I want u !!!!

Evil Smurf wants your VOTE !!

I want to toss my hat in the Political arena! Tired of the Political Right ? Tired of the Political Left ?

Tired of the fake politicians saying whatever they can to win you vote, and then once in office your needs are forgotten .

I have an exit strategy for any situation in any War torn Country that includes Iraq , I have a plan for Health Care , I have a plan to stop Cat Juggling ( Just want to see if your Paying attention. )

I have a plan that consists of a plan that includes a Solid Plan . I am the most qualified to represent this great Nation look at my competition .

• 
  Nader is Running as an Independent but he's on the Republican Payroll ( nuff said )
• 
  McCain, if someone walks up behind him he will have a heart attack. He cant fully raise his arms can you really trust someone who cant raise there arms fully ?
• 
  Barack Obama sounds like a Star Wars Character not a Predsident .
• 
  Hillary Clinton she should be running a Hip Hop Label.
• 
  Huckabee I just hear the Dueling Banjoes whenever someone says his name

My name is Lucious Evil Smurf and I want your vote

Birth of a Prophet

After the blithe romance ended, we mixed Scotch and American whiskey to see the effects. A rookie, with the right intentions, threw in a pinch of Minnesota's finest shwag and we all ashed an American Spirit just to see the effect-- then we waited.

The waiting is, as always, the hardest part. What, dear reader, was the wait of mighty Zeus in observing his Athenian headache before asking the cuckolded Hephaestus for hammer and chisel to relieve the pain? Or was it even the pain that lead him to render his skull asunder? Was it the curiosity?

An area witch doctor, Hecate, who had been observing the entire proceedings with a keen interest and wary eye, finally stepped into the proceedings. Grabbing hold of the concoction, she gave it three turns, shook it, then decanted a slight bit of bile while queuing up track eight from the Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies seminal album Big Wheel.

A partial, guttural question was induced over the acrid potion- "Why is their no handicap parking at the special Olympics?" -before a glorious mist of smoke was given forth.

The office of the BMC sat in awe and mixed wonder. Not so much for the magic at hand, but with deep respect for the smoke and mirrors that causes our simplistic minds to stop for traffic accidents and the self-inflicted pain brought upon by others.

And up from the depths, 30 stories high with his head in the sky was birthed the Rehab Prophet. Critics of the BMC were skeptical at first siting the BMC's inability to accept rehab in the past (we say nooooooo, nooooooo, noooooooo). But critics agreed, an ombudsman and fellow faithless compatriot is a good idea amongst the savagry of our ranks.

Hailing from the North Country, it has been mentioned in some socialite circles that he is the illegitimate son of Ignatius J. Reilly though this has only been proved by a mutual love of Boethius. A steppenwolfe, a scholar, a creation to bring an end to to the phony hipster movement that currently blights our fair country.

The Rehab Prophet.

Mojo Rising part 1

It's been a while since I graced the BMC office to be honest, I have been ashamed to show my face, once my fellow comrades read of my failed exploits in Europe the mockery was too much my trip to Europe had left me a broken man.

I did finish my trip however, I went to Paris and stayed there for the remainder of my time .

There I was walking around one the most lovely cities in the world sulking like a jilted lover my Mojo had been broken no getting around it .

But fear not your hero will prevail I am now inspired, how you may ask what shook me out of my funk ?

You can thank the Kim Kardashian Sex Tape for that there I sat, watching a dismal performance from her then Lover and then I had an epiphany .

I need to record my exploits for all the world to see .

Stay tuned kids

Sweden Pants Enjoys War, Remains Neutral

War? A war! I wasn't aware of a war! I've read the postings of the first two days though, and find myself conscious. Perhaps if I were in the metro area with all you lads I could join the allies. The fight of a sedentary unsummer lifestyle is testing my belt and you gentlemen have the right idea. Bully! As it is, maybe I'll up the defenses in the Lakes Area?

Let me introduce myself; I'm a friend of H.'s from Duluth. I think that I know other contributorz too, but I'm not 100% sure. I've been reading this blog for a while and enjoying it. I'll check back frequently throughout this war and maybe write an outsider's perspective based on the bloggy dispatches from the front. "The Red Sweatpants of Courage". Forgive me a double pun upon the idea of sweat pants, but I really think that humor can be sustained here. Be good.

Into the future. . .

