Wee Dirty Kittensicles

I only discovered my 1 year old cat LaToya was pregnant a couple of weeks ago. I've heard Tortoise Shell cats are a bit batty, and she proves the idea well. She's a very strange one, one of those cats that really don't dig people that much. She prefers to remain detached. In fact, she'll run flying from virtually everyone but me, and even with me her visits are few and far between. She runs in, eats and leaves again. Even in the freezing dead of winter, she preferred to spend 90% of her time outside. Now and then, at 4:30 AM or so, I'll get woken up by her weird loud purring and sharp, painful claws kneading lovingly into my chest. I'll see her green glowing, slightly cross-eyed gaze and she allows me to pet her and maybe get in an awkward cuddle. But only for a minute or two, for she is gone as fast as she came. It was on one of these late night visits I felt her roundness for the first time, her titties getting big and stiff. Oh, lord...she never even went into heat! I thought she was way too young to even get knocked up! I always get my pets fixed, because I believe there are already enough unwanted pets and overcrowded animal shelters in the world. I don't necessarily want to contribute to that mess. LaToya managed to slip through the cracks and get herself in a family way before I even realized it was time for her to get the snip. I knew she was about ready to pop, and I should have tried to keep her in the house, but yesterday she ran out when I left for work. When I got home last evening, I heard the wee little mewling of new baby kitties coming from somewhere. She'd given birth in the scary, cigarette butt and dead leaf filled dirt hole underneath my front porch. There's an open space between the side of the porch and the ground that is barely big enough for even a cat to sneak through. I blindly tried reaching around in there but felt nothing but dirt and leaves. I was calling her, trying to coax her out and she was meowing back, but not moving. I pointed a flashlight through the cracks in the floorboards and found her and her babies curled up directly in the middle, where it was impossible to reach her from either side. I really was not thrilled with the idea of newborn kittens rolling around in ciggie butts and spiders and raw dirty earth. Plus, it has still been getting pissy cold out at night and I don't want frozen kitty babies on my hands at all. I really wanted her to just catch a clue and drag those babies into the warm house, in the box in the closet I had all set up for her. I called her over and over, tried to bribe her with food and food noises, I even poked at her through the cracks with the pointy corner of an envelope, trying to irritate her out. She refused to budge. I got a hammer and tried in vain to pry the floorboard up, which may be the ultimate solution to this dilemma, but will definitely require some tools I don't have just laying around. After a few hours of trying, I exhaustedly gave up. When I went to bed, I decided to leave the door open an inch, so that if she decided to move them into the warmth of the house, she could. This morning, she ran into my bedroom, all excited and frenzied, meowing and telling me all about her big news. Still, her kittens peeped from under the porch. Getting ready for work, I kept telling her "go get your babies!" but she just looked at me crosseyed and retreated back to the dirty porch hole, where she still was when I left. I just don't know what to do to clue her dingy brain into understanding that she needs to bring them inside. What if I gently sprayed or poured some water in the cracks and bug her out that way? I think I might get a butch lesbian or two over to pry up the porch boards if worse comes to worse. Any other suggestions? Help!

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Random Photo: Trippy Optical Illusion

I love optical illusions so I was entranced when I came across this AP photo. Relax your gaze, it moves! Caption: "Watching the illusion : A woman watches an optical illusion shown at the Optikpark in Rathenow, eastern Germany."

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Bye-Bye Jalopy, Hello Mystique

