Imagine yourself here: Lapeerpalooza TOWMJGM

Right here: IMG_4036

Or, if you’re not the social type, here, off by yourself:



Pay no attention to the fact that the deck currently has no rails. That has NOTHING to do with the plans for MJ’s “disappearance”. We’re ordering the wire this week, and hopefully that will be rectified.

Perhaps you’d want to zip around the lake on one of our jet skis!!!  For the low, low price of a glass of wine paid to me, this can happen.



My crack mechanic (#2 son Matt)  is at work getting them in top condition as I write:




We have TOP NOTCH accommodations here at Chez Car in and this can be had at a very reasonable rate *IMG_4039*again a nice hearty glass of wine, and whoever needs it/asks first


I got a bunch of these cool light things for the deck, but I haven’t figured out how exactly I’m going to put them up:



I may try something new while I have guests, and as soon as I figure what this guy is saying I’ll try to whip some of this up. I don’t know how many more times I’m going to have to watch it …

There’s sure to be some awesome music on the deck too as I give everyone a very complete presentation of what’s currently rotating on my playlist.

And don’t forget the real reason for coming to Lapeerpalooza …


He’s dirty.

He’s smelly.

But he’s 155 pounds of pure love. Let’s all have a nice round of applause for MOOOOOOSE.



(not actual size – this is from last year)


Well, i don’t know what the heck else I can do to convince everyone?

Maybe this –  one last picture of moose:


Version 2




Hello hummers and dogs who know the words, and welcome to Big Boob Friday.



Your model today was born on March 19, 1995 in Basingstoke, Hampshire, England.  She measures 30G-24-32 on the headturner scale, and stands 5’10” and the obligatory 125 lbs.  Please get off the barre and welcome, Miss Jamie Love aka Alice Brookes!

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Saturday Shakespearean Sonnet

Let’s just get this out of the way right upfront:


Okay, now that we’ve dispensed with that, on to the poetry:

O, fake internet friends, how they slack off
When the long week’s toil is done and ended.
Whether they do Crossfit or just jack off,
The blog on weekends moulders, unamended.
Exceptions come, sometimes, from our Jimbro
Or if the Puppeh isn’t chasing tail.
But too often we are stuck in limbo
And Friday’s buxom freshness starts to fail.
I know well that all of you have lives
While weekends find me cloistered here at work.
But thirty-some hours on a poat is jive
Yeah, “jive” is weak; you write the next poem, jerk!
So ends my verse, now let comments commence,
And maybe push this down some hours hence.

Tushar is sick of your bullshit

And frankly, so am I. You’ve become a bunch of lazy, slothful pieces of shit. I mean, I can excuse people like Hotspur and MCPO who have worked hard all their lives and are enjoying their Golden Years, but what excuse do the rest of you have?

I mean, for God’s sake, we’re almost at the end of the weekend and everyone’s still commenting on a Saturday poat while waiting to get motivated by trannies tomorrow. It’s no wonder this country is going straight to hell.

Okay, now that I’m done calling you assholes, I’m going to hopefully provide you with some motivation before tomorrow with a photo of Cal alum and insanely-hot pole vaulter Allison Stokke:


I have likely touched several surfaces that her ass has also touched.

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Fun Football Factoids!

As summer’s heat begins to wane (except for here, where it’s expected to be over 100 degrees this week) and a chill creeps into the air, it is time once again for America’s Game! No, not that one–The Footballs!

Now, you can just watch the game, or you can quit being such a fat, worthless, fat fucking pantload and learn some shit about it. Here are a few facts I’ve gleaned about this fascinating subject:
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Like a Phoenix From the Wire

Let’s try this again.

Around these parts this artist is known as SCROJO.

Region capture 17

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A poat which explores the Duality of Man™

What do you do with a problem like this?
I guess you’d have to go for some kind of Social Justice Rock Paper Scissors game. We could call it Rock Privilege Scissors.
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It Ain’t Charlotte’s Web

Some time ago I saw an ad for help wanted at a pig farm.