Day 2 of the 100 Day War

It is another cruel day in Minnesota. After a warm-up granted a simple reprieve, Winter has re-emerged from its' bivouac to re-declare the battle. There is something mildly depressing towards the thought that 27 degrees is warm, but right now it is this side of paradise.

With the temperature dropping back down to a balmy seven, and the wind chill assisting with spiraling negative delirium, any sojourns into the hinterland for purposes of the 100 Day War were left to the treadmill in the basement.

Ah, the sweet bliss of the treadmill! Walking in one place for forty minutes on end, and not moving anywhere; that swayful sea-sickness of leaving it, that feeling as though you are moving at a million miles per hour yet still standing still. But first there is the epic battle to correctly adjust the height, a battle I lost yesterday, and thus was unable to work-out. In retrospect, it might have been one of the finer ab workouts my body has ever has had as the derivative of curse words that were hurled towards the treadmill were both numerous, loud and not prone to let this person breathe.

Instead Sully and I went and grabbed a beer at the new hangout, then went grocery shopping.

Grocery shopping after a beer is a fine thing. Between the exposure to the elements, the lack of dinner and the soothing elevator music there is the manic need to get in and get out with as little time involved as possible. Booze is not like other, more illicit drugs that give a man time and pause to wonder over the certain merits of the word "rutabaga", nor wanton dropping to one's knees to give thanks at the snack food isle before turning into a complete savage and purchasing the entire stock. No booze dresses you up, gets you in and gets you out.

Other Items:

Sully did want to add to his work out regimen the following announcement: That along with only doing weight lifting he will NOT be doing any cardio workouts nor stretching prior to.

The official first weigh in:

Greggy's weighed in at 261, and has added a new caveat to his 100 Day War goal: Being able to dunk a basketball.

Sully came in at 196. His side goals are: run 3 miles in 25 minutes.

Jord is 206 though most of that is probably his jerk weight. He has no side goal, but he could improve his attitude.

Consumed yesterday:

Peanut Butter and Jelly toast (with Vegetable Juice)
Rice and cheese tossed in a barbecue sauce
Bean, cheese, broccoli and tomato Burrito in a spinach wrap (beer)

Day 1 of the 100 Day War

Past Diet:
Salt Bagel with plain cream cheese from St. Paul Bagelry (Cup of Coffee, Gatorade)
1/3 pound pepper jack cheese burger from Champps (consumed over two sittings) with, of course, fries and the seasoned sour cream (bloody mary, several Guinnesses)

There is nothing that makes a person cringe more than discussions and blogs about losing weight. Somewhere down the road, when our lives are put into perspective there will be ill feelings of contempt and subtle hatred for those that have polluted the net with the trials and tribulations of their slim down programs.

And with that in mind, BMC is proud to announce the first ever Slim Down Program! A 100 Day War of epic proportions pitting friend against friend, cunning against guile, and sheer sweat and determination against the laziness that plagues our everyday lives.

This is a statement borne out of the sheer inactivity of four former high-school Jerks (not quite Jock, not quite Nerd but somewhere in between = Jerk) who seek to find themselves in better condition, and not the slobs that make up the lowest denominators of society. Years from now (well, probably not) scholars will ponder how this conflict began, but even as we stand on Day One of this savage conflict there is no one to blame... but ourselves.

While watching the finale last night, Greg, Sully and I exchanged texts to see how much of a head start Greggy would need to keep American Gladiator's Eliminator competitive between him and his wife; the panel roundly agreed upon 30 seconds, and even then he would need to have the run of his life. Not that anybody else in our little quartet would have a shot at beating her, but... Greg's goal is to drop about 15 pounds.

Greg's tactics: A hybrid of jogging and weight lifting.

Being in relatively good shape with none of the vices supported by the rest of the group, Jordan is, more or less, along for the ride. He brings a competitive spirit and severe acts of spite. A father to be, his motivation seem stringent upon personal betterment and being a complete asshole. Jordan's goal is drop about 10 pounds.

Jordan's tactics: Being a complete asshole and playing more World of Warcraft to displace need for food. (Actually, I can't back any of this up. He's being very closed doored, and strictly hush hush on his work out and self improvement regimen. Therefore being a complete asshole is only being surmised by this writer despite the more or likeliness of it being true.)