They said Toyota trucks last forever, and they were wrong. Following a rough couple of years, my poor little black truck decided to finally go tits-up for good last week. It lived through nearly twenty Idaho winters and hundreds of thousands of miles of road. I inherited the beast seven years ago from my dad who had driven it back and forth to work in Spokane every day for it's entire existence. It was a little rough around the edges, but being a Toyota, it still held quite a bit of oomph and I vary rarely had any issues with it. I think Lou has some kind of curse with vehicles because once he gets behind the wheel of an auto, it starts a slow and tragic downward spiral. He has a long, bizarre history of running cars to death. He drove my truck like a four year old plays with a Matchbox car, and it began showing signs of exhaustion. It really never was the same since the winter before last, when he managed to smash up the left front end in a snowy collision two blocks from home. That wreck must have knocked something loose deep inside my truck's soul and it's been on the slide ever since. On Monday, after a final examination at Cook's Automotive ("She's just plum wore out..."), the white sheet was pulled up over it's windshield, so to speak. The death of a long-suffering loved one is often accompanied by relief. I was finally free of it's burden and I could start exploring new vehicular possibilities. The timing was perfect, actually: since graduation is a little over a week away, my dad decided to gift me the down payment on a new car for my graduation present. I did just get my tax return back, and I was planning on spending that money, but with his help I was able to look at cars from this decade, rather than $600 beaters that barely run. Since I had to work every day this week, I put my dad in charge of doing some shopping around. I couldn't be too picky, but I did have to lay out a few basic guidelines: no granny cars, except maybe vintage Cadillacs (they're like living rooms on wheels.) Must have cassette deck or working cigarette lighter (so I can connect my iPod - I don't think you can connect one through a CD player.) Must have working AC (why bother otherwise?) Earthy or subtle tones, no bright reds or neon greens. Preferably a black or cream colored interior. He picked me up after work to go to The Car Lot way way north on US95. A new place with a clever name, eh? He had found a cream colored Mazda Miata within our price range. Question: why are all car dealers so very car dealery? Mike had a big gray bird's nest mustache and a red boozy nose under drowsy eyes. We piled in the car for a test drive and one block out of the gate I looked in the rear view mirror to see an enormous cloud of stank exhaust rolling out behind us. We returned to the lot and the shop mechanic laughed and said "blown head gasket." I wasn't in love with the car anyway - it had a bad dog hair ambiance, a non-functioning CD Player and a little dashboard drawer that wouldn't click into place. Next! We milled around the lot looking for better options. Mike returned to let us know that the owner of the dealership felt "so embarrassed" about the exploding Mazda fiasco that he was willing to knock two particular cars down by $1500. One was a mid-80's model dark grey Mercedes, which the idea was tempting until I looked at the destroyed interior. The other car was a light gold 2000 Mercury Mystique (as pictured above). It must have been owned by someone who never smoked, farted, or drove through Del Taco once: it still had that alluring new car aroma. The upholstery and dashboard looked shiny new and untouched. We hopped in and as I drove us north on 95, I fiddled with the stereo and AC, both worked! The ride was soft and quiet, the brakes were like nothing I'd ever experienced, so smooth and buttery. Yes, buttery brakes. The price was right and I was sold. We filled out paperwork and hung out in the lobby for what seemed like an eternity for the big credit approval phone call to happen. Turns out the finance manager was Jimmy, an old co-worker of mine from Coldwater Creek. As we waited, we listened to Mike the Car Dealer tell us about how he worked his entire life selling RV's in nearly every town in the Great Northwest...Everett....Bend...Pasco...Lewiston... you name it, he'd lived and worked in 'em all, but Coeur d'Alene was the tops, the best place he'd ever lived. When he started pulling out pictures of the grandkids, I began tuning him out as I texted away on my cell phone telling everyone about the new wheels. Finally, Jimmy returned with our approval and after settling on a payment plan I could realistically stick with (let's hope), the deal was done. Searching the web today for more info about the Mercury Mystique I learned that it is the exact same thing as a Ford Mondeo, which was that company's stab at creating a specifically European car for the European market. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I like the sound of it. The Mondeo was a big seller across the pond, and the Mystique is the same car, just marketed under a different name in America. Oh la la. The main bitch I read in the user reviews was about the extreme lack of legroom in the back, but it's rare that I'll ever have people back there, and as long as there's enough room to create a random pile of clothing, magazines, and tapes then I'm happy. Otherwise, online reviews were quite favorable and people love their Mystiques. And so do I. It's the first car I've ever owned that's less than 10 years old: I feel like I'm moving on up to the East Side, I finally got a piece of the pie. The dealer wanted to keep the car another night to fine tune some details, so I am anxiously awaiting the end of my work day so I can go get it. I'll have just enough time to pick a lovely sunset to drive off into...

