, place a yard stick on the floor and line it up with the bottom of your feet. Spread your legs open as wide as you can and measure the distance. Looks like this lady's going to need a lot more yoga before the spring DP party at the yacht club.


An important key to your child's future mental health is reigning in his wild dreams with realistic expectations. This young lad is so excited to grow up to be a doctor that he leaps in the air for joy. Luckily his parents are there to hold him down. "Not so fast, Johnny Repeats-a-Grade!"


For some reason, one section of the book gives a time line of historical figures. Here we discover that Walt Disney may have created Mickey Mouse, but he couldn't draw so much as a circle to save his life. "ARRGHH! Why do these topless dancers keep turning out like short pants-wearing mice???"


Somehow the cut rate illustrator for Reader's Digest managed to make Eleanor Roosevelt even more hideously repulsive.


"EVERYBODY DOWN ON THE GROUND! The first motherfucker at this pool to try to be a hero gets their head blown off! Now put the chlorine in the bag."


One of the women in this photo wants to bury her face in the other's vagina. And by "one" I mean "both" and by "vagina" I mean, "I'm totally jerking off to this photo right now."


This guy took the Shriners Fun Run way too seriously.


Her partner is so tired of her squeals of delight every time balls are flying at her face.


In the 1980s, it was believed that exercising while your computer farted into your air supply was good for the "sanguine humours."


When participating in the "Buns of Steel for Men" class at the Y, try not to make your leering too obvious.


"Hellooooo! Vulnerable, fit man here! Anyone back there? Anyone?"


"Strut, pout, put it out, that's what you want from me!"


1. "I'm strong."
2. "Yay."


NordicTrack's Bosom Squeezer 36DD was the top selling home fitness system of 1984.


This diagram shows how easy it would be to rip your spine from your back should you wear that sweater vest again.


Always wear bib overalls while painting boxes. ALWAYS!


"I give up."


Uh... you do realize you're in the middle of a photo shoot, don't you? There's a box of tissue right next to you for crying out loud!


"Just appreciating my perm."


Start your daily meditation by attempting to kill your enemies with your mind.


Ugh... well, at least clean your pus off my mirror when you're done squeezing.


Now put a little peanut butter down there. Oh my! Is that the dog?


If you're going to work your way up to me, you better try three fingers, lady.


Ok, where do you want me to aim when I finish?


Got it. I'd close your eyes if I were you. I've been doing prostate exercises.


To be continued...

One time Lesley came over to my crib and did a Reiki healing session on me. She told me ahead of time that it would be totally non-sexual and clothed, but when it actually was non-sexual and clothed, I was all like "What the fuck's this shit? Somebody get their shirt off!" But it's cool. So I learned all about Reiki because I totally absorb shit and stuff. It's called listening. She already taughted my ass some shit about my chakra. What happens with Reiki is that you get the rubdown whut drags yer powers to your fingers. Then you can be all like "pyoo pyoo pyoo!" and zap some fuckers in line ahead of you at the supermarket. How ya like my Reikified ass now? I don't know what Lesley did wrong. All I got was relaxed so I farted. Maybe she dragged my powers to my ass. That would explain a lot.

"The color of the hair on my head matches my pubes, does yours?" I decided to be a little more daring in my quest for a one night stand and got the shit slapped out of my face. Fuck, lady, I knew it was a bold question, but I thought for sure the personal spin would soften the blow. Guess not. Maybe she thought I was asking if her hair matched my pubes. I have a feeling it wasn't my question though; I'm almost positive it's because the color of her hair was ridiculous. It was sexy, don't get me wrong, but there is no way in hell that shit was natural. Not unless she grew up on some nuclear testing grounds out in the desert somewhere. I guess I was hoping for a yes from her though, because atomic pubes would be stunning.

