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!

Just testing some changes I made to our electronic signature system.

In honor of this comment on this post, I give you more animation via technology from 1998.

This week's City Pages "adult" ad section has two competing ads that could have the makings for a very splashy showdown. I suggest putting down a tarp and bringing a slicker.

Seen in the men's restroom at Hearthside Pizza at Rice St and Larpenteur Ave in St Paul.

(drawing of stinky turds added by yours truly)

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.

I recently learned of a portion of the California Vehicle Code, 23103.5, which leaves open the possibility, given the agreement of the prosecution, for a person charged with a DUI to plead to a lesser charge of alcohol-related reckless driving, regardless of whether there was actually reckless driving involved. This charge is known as "Wet and Reckless," or "Wet Reckless."

Let it sink in. Wet and reckless.

"Wet and Reckless in California! The hottest babes party on the beach by day and climb onto our party bus to eat each other out on film by night. All the wet and reckless action you can handle and more! Call now and get our free bonus DVD, Tits, Tits, and More Tits: All Up In Your Face and Partially Up In Your Ass."

--

"Dear Playboy Advisor, my boyfriend wants me to reach over and rub his taint while he drops a wet reckless on my pubic mound. First, I'm not sure what a wet reckless is. Second, will I need special shampoo to clean that out of my landing strip?"

--

Calleigh Duquesne: "Horatio, I'm glad you got out here so fast. Our vic somehow managed to ride a jet ski down the hotel pool's water slide and crashed full speed into the concrete wall. I'm thinking this is an accident, open and shut."

Horatio Caine: "Tell me... Ms... Duqeusne... if this... was an accident... why... is his ankle handcuffed... to the exhaust?"

Calleigh Duquesne: "You're right. And whoever did it left behind a torn piece of wetsuit and a finger print."

Horatio Caine: "Then it looks like we... are looking for someone who is... wet and reckless."

Roger Daltrey: "YAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

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.

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


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



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



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



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

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

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Ang and I went for a walk down the street and around the corner tonight for some delicious Vietnamese food at Classic Sai Gon near Rahn Road and Cedar Grove Parkway here in Eagan. If you're ever in the area, give it a try. The food is tasty, the prices are reasonable, and the service is always friendly. It's been a few years since I've been there, and frankly I don't know why it's been so long. I suppose my suburbanite brain is hard-wired to believe that everything must be driven to, so I often forget that I have a surprising number of dining options within walking and biking distance from my house. Not including the handful of gas stations I can walk to (you never know when you might want to deep throat a gas station pickle in a bag).

On the way back, I spotted this sign in a yard. What the hell is going on here? FOR BOAT SALE MOTOR TRAIL. Then the tiny (blurred out) phone number written twice, one of them at a 45 degree angle. Word to the wise, when trying to sell a car, boat, house, piano, whatever, write or print the sign in LARGE, legible letters so that people in cars passing by at 30 or 40 miles per hour can actually read it. Do not do what this guy did and write your sign by dipping a strand of spaghetti in ink and whipping it at a sheet of ink jet paper from across the room.

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



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

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

Moblog: "do it, the bag."

Caribou Coffee, Kenrick Avenue, Lakeville

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

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

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

As you know, I'm quite the artist. That is one of the many reasons why I was quite excited when I found the Penis Camouflage site. The theme I was given was "Escape," and I created a masterpiece titled "Escape from the house of horror." Click on the link, then click on the "reveal" button below the picture. I hope you enjoy spanking to it as much as I did creating it.

Prior to leaving for Omaha from my house, Max asked if he could use my bathroom. As he walked toward the hallway, an object fell from his jacket pocket and hit the floor with a loud thud. I recognized it immediately. "Oh, you've got boob cream!" I exclaimed. Apparently he had planned on slipping it into my medicine cabinet for me to find upon returning from the trip. It would have been a delightful prank, but alas, it was spoiled by gravity. He really did have to use the bathroom though (or so he claimed), so he continued on his way. Before leaving, I made one last pit stop and found something slightly amiss. For a moment, I couldn't put my finger on it.


Wait, what is that on the shelf above the toilet?


What the fuck? Crystal Gayle and Jeff Foxworthy circa Charles in Charge? The poor guy. He is gazing at her with the truest, most heartfelt love, and she can hardly stand to breathe the same air as him. The forced not-quite-a-smile, not-quite-a-frown look on her face says, "God, stop breathing on me. You smell like hot tuna melt and piss. I only tolerate you because I all of the girls are jealous that I date the guy with the foxy polo shirts. Well, let me tell you, pal, if they knew what was under that polo shirt and down those pants, they wouldn't be jealous of shit."


And he still went through with the Breast Friend cream. I suppose he figured why let it go to waste. I won't go into detail, but I can tell you that my penis skin is much more smooth and supple now.

Moblog: Ace Hardware off Cty Rd 50 in Lakeville.