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Random Photo: The Operation

Photo by Patrick 04/21/07




Chicken Dancing in 3D

I don't feel like dancing, no sir, no dancing today. One thing I really hate is when I'm at my local pub, relaxing after a long day of tourists and assorted bedlam, enjoying a refreshing little bevvy, and some drunk lady starts insisting that I hit the dancefloor immediately and dance with her. It happens to me all the time for some reason. "Ohhhhh, commmme ooooon! Just come on and dance! You have to! Come on!" and I'm like "Uh...no." And usually she's physically pulling me, pulling my elbow out of it's socket and attempting to literally drag me kicking and screaming into boogie wonderland. And I never do it. It's not that I don't enjoy dancing now and then, I've got a pretty good sense of rhythm. I spent many nights in my teens and early 20's on the dancefloors of various clubs and raves, under the influence of various hallucinogens. I had a blast. However, back then the DJ's would play music that actually made me want to dance: New Order, Depeche Mode, Nitzer Ebb. Now most of what the DJs play, at least at my local pub, is nothing but crapola Hip-Hop and bad remakes of '80's hits. I can't dance to that shite. Sorry, I wouldn't want to even be seen attempting to dance to the latest Akon or Ying Yang Twins turd. Anyway, I'd rather tend to my bevvy and cig and people watch than waste my precious energy flailing about. Don't take it personal, drunk lady. I especially hate when, because I won't come dance, the drunk ladies assume I think I can't dance, or that I'm shy and have self-esteem issues. "Ohhhh, coooommme oooon, no-one's gonna make fun of you..." and I'm like "they will if they see me dancing to Nelly with your drunk ass." I've had to lose my temper at them before and tell them to basically fuck off and get away, they just won't accept the word "no." When they finally get it, nine times out of ten I suddenly become the Purse Watcher. "OK, well, if you're not gonna dance then here, watch my purse" and they could be gone for hours. I've had two or three purses at a time before. Unlike some of my less respectful associates, I've always resisted digging through them, unless I'm desperate for a ciggarette, which i consider my "purse sitting fee." Three Dimensions of Reality Yesterday in Geology lab, Mr. Teacher (yes, the semester is almost over and I still can't remember his name) let us play with these incredibly cool books that showed contour maps of Idaho in 3D. I love 3D things: I must find a copy. Here's Melanie and I participating in the fun. We're so easily amused.
Chicken Fried Love I've gone into Sherman IGA a couple of times now since my Get Out column reviewing their deli appeared in print. I was a bit scared to return, fearing that they'd get bent out of shape about some of the more, um, colorful (sarcastic?) things I wrote about their store and it's clientèle. One of the cashiers there happens to live a few doors down from a friend i was visiting, and she recognized me and told me that they'd all just loved the article so much, and that there was a free juicy, Chester Fried chicken breast waiting for me when I returned. Still, I was nervous. So I slipped in early one morning, hoping to sneak in unnoticed and grab some cat food, milk, and of course, red deli jello in pink sugar foam. I made it almost through the check out when Nancy the cashier, who I've talked to a zillion times, looked at me with new eyes: "Are you the one that wrote that article?!?" She told me that the store owner liked the article so much he made photocopies for every employee. Turns out, that Saturday night after the article ran, there were people lining up for some Chester Fried and they ended up selling out and restocking the fried chicken a record six times. Busier than the 4th of July, she told me. Soon, every employee on duty was hovering around telling me how funny they thought the article was: "I've never read anything like that...what a perfect description of our store." I'm not so sure they'd be showing me with such praise if they'd read the original, way nastier pre-edit version. Just goes to prove the any press is good press, I suppose.

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Random Thoughts: New Bakery / Deadliest Catch / Erasure