She did end up slapping a crazy question into my head though: Could the style of the drapes match the carpet? I never tried feathering my pubes to match my hair, but there may come a day when I might give it a try. It'd be mint! Feathered hair makes me look like there's a fan blowing on me all day long. Thing is, the only person I would trust down there with anything sharp is me and I don't know how to cut hair. I don't want any other guys down there, obviously. And when a lady is down there I just want lips and tongue, man. Any sign of something sharp scares my goods -- that includes teeth, ladies.

I wonder if any trashy chicks grow pube mullets. This could be done one of two ways as far as I can tell. Everyone knows the mullet slogan, "Business in front and party in the back." Because the hair is short and professional in the front, but the back is fucking long and crazy -- like parties should be. For the ladies, the party end of it would fall like a curtain in front of the mud flaps, while a shaved peach, or business effect would be at the top, the part of the pubes closest to the belly button. Pubic hair sculpted into a mullet on a guy would be amazing if he could get some length. The penis would lie on a healthy bed of wiry hair -- the party in the back part -- which would abruptly meet the top pubes on the lower part of the stomach; these would be meticulously trimmed for, you got it, the business part of the mullet.

The second pubic mullet scenario could involve keeping all of the pubes up front neatly trimmed and then growing out the fuzz in the taintal and asshole regions. This may be a more purest variation on the mullet, because the party would truly be in the back. Any true mullet fan will tell you the mullet slogan over and over again. I've been to plenty of field parties where there was at least one crazy son of a bitch who couldn't stop talking about his or her mullet. They don't think anyone without a mullet understands the upkeep. Next time one of those motherfuckers corners me I'm going to ask if they've spent the time growing out their taint hair, because if they haven't, I don't want to hear them bitching.

Wade Swafford often leaves pubes on the lips of urinals and skanky chicks and may or may not be the immaculately conceived child of Eda Cherry.

I was in bed last night and I woke up from some loud fucking whistle noise. I thought it was the fire alarm at first -- my neighbor had finally managed to torch the place by falling asleep with a lit cigarette. But it wasn't the smoke alarm. Then I realized how bad the bridge of my nose hurt; it was being fucking pulled on from the inside. What the fuck? Some sort of stalagmite was obstructing my nose hole so badly that it was causing a whistling noise. This shit was plugging up the cave, so I just dug in. Fuck it. My finger was godfuckingzilla and I took down nose-mountain. That shit was stuck, too. I was still half asleep; I didn't want to get full-on awake just for this, which was difficult considering I could feel the lining of my nose pulling in on itself. I finally uprooted this boulder and I swear to god there was a placenta or some shit that came out with it. It wasn't the mountain range I thought it was. I inadvertently aborted some sort of mutant from my left wind tunnel. I thought I'd just pull out the stone up there, balance it on my thumb and flick it across my dark bedroom only to fall asleep to the sound of my crystallized snot landing somewhere with pleasant thunk. But it wasn't so fucking simple. I chip away and finally knock this shit loose and suddenly I feel a gush of warmth flowing out and flooding my 'stache-land with warm mutant womb water. I didn't feel any of it going back down my throat like I do when I have a bloody nose, so I figured it was just that clear goop and not the blood of dead natives from the massive glacier I rolled out from deep within my face. I just mopped that up with the corner of my bedspread. But fuck if it still didn't stop. I don't need this shit at 2:38 on Monday morning. I got work at the machine shop in the morning. If I don't get my goddam sleep I risk losing Third Base, aka my right hand, on a metal shaver. I swear to god, it still wasn't stopping. Then comes something that could only be described as afterbirth. The monster I aborted from my nose just minutes earlier had some veiny, sticky, long shit that just wouldn't quit. I kept pulling on it and I felt it tickling the back of my tongue on the way out of my fucking nose. I wasn't about to get out of bed just to scavenge the last bits of shredded toilet paper off the roll. I finally just grabbed the hard ball of jizz-filled toilet paper from beside my bed to smear that nose shit off my face. Thank god my morning shit was a clean sweep right out of the shoot because I didn't want to have to jump in the shower just to clean my ass. And that toilet paper in my bedroom had seen enough action -- it would have been like wiping my asshole with a pumice stone.

