I'm an absent-minded forgetful kinda person at times and just had an awesome idea:

Google needs to provide a service where when you're trying to remember something, you can log into your account and type in "What is it I'm trying to remember?", hit SEARCH, and get your answer right there in your web browser.

Hopefully one of their developers will read this and some day soon I'll see it in the NEW STUFF!! link.

1. I am aware that that one guy is stupid, and that the other guy rules.
2. I am also aware that the election is coming and that I need to vote.
3. No amount of propaganda, gossip, articles, quotes, or anything of that nature will sway how I feel and make me think "Gee, you are SO right, thank you for showing me the way; I think that the other guy is stupid now, and the other one rules... GOSH you are SO SMART!" Keep it up, I can just as easily annoy you by inundating you with globs of information about how much I like pizza with Tabasco sauce on it, and how you should try it and that you're an idiot if you don't.

Capiche? Now that we have that straightened out... who do you think the winner of Project Runway will be this season?

Not that I think I'm Tim Gunn or anything like that (I'm not nearly that funny), but I think it's time for skinny jeans to go. Where we live in Uptown you can walk around and at any given moment find at least one hipster, punk, or pseudo punk sporting skinny jeans. It looked cool on Joey Ramone, but chances are it doesn't on most everyone else.

My first bone to pick with the skinny jean is that a lot of its wearers are not necessarily skinny. It's called a skinny jean. Not an average jean, or a more to love jean. A skinny jean is maybe not the best idea for those of you folks whose ribs and spine aren't clearly visible through their skin. It can easily become a Muffin Top Enhancing jean. I'm of average size and even I know I'm too much of a lardass by skinny jean standards to even think about trying a pair on.

Second, and most importantly, I'm pretty sure that skinny jean wearers have never had a good full view of their own asses whilst adorned in the skinny jean. I'm here to break the news to you: IT'S NOT FLATTERING. It almost looks as if one's ass in a skinny jean is pressed hard up against an invisible pane of glass. Combined with the overall tightness in the undercarriage area, it makes your butt look like the crotch area of a penguin. It's as if instead of 2 buttcheeks, you're giving the illusion that you only have one. I guess I'll refer to that as "Eggbutt", because that's what it looks like.  

Not cute.

Let's initiate an early retirement for the skinny jean and bring this unflattering insanity to a much needed end.

So tonight as I was biking down Lyndale Ave. into work, I passed a bunch of folks out on the island dividing the street beneath the I94 overpass which usually serves as a litter box for the homeless. These people were all honkies from what I could tell, all well-groomed and appearing to have bathed within the last 48 hours. There was about 2 dozen of them standing out there with signs and I'd be willing to put money on it that at least half of them drive a Prius.

So anywho, their signs were being held up to traffic and read things like "There is hope!" and "God bless America!" and other similar incredibly clever, insightful verbiage along those lines. There were the token handful of kids sitting there appearing to be bored out of their minds and hating their parents for dragging them out there. The basic message they were trying to convey, at least from what I could gather, is that America is awesome, it kicks major ass, and um... America is really, really, really cool and awesome and stuff. I heard two cars honk at them, and they all responded with a resounding, enthusiastic "Woooo!"

Not 3 seconds later, I passed another sign-holding gentleman who was so caked with soot you could have written on his skin with a wet finger. He looked similar to an icky beard-era Jim Morrison, and his sign said "HOMELESS, WILL WORK FOR FOOD" 

Yep. Gawd bless America!

I have an inexplicable pile of about 14 various sizes of small screws in one of my jacket pockets and I have absolutely no idea how they got in there. I wear this jacket all of the time, and on Saturday reached in the pocket and suddenly found all of these damned screws living in there. One of them is broken in half.

?

Beats me. I foresee one of two things happening as a result of this:

1) I am going to lift something relatively large and heavy up at home, something that was once held together by these screws, and it will fall apart.

2) Same as above, but it will happen to you instead. If it does, that means I have some sort of sleep walking screw removal disorder. And I also have your screws. My apologies if so.

If you're lifting something heavy over the next few weeks that is held together by screws, I'd give it a good jiggle first just to play it on the safe side. If it falls apart, send me a note and I'll get the screws back to you ASAP. 

Can we please completely eliminate the phrase "touch base" from the Engrish rangrage? Or could I at least have someone explain to me why that phrase bugs the shit out of me so much when I hear it?

Think about that for a bit and let's touch base when we think we're getting closer to a decision or explanation.

We attended the Melvins show at Grumpy's this evening. Absolutely stellar performance as usual. We were planted just right of the front of the stage.

Just a couple of pointers for 2 fans in particular:

Melvins Fan 1: Would it fucking kill you to put on some deodorant and maybe take a bath every few weeks? Seriously. Put some god damned pit stick on.

Melvins Fan 2: Wearing the faded LA Guns tour shirt you bought at Ragstock and sporting sideways blow-dried emo-hair with your baseball cap that is cocked sideways (emphasis on cocked) just makes you look like a big fucking dork to the band when you're planted up front flashing the hand horns at them...

That's all. Aside from that, Melvins gave me a severe musical ass pummeling as they usually manage to do.

Today at about 5:15 some dude, whose birth I'm sure was the result of a defective prophylactic in the restroom of a White Castle 45 years ago, was crossing Franklin Avenue at Nicollet. Evidently his dangling participle, if you catch my drift, or his dick if you don't catch my drift, is so small and flaccid that he needs to do stupid shit to deter himself from the fact that he becomes green in envy when he sees a AAA battery. And the fact that he's so ugly, and I quote Sylvester Stone in the 1984 epic film Rhinestone, that "he's got to hang a porkchop around his neck to get his dog to play with him."

Our friend Mr. Teenyweenie does things to compensate like crossing the street in front of a car who clearly had a green light, making the car slow down & honk, and then giving said car the finger as he kept walking to his bus stop.

To that guy: Thank you for feeling my stare while I was at the red light and looking over. For that 5 seconds we kept eye contact, I said to myself "If there is a God, in the next split second he would give that man the most incredible and drawn out bout of cramping diarrhea a person could ever barely live through."

Are You There God? It's Me, Micycle.  

Well as it turns out, he got onto the bus just fine and the bus pulled away. Dickhead rides again, out to do nothing for society other than lower its collective IQ. So this "God" dude has yet to prove to me that he exists. Next chance I'll give him is to prevent Celine Dion from putting out another album. All I can do is patiently wait here twiddling my thumbs and hope for the best.