You'll Never Walk A Scone If you haven't popped in to check out the new Bakery-by-the-Lake in the former insty-prints on 3rd St. in Cd'A, you just gotsta do it. I've been in twice just to grab some goodies to go, and the goodies were great. A good scone is a wonderful thing and they have many varieties to choose from. So far, I've tried the pumpkin scone and the orange-cranberry scone and they were huge and delicious. With a fresh cup of coffee it's filling enough to be breakfast and for a buck and half, the price is quite right. Also, I had a chocolate cookie that was exactly the same as mom's and that's pretty friggin' good. I also sampled a piece of fresh baked sourdough bread and *wow* - it was moist and perfect, as good as the best San Fran could offer. One suggestion: the seating area could use a bit of cozying up - all they have is a handful of cold square tables and stiff chairs in a room devoid of personality. Some plants and a bookshelf would do the trick. I Love Watery TV Death I typically only watch TV late in the evening in bed for an hour a two before I drift off to slumber. I get caught in certain things and they develop into a craze: "America's Next Top Model", "Top Design", "What Not To Wear", "I Love New York", anything brainless competition style reality show involving glamour girls and/or bitchy fags and I'm rapt. For some odd reason lately, I am so caught up in something totally different: "The Deadliest Catch" on the Discovery Channel. (No, not "The Deadliest Snatch".) It's a gritty documentary series about commercial crab fishing boats in Alaska. For some reason, it's so fascinating to me that these people risk their lives and work 20-hour shifts in the worst possible environment imaginable, all to earn a meager living and bring a little crab to my dinner plate. Nearly every episode, someone dies a grizzly death, pulled suddenly to a watery death by catching a limb in the loop of a rope, or being sucked in by a wave and lost forever into the night sea. One episode I watched, the entire fishing boat sank and only one guy survived. Like any close-knit group of people, they have a ton of in-dramas and personal issues. they have fights and breakdowns, situations often brought on from lack of sleep and being overworked. It's quite entertaining. I've said before I think I must have died a watery death in the deep ocean in a past life, because I've always had a morbid fascination with deep and wide bodies of water. It's not a phobia per se, and it may be partly due to seeing the movie "Jaws" when I was too young, but I'm very uncomfortable near deep water and huge ships and cargo boats turn me into a nervous wreck, even standing next to them. You won't catch me ever playing shuffleboard on the deck of a Carnival cruise... There Are Times When I Would Scream Til I Was Blue Erasure's 40th (!) single "I Could Fall In Love With You", like each and every one of their many hits, is an earworm from listen number one. It's a hi-energy, high camp technicolor stomper and their best new single in years. The last few studio albums have been a little on the introspective, mellow side, but the new single and the rest of the new album Light At The End Of The World sees Vince and Andy getting back to business, making fun and bubbly synth pop of the finest caliber. Andy pulls his usual witty songwriting trick - on the surface it's a straight-up love song, but the lyrics are oblique and witty enough to be interesting and open to interpretation. Erasure has stuck to the same musical recipe since their earliest beginnings in 1985. In fact, to the casual listener, it's nearly impossible to date a particular song. Any given Erasure song could have been released in 1987, 1997, or 2007 with little discernible difference. It seems like Vince Clarke will never run out of catchy pop melodies for Andy Bell to warble diva-liciously atop. Having seen them live back in the heyday of the Wild! Tour, I will always picture Vince as a mad scientist frowning from behind an assortment of vintage synths and Andy as a naughty little boy in green-sequined lycra and riding across the stage on a huge mechanical swan. It was nice to hear their songs taken out of the electronic context and performed with a full band in country and western style on last year's Acoustic Tour as documented on the brilliant live CD/DVD On The Road To Nashville. They were able to prove that their songs were strong on their own, without the whoosh and whir of production and gizmos. Trends come and go, but Erasure remain stoically the same, they are like a rock, a true old friend you can always count on to be there. Cheers to Erasure for sheer longevity and for cooking up another classic and addictive new record!