Wade Swafford writes shit that sounds suspiciously like something Eda Cherry would say.

Today Ronny Gunz posed a question to us: would you kill 10 puppies to cure cancer? The unanimous answer was yes. Then the stakes were raised. Would you kill 10 children to cure cancer? Matt said no way, but I didn't blink before saying yes. Weigh the lives of 10 children against the half-million Americans who die of cancer each and every year and who knows how many people worldwide. Do I get to pick the kids? For the sake of this exercise, let's say that I do not (in other words, no cherry picking of terminally ill children, likely future career criminals, etc). Ten kids die a quick death to save millions upon millions of people, including countless other children, from dying slow, painful deaths. Granted, I'd probably never sleep through the night for the rest of my life, and I'd would likely be spending those sleepless nights in a prison cell or mental ward.

If you would like to participate, I will take it a couple steps farther:

What animal species would you be willing to completely eradicate from the face of the planet in order to cure the following diseases and medical conditions? Additionally, how many human children would you be willing to snuff out? Answer on a per-disease basis.

• AIDS
• breast cancer
• lupus
• Parkinson's
• schizophrenia
• mild joint pain
• a slightly itchy testicle

Given the mandate that you must wipe the following groups of animals from the mortal coil, what disease would you want cured in exchange for their eternal and systematic obliteration? Choose one disease or condition per animal group.

• cats
• dogs
• pandas
• house flies
• plankton
• the 215 most adorable kittens ever
• a cancer boy's companion dog
• the most succulent of the land-based, meat-giving animals (cows, pigs, chickens, and turkeys)

I trust you to be truthful, but your answers will be recorded, analyzed, and sent to the FBI so they can catch you before they find half a hooker stuffed into a barrel in your rented storage unit. You fucking psycho. You already sicken me.

Does anyone out there think they have a shitty penis? I'm not talking about a penis covered in shit but a bad, overall undesirable penis. I like my penis just fine. It's given me a lot of pleasure and pride over the years. And a certain someone seems to enjoy it quite a bit too. Sometimes I even use it as a brush of sorts, with the canvas being a wall, computer screen, or random passerby's handbag. But do you like your penis? Do you wish it was bigger? Longer? Girthier? Veinier? Wish your mushroom cap was a portabello instead of a shiitake? On a scale of butterscotch candy to baseball bat, is it a tube of Chapstick? Is it all deformed and bumpy with knots and gnarls like a troll's walking stick? Or like the troll's actual penis? Personally, I think you should like your penis or tie a padlock to it with a rubber band and shut the fuck up.

Do you have Restless Legs Syndrome? Perhaps you need to talk to your doctor about Requip. Requip can take those torturous creepy crawly feelings in your legs and turn your thoughts toward more productive activities.

"Prescription Requip is not for everyone. Requip Tablets may cause you to fall asleep or feel very sleepy during normal activities such as driving; or to faint or feel dizzy, nauseated, or sweaty when you stand up. Tell your doctor if you experience these problems or if you drink alcohol or are taking other medicines that make you drowsy. Also tell your doctor if you experience new or increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges while taking Requip. Side effects include nausea, drowsiness, vomiting, and dizziness. Most patients were not bothered enough to stop taking Requip."

So basically this medication will first give you the symptoms of being morbidly obese, causing you to get all faint and sweaty when you perform simple tasks like standing. Note how they didn't say "when you stand up too fast." Just stand up, and you'll ralph on your burbur. And it might make you want to gamble and fuck??? How specific is that? "My legs feel fine, and I'm sleeping through the night, but I've lost about 60 grand on craps and keno. And I'm betting on anything I can think of. I even bet my best friend he couldn't get my wife to sleep with him, and then he did it. I'm losing my house, hiring 5 hookers a day, and I'm getting divorced. But did I mention my legs feel fine?"