“Gee,” I said, “I like animals and have worked on plenty of farms, plus the money looks right.  Imma be a pig farmer.”  Sure as shooting, I’m a pig farmer now.  However, I feel that I may have made a grave misunderestimation of the situation.

On my first day the Boss Man said, “We’re going to start you out pressure washing one of the barns.  We have shower caps, rain hats, coats, hip waders, gloves, and aprons.  I never wear any of that stuff, but you can if you want.”

Retard Power:  ACTIVATED


No, It actually happens quite often.


“How bad could it be?” says I, and grabbed an apron.

“Dude.  You are sooooo fucked,” says the universe, and collapsed in a puddle of hysterical laughter.

Boss Man led me down a dim, creepy corridor.  An idle thought flickered through my mind; Could this be an omen?  Nah.  Omens are silly superstitions.  I marched cheerfully on.

Abandon All Hope

Abandon All Hope

A half mile later I was ushered into the most remote barn in the facility.  He gave me a quick demonstration of the pressure wand, and left me to my piggie fate.

The pig pens are built on platforms above a sluice.  It’s a sewer for the hogs called the Pit.  Every now and again they have to be cleaned out, which is where the pressure wand comes in.  It liquefies all of the waste that has accumulated under the platforms and can be flushed into a catchment pond.

Anybody from California can tell you that liquefaction comes with some unpleasant side-effects.

The first and most startling side-effect was the rats and mice that boiled up from the Pit when I pulled the trigger.


We will eat your face while you sleep.


I did not scream like a girl.  It only sounded girlie because the Doppler Effect kicked in when I ran.  And really, it was hardly a scream at all.  I would call it an extended shriek.

The second side-effect was the smell.


Eau de Putresence

When the offal liquefies, it releases an unholy stenchified miasma.  It hangs in the air like an oil slick, so thick and vile you can actually taste it.  My eyes watered, my throat itched and burned, and only an iron grip on my gag-reflex prevented me from adding my own waste to the Pit.

The miasma is sentient.  Some portion of it had attached to me like a lamprey.  I became Peanuts’ Pig Pen brought to life, ambling about in my own personal cloud of filth.

I did not have breakfast that day.  Or lunch.  Or supper.

And finally, we have the third side-effect.  This is where things get interesting.

Dante did not mention this circle of hell.  What a jerk.

Dante did not mention this circle of hell. What a jerk.

When you fire off a jet of high pressure water in a confined space, you get some significant blowback.  Try to wash out your bathtub with the spray attachment on your garden hose.

The wand used in the Pit is rather more powerful than that.  Random fountains of slurry erupt from between the slats in the pens and rocket into the air, showering down on the poor bastard standing behind the wand.

Dear God!” I screamed.  “It’s in my mouth!”  I let my jaw hang slack, slobbering and drooling and spitting for fear of swallowing anything.

In minutes my face was splattered and streaked, pig shit oozed down my neck and under my collar, my coveralls were saturated from the waist down, my feet squished in my rubber boots, and my hands looked like I was wearing black, elbow-length gloves.

If only.

If only.

For eight hours I worked in a rainstorm of porcine diarrhea.

Because of certain health concerns, there are bio-containment procedures in place to prevent spreading disease.  We all shower before and after each shift.


The shower I used at the end of my shift had five different varieties of body wash and two of shampoo.  I used them all with no result.

When I got home I grabbed a bottle of Pinesol and took another shower.  Pig stench laughs in the face of Pinesole.  Other things that do not work include Chlorine Bleach, peroxide, Scrubbing Bubbles, Spic and Span, Comet, Apple Cider Vinegar, peroxide with baking soda, mouth wash, Windex, two additional flavors of body wash, Irish Spring, and some sort of Peach scrubby stuff.

My shaving kit.

My shaving kit.

In desperation I decided to go steal some gasoline from the lawn mower.  I grabbed a towel to go to the garage when I saw a bottle of Lysol stashed in a corner of the linen closet.

Back in the shower it was.  The Lysol stung like a bitch where I had scrubbed my skin raw.  I finally staggered out of the bathroom, stoned out of my gourd on household cleaners.

But, I had won.  The stench was gone, and all I could smell was the sweet perfume of victory.