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Birthday Number 35

(Dear innocent reader: the following entry may be NSFW and not meant for the easily offended. Simmer down now.) It seems that as I've gotten older, birthdays have lost a lot of their novelty. As children, most of us got so totally pants-wettingly excited about our birthdays, they were such a big whoop. The hype starts at age one, when we weren't even old enough to know what the heck was going on, but were still sucked in by the party action, the colorful balloons, the sugary cake, and the glitz of the gift wrap. Year after year, we were spoiled on our birthdays, we got things we didn't really need that people couldn't really afford to buy us. The whole extended family, the neighbors, and all your school mates show up for your birthday when you're a kid - it's a major event. Birthday parties are for children and the elderly. Children because it's fun to watch their uninhibited glee and the elderly because we are amazed they're still alive to see another year. In between, birthdays can be kind of a drag. No one really loves the idea of turning a year older, and we are subconsciously bitter because no-one makes a big of a deal out of it as much as they did when we were kids. We feel awkward because if we want people to know our big day is coming up, we have to sort of advertise it, which makes us feel a bit like we're just fishing for gifts and attention. We set our expectations for the day too high and are inevitably let down. Every April 11, I try to make the best of it. No-one has ever thrown a surprise party for me, and they're lucky because if they did they'd be dead. I like to know about stuff ahead of time, surprises are not my thing. Still, it would be quite nice if one of my nearest and dearest would pull off some gala event for me on my birthday, but since that's yet to happen, I always plan and arrange a little gathering for myself. I decided to celebrate my big 35th last night, a few days early, since I was already planning on performing at M-n-M's open mike. I sent out invites a few weeks ago via text messages and MySpace and pretty much everyone I invited showed up except three people who I really wished would have been able to make it. One lives out of town, so he's excused, but the other two called one right after another at the very last minute to crap out and I was way bummed. So there was a little black raincloud hovering over me as I entered the bar. DJ Jason and Amber were the first ones there. Tessa was tending bar and she made me a frothy and very strong Surfer on Acid for my birthday drink. My dark cloud turned into a warm golden dawn, and after Jhanie and Sara showed up, my sun came all the way up. Seriously, you can't be in a bad mood with Jhanie around - he's hilarious, and I was so glad he showed up because I knew my birthday would be wild and memorable. Jhanie handed me a big shiny gift bag stuffed with newspaper and 1. a Van Gogh action figure, 2. a smoking ceramic monkey, 3. a roll of temporary tattoo tape that says "Rock-n-Roll", and 4. a bottle of Bawlz. Yay! Random and bizarre stuff, just what I like! Next, Colleen showed up with a giant mylar birthday balloon ten times the size of my big fat head. And speaking of big fat head, the bright yellow gift bag the balloon was attached to had a picture of a gigantic hard schlong. Yes, you can always count on the Weenis for some penis. I told her I was going to re-gift the bag with a bottle of wine in it for Grandma next Christmas. Inside the bag, the dicks continued - the card featured a well-endowed black gentleman lounging in the sun (what it said, I do not recall), a "penis pop" sucker, and a hot pink vibrating dong with bumps. It's always handy to have a friend that works in a sex shop. She was even kind enough to include some batteries (EverReady, of course) so we could fire it up right there and then. We discovered that the vibrating action made it "dance" when placed end up on a flat surface. Alex and Steve showed up and pretended to act shocked and horrified by the sight of a neon pink dancing dildo doing circles around the table. The darned thing became the hit of the party, shimmying it's way into everyones hearts despite the apparent presence of genital warts. I'm not sure what I'll do with it, but it's a real conversation piece and actually, it felt great on my stiff neck. Mark was crabby about performing his songs and told me "tonight's all yours." I only had eight songs ready to roll, and I really only wanted to do four. I was relieved when after 6 songs, I saw a newbie show up with his guitar and handed the mike over to him. I enjoyed doing my songs for everyone, but was anxious to get my birthday on as well. While I was on stage, Jessi had come and gone (she had a tattoo to give and couldn't stay) but she left behind a huge chocolate caramel cake that will haunt my fridge for a week. Also, Brett came and left right before I was done with my songs and I didn't even get to say hi. Odd duck. However, Katrina was at the table when I rejoined and she immediately handed me her phone and it was her brother, my long lost Simon Jones. I hadn't chatted with Simon in many moons, so that was a treat, and he was crazy as ever, yelling the "Happy Birthday" song in my ear at the tops of his very loud lungs. The guy that showed up after me for open mike was awesome, playing guitar and singing his own original songs which were intense and slightly demented in a Kristin Hersh sort of way. He was enormously talented and had everyone going silent to listen a couple of times. Plus, we all agreed he was a hottie - I wanted to chat him up about Flexible Records and la dee da, but he snuck out before anyone even got his name. We can only hope he makes open mike a habit. Next, everyone did exactly the thing I hate - the whole crew went up front and sang me "Happy Birthday." I'd had just enough Heineken that for a moment I got a little sentimental and felt like a kid on his birthday again, eating up the attention. Everyone left pretty early - some people had to work at 5 the next morn, some had to relieve babysitters, and some were headed up to Sunset Bowling Alley for another birthday party for some girl they kept calling "Polly Pocket." I don't know Polly Pocket, but told them to send birthday wishes to her from Patrick Pocket. When everyone was gone, I sat at the bar with Christa and chatted for quite awhile before sneaking home. I attacked Jessi's caramel cake with a mad vengeance and drifted off to Iron Chef...not such a terrible birthday after all.

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Random Photo: The Easter Cake Was Fantastic

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Warhol Homage #2: Four Lynn Berks

The second in a series of Warhol Homages of local familiar faces is Lynn Berk, nuclear-haired downer CDA Press journalist.

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Spring Cleaning Unearths Nick Rhodes, Magic Fish Wand, Gay Porn