For most people, increased horniness might not be an issue. In fact, they might welcome it. In my case, however, it would be a nightmare. I'm horny enough, dammit! Poor Ang would eventually become so raw that she'd refuse me further entry, and I'd end up ruining half my socks.

And the more I think about the gambling side of it, the first thought that came to mind was casino gambling, but maybe they're talking about taking gambles in general. "One of these parachutes contains a couple bags of Snickers bars and a broken MacBook. I want you to randomly hand me one, and I'm going to jump off of Jennifer Love Hewitt's cans and see if I can get her to ghost whisper into my scrotum."

But my legs feel fine.

Lady and gentlecock
Photo by YanniIf you read this blog regularly, you know that I am a refined man of distinction. You also know that I am a true gentleman at heart. I care a great deal about the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex, particularly my dearest, the lovely Miss Angela. I feel it is imperative to protect proper ladies such as Angela from the more offensive reports and odors produced by the manly bottom. For this reason, fellow gentlemen, I pass along this maneuver so that you may use it with your wife, significant other, or paramour. No, it is not a sexual maneuver (please, this is a family blog!), but it is a maneuver that will be cherished and appreciated by your bed mate once they realize the suffering from which you have protected them. When you feel a particularly noxious emission of gas pressing for release from your anus, hold the sheets tight to your torso with the arm farthest from her, throw your free arm around her chest to form a tight seal with the sheets against her body, and push in such a manner as to fart. This move will protect your fragile lover from your ass vapors and could very well save your relationship.

P.S. Don't make my mistake. A few moments later, I always forget and lift the covers ever so slightly to excitedly sample my wares. This releases a potent, high velocity stream of methane straight up both of our nostrils, causing her to shriek in horror and knee me in the nuts.

Ang has been helping me a great deal in my efforts to get my house ready for the party on Saturday night. Unfortunately the repairs haven't been made to my screened in porch (they just applied for the permit the other day), so there will be some hanging debris and holes in the roof. Unless it rains, that shouldn't be a problem. There isn't much I can do about the structural cosmetic issues, but Ang and I cleaned up out there last night. She swept the floor and knocked down cobwebs while I cleaned up the tables and chairs. During my cleaning, I discovered that I had left myself little present from the last party I had back in May.

There's nothing like discovering a crock pot of baked beans four months later. Basically the bottom of the crock pot looked like dried pea soup. When I hurried the pot into the house to wash it, the hot water hit the thick layer of mold and send a plume of spores into the air. Not wanting to inhale the spores, I quickly turned my head, held my breath, and rushed to the other side of the kitchen. But now I probably have black lung or walking herpes or whatever the fuck. Is it bad for pee to be extra chunky?

On Wednesday, we had the biggest turnout for musical bingo of the last few weeks. It's been rare lately that more than 3 or 4 people have showed up. Perhaps it's the irresistable pull of the waning days of summer. We were joined by Ranty, her husband, and her friend (whose name I didn't catch). And Hedy made her triumphant return to bingo after galavanting all over Asia for a few weeks.

Alie laughs at Hedy as she reacts in disgust to the banana-flavored drink her friend Matt bought for her.


Alie adds insult to injury. Hedy wonders what she did to deserve this treatment.


Ang reacts to how big of a douche I am.


Hedy shows off her pretty drawing, but I can't see it. Let's get a closer look...


I see. It's a topless woman playing shuffleboard in high heels. Apparently it's quite cold out there, and she has testicles on her back.


Ang vamps it.


After recovering from the bingo goodness of Wednesday, Ang and I decided to make a second visit to the Minnesota State Fair for some good old fashioned people watching. We took it easy on the eating, pretty much having a meal and one item for dessert. I had a chicken wrap from the food building, and Ang ate the worst hamburger in the world.



After walking around for a while after we ate, I decided to try one of these Fudge Puppies I kept hearing about. A Fudge Puppy is a belgian waffle on a stick dipped in chocolate, but it sounds like something I'd accidentally leave behind on someone's couch after drinking three pots of coffee and eating a box of Ex-Lax, but what the hell. I was so excited. I'm going in, people.


Is this how you like it, Senator?


Oh, God... yeah... fudgy... delicious... cream...


Daddy likes, little Fudge Puppy. Want me to pack you?


Delicious! I give the Fudge Puppy a thumbs up. But I'll never eat one ever again...


...after seeing these staples of the fair. I call this one "Planet Ass." There was a lot of space junk orbiting her trunk.


Another oft-mentioned staple of the fair, morbidly obese ladies in carts. Note how I used Ang as cover in both shots to avoid suspicion that I was snapping pics of fat ladies' asses and guts. Mmm... I'd love just stick my dick in those folds and hammer away. It's pre-lubed with sweat and Pronto Pup grease.

After more than a month of taking Celexa, the most frustrating of the side effects I've experienced are still present, though not as much as when I first started taking the meds. This is disappointing because I don't recall sleeping this well or this consistently since I was a child. Though I do still wake up early in the mornings occasionally, that doesn't happen as often. I think my body is adjusting to actually getting a full night of sleep.

As for the issue of my delayed spoogtasms, I had my scheduled follow up exam with the doctor today and expressed my frustration with the sexual side effects of the medication. "Doc, I'm used to painting the walls about 4 or 5 times a day. I'd think about maybe possibly touching my crank, and it would go off. Or I'd shift slightly in my chair and end up with a lap full of custard. Sure, my girlfriend and my side action girls get the benefit of my longer lasting action since I've been taking these pills, but I miss the days where a chick would unzip my pants and get immediately greeted by a chest coating of extra triple thick mayo."

"Jeremy," he replied, "do you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

I scrunched up my nose in confusion. "Who?"

"Other people! Do you ever think about the feelings of other people!"

I didn't understand. "Fuck sake, Doc, speak English! ENG-LISH! I don't have a degree in body looking and pill giving over here. I work with machines for a living. Now can you return the pressure to my chowder hose or what?"

The doctor sighed, turned to the computer, and entered a prescription for Wellbutrin, which is a pill that dicks up the brain in completely different ways without blocking the cock. He also wrote up instructions for weaning myself off the Celexa and transitioning to the new medication.

"Thanks, Doc!" I turned to the door, and without looking back, casually threw a wadded up Jackson at him over my shoulder. I whistled a happy tune on the walk back to my car, thinking that a certain woman in my life may want to invest in a new pair of safety goggles.

It seems somewhat ironic that I would spend damn near a grand on a new queen-sized mattress and box spring, get it the next day, then be in such a state of exhaustion that night that I fall asleep on the couch with the lights and television on. Well, last night I slept on the new mattress. So far so good. The old mattress would consistently tangle my back up in knots after just a few hours. The new mattress cradled my back like a jock strap cradles nuts. I slept soundly, and awoke with zero back pain this morning. Let's hope this trend continues.

Salutations and greetings, fine ladies and gentleman! My name is Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock. I have studied many and varied medicines and their effects on the purification of the body's humors for two score and a dodo's age. Allow me to vociferate the joyous wonders of my new miracle powder, winner of the Most Invigorating New Medical Dusticant award at the 1894 World's Fair in Chicago. This marvel of which I so effervescently orate is, of course, Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock's Medical Cocaine Powder.

Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock's Medical Cocaine Powder will infuse the limbs with strength and agility, will roil your blood to your very pith, and will send your spirit soaring through the air as does the noble eagle toward the sun. Ladies and men alike shall also experience an increase in the carnal appetites, leading to a lifetime of sure and stout childstock. Yes, friends, you will find that you have never known a baby so bright, bubbly, and hardy as a cocaine baby!