Despite the recent April blizzards, lately I've got a bit of Spring Cleaning Fever . The urge to purge clutter. It's so nice to fling open doors and windows and let the mustiness of winter fly away, replaced by crispy new air. Re-fluff the cushions, chase the cobwebs, organize the bookshelves and spice racks. I'm realizing now it must have been a few springs since the mood last struck because I have been unearthing some noteworthy things from the back of various closets, cupboards and junk drawers. I've lived in the same house for nearly five years now, and like the geological rock cycle, things that were once buried deep and forgotten will inevitably one day surface anew. So far, one of the highlights was a vintage pin of Duran Duran keyboardist Nick Rhodes in his full Seven and the Ragged Tiger era glory, wearing more makeup than Sheena Easton and looking twice as hot. This was at the bottom of a box of old magazines - magazines, magazines, magazines -they pour out of every box, every shelf, every crevice of my home. Why do I save them? I went through all my hundreds of them and kept only the ones I thought might someday be collectible, like if Madonna's on the cover. The rest are going up the flue of the wood stove tonight - it's supposed to be a chilly one! Buried back in the forbidden zone that is the cupboard under the kitchen sink I found the "magic" fish tank scrubber wand with the blue handle that had been missing for at least two years - I refused to buy another one, knowing it would turn up someday. It's not the type of thing people normally tend to steal. It is magic, too - any other scrubber just doesn't quite get the algae off as good. Outside next to the house, I found an old 5 gallon bucket and thinking it was full of water, I dumped it and ten million hot pink and purple aquarium rocks cascaded across my yard. It's quite an unusual landscaping treatment, really, but more than a little impractical. Not going to be a fun cleanup, either. The spare room closet coughed up the best goodies, including a Dolly Parton poster, a whole box of blank notebooks and sketch pads and various paper, a pair of combat boots. Also came across a scruffy looking duffle bag with my ex's childhood teddy bear, personal poetry, and family photos. Seems like an odd thing to leave behind - makes me think it was left on purpose for safe keeping or perhaps to create an excuse to get in touch again. I had no idea it was even there. I came across the "trailer trash old lady" costume (including enormous fake breasts) that I wore a few Halloweens ago that won me first place (I think it was $500!) in the costume contest at the bar - the only time I ever "did drag." The spring cleaning find with the most potential has to be the big brown bag of gay porn. Three or so years ago, Kami Jo was working a day shift tending bar at Mik-n-Mac's and took a bag of trash out to the dumpster and sitting atop the trash bin was a brown paper bag. She peered in to find a stash of man-on-man XXX videos. Someone had to get rid of their gay porn collection pronto and thought the Mik-n-Mac's garbage was the perfect place to drop it off. So being the thoughtful gal she is, Kami rescued the bag, put a bow on it and gave it to me and my ex next time we came in as a "gag gift." These videos were vintage 1992 and we had a blast making fun of the video boxes, with all the bad hair and corny porn star names. Even if we had wanted to actually watch the vids, we couldn't since we had already purged the old VCR in favor of a DVD player. So the brown bag of fun somehow ended up buried in the back of the spare room closet, completely forgotten until now. What does one do with a stack of unwanted gay porn? I certainly have some fun ideas. I could put them in my yard sale, just casually display them out on a sunny table just to see the reaction of the old ladies and uptight republicans that happen to wander through. Or even better, drop a few off at some stranger's yard sale when they aren't looking, then go back to the car and watch the chaos unfold. Maybe slip a few onto the video shelf at the public library. Toss them in open car windows on a Sunday in the parking lot of the Mormon Church. Can you imagine the delicious uproar? Should I put them outside the night drop at the Women's Shelter Thrift Store? Maybe I'll take them in to googly-eyed Jon at Hastings and see if I can trade them in for store credit. Maybe there's a collectors market for vintage 90's gay porn and the contents of the brown bag is worth hundreds of dollars on Ebay. Despite all these delightfully tasteless options, they'll most likely end up with all the other crap in the back of my truck, headed to the dump.

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Random Video: Q Looks In Lily's Fridge And Finds Garlic.

He gets excited and eats it raw...

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April Fools Depeche Mode Style

I'm always a little leery about April Fool's Day. I have a fear of practical jokes being pulled on me. So I try to just hide in my house and make it a lazy day alone. It's a nice, relaxing day and I always manage to avoid anyone pulling anything funny. Except for those silly Depeche Mode boys, that is. Every year I get an official DM fan email with some amazing news I just have to read more of, so I follow the link to their site and after a few clicks it becomes obvious I've been duped: a Depeche April fools joke. This year it happened again. The news announcement was that singer Dave Gahan is opening a trendy restaurant called The Bitter Apple in Manhattan. Not too far fetched, until you click into the totally legit looking website to read the menu - What would you order? "Dreaming of Meat?"; "Lasagna, in Itself?"; "Milkshake the Disease?"; or my personal favorite "A Quiche of Lust?" They even made a fake MySpace page for the place. Very funny boys. Start here and follow the links through to get in on the fun or just skip to the Depeche Menu here.


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