Now surely you are brimming with enthusiasm, as well as curiosity as to where to find Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock's Medical Cocaine Powder. Wonder no more. My Medical Cocaine Powder is available from nearly every drug store, soda fountain, dime store, general store, livery, and smithee in the land. If you own sturdy boots or a broad-shouldered steed, Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock's Medical Cocaine Powder is within your reach.

Also be sure to try Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock's Restful Medical Heroin Injectant for a peaceful night of sleep, and men must insert Doctor Phineas L. Shiningbock's Medical Steroid Suppositories for a powerful, barrel-chested beach physique. They also aid in the shrinkage of vastly enlarged testes and stoke the manliest of fires in the meekest of men. And remember, if it's not Shiningbock, it's poppycock!

Abe loves beaverThe sleep beaver and Abe Lincoln still miss me. Since starting my daily regimen of Celexa, I have been getting to bed relatively early and have been able to consistently fall asleep within about 10 minutes of head-to-pillow contact. Unfortunately, I seem to wake up about 4 or 5 hours after going to bed and often have difficulty falling back to sleep. I've pushed back my pill time from morning to early evening, but to no avail. Apparently I'm playing a game of Whac-a-mole with my insomnia. Bonk it over the head at one hole, and it pops out another.

Another side effect of the medication is that my brain feels like it's on underdrive. I'm not thinking on my feet as quickly as I once did. Often when I'm writing or in a conversation, I'm visualizing several scenarios at at once, sometimes even weighing options for the ending of the very sentence I'm in the middle of speaking. Now I think one thought at a time. I guess this should come as no surprise since this medication was prescribed to keep my mind from racing out of control as I try to fall asleep at night. But taking away my brain's parallel processing capacity is driving me up a tall tree.

Regardless of any pharmacological solution or lack thereof, it is clear that I need to do as much as possible to improve my sleep habits and my sleep environment. With that in mind, tonight I bought a new Sealy Posturepedic mattress and box spring for my master bedroom. It will be delivered tomorrow. For the past 9 years, I've been sleeping on a shitty, back breaking queen size mattress I bought right after college. Well, obviously not all of those 9 years. Most of the last couple of years, I've slept on my couch, and in the 2 or 3 years prior to that, I often slept on the double size Sealy Posturepedic in my guest bedroom. Well, no more! I am taking back my own bedroom and plan on wrestling the sleep beaver into submission while the astronaut and Honest Abe suck each other off in the hot tub. All I ask is that they rinse out the tub with some 409 when they're done.

I think I should start a service for guys trying to quit smoking. I follow the guy around, and if he lights up, I kick him punter-style in the nuts. Now I know what you're thinking, girls. "That's not fair! What about the ladies?" First off, I'm not hiring office staff or leasing out apartments here for fuck sake, so settle down. But if it makes you feel better, I would also have a service where if a female customer lights up, she doesn't get to see a guy getting kicked in the nuts that day. Testicular pain can be both positive and negative reinforcement.

Guys, do you ever walk up to the toilet or urinal to take a piss and have that brief moment where your urethra's kind of stuck shut in the middle? For a second, you piss two completely separate streams, beautiful, shimmering, and unique like yellow snowflakes. Then your pee hole comes unstuck, and your streams merge together. Or maybe I'm the only one that happens to, albeit rarely. I wonder what causes that. Am I dehydrated? Is it like when your lips become dry and chapped and get stuck together until you open your mouth? Maybe they should make urethral chapstick. Just a skinny little tube, because I'm not afraid to get all up in there if I have to.

What about you, ladies? Does your urethra ever stick shut? Yours is bigger, so I would think there's the potential for multiple stick points. Multiple golden streams shooting every which way like some sort of wacky urine-based sprinkler toy for kids. Except you could use regular chapstick instead of the skinny man hole version.