Sully, is the only one trying to put weight on. Having the sort of body where it looks like a hot shower would cause him to lose weight, Sully has been in the position of trying to add muscle to himself for the past ever. Prone to wearing girlie shirts that are a size too small in an attempt to give him a more robust size, Sully's reward for completing the 100 Day War is to buy new clothes. Sully's goal add 6 pounds.

Sully's tactics: Russian Bear, lifting and ogling Arnold Schwartzawhatever.

My participation is the next logical step towards becoming some sort of sainthood. With quitting accoutrements, cutting back on the booze and resolving not to talk to women for a year, the only other logical thing to further cut out of my life is food. My goal is to drop about 10-12 pounds.

My tactics: Jogging and eating correctly. May turn bulemic if necessary to beat Jordan.

The results from the initial weigh in should be coming through this evening, then the game shall be completely under way.

Strange Tidings from the Woman's Bathroom

It is not often bizarre for me to have the trust and confidence of women over their bathroom escapades. Perhaps this is my non-threatening, asexual nature, or my love of good/bawdy humor, or maybe it's just the fact that I have a propensity to wander around, and these are stories that need be told.

Stories that have been told to me in the past:

• The hygenical means and non-dietary uses of baking soda
  
• What really happens with soiled feminine napkins
  
• Women's secret fears of others knowing that they are pooping, and how they will go so far as to catch stools in attempts to avoid a splash

While walking back into the office this afternoon I bumped into Katie, the new BMC intern, that quickly sped by me with her arms folded.

"Are you cold?" I asked, more out of politeness and as a rhetorical question-- the temperature here continues to hover around negative ten with a windchill approaching death.

She unfolded her arms and came back to me, speaking in a hushed whisper loud enough for everybody to hear. She spoke, "No, I didn't want you to shake my hand. I just went to the bathroom, and -- I don't know who it is -- but that was the worst smell I've ever come across."

"Like farting?"

"Yes!"

"Hangover or Fast Food?"

"It was like something that I've never come across before. It was a combination of both of those along with a third element. Maybe a condom fart?"

My Adam's apple bobbed to force the vomit back down. I attempted to lighten up/end the conversation, "Maybe you should go grab one of the respirators, go back in there so you can, you know, finish tidying up?"

She looked around her before commencing, "I think some of it seeped into my clothes."

I edged away.

Now there are strange things we come across in the human experience, the Freak Show complex being one of the most subtle and hardest to ignore. It's a simple thought process that bores into the brain where nasty, disgusting and often embarrassing things enamel themselves to the core of our being and makes it so that we need to blow somebody else's candle out so ours shines that much brighter.

And so, as I wandered into a break room to buy her a can of V8 (honestly, this was not for the potential humor that was involved with it, it's because I couldn't get my hands on the gasoline that we keep locked up here, and the fact she needed to douse herself in something.) I heard the door to the woman's bathroom open, and I paused.

I knew that I could go into the break room, hide myself there so that I wouldn't be able to see the shame of the person that emerged from their den of filth. I could even, maybe, crack the door open or stand there long enough so a sideways glance could be thrown, and I could see who the perpetrator of the nastiness was.

Or I could just turn around, jaw agape and let my basic, stupid instincts take over.

Which I did.

There are several happy poop dances. As alluded to in previous articles, I grew up raised by and large by dogs. Having said that I consider myself to be a bit of an officianado when it comes to the delicate footwork that comes with such glee.

And there, dancing in front of me was Ellen, my employer. Strutting her stuff while careening through the air. She caught sight of me mid pirouette and came to a stop, adjusted her pantsuit (which in a disgusting moment I found myself contemplating: had touched the bathroom floor) and walked back down the hall to her large office.

In this day and age it is difficult to come across such joy as the poop dance, or the reward of having accomplished or made something with you day. It is high time that we all cut the poop dancers some slack and let them have fun they so richly deserved.

To White Castle and then the Bar!!

At the Caucus

There is magic in the air, and the notion that what we are doing is right is palpable at every instant. The crowd waits in line with the crackle of sheer electricity flying through us. After three long years -- seven if you want to be technical about it -- we are making a difference; change is finally at the forefront.

The throng of people, semi-confused by where they are supposed to be, smush together. Neighbors exchange nervous chatter as we wait to see how the caucus works. At last papers are signed; volunteers have run out of the official form so people are putting their name and address on blank sheets of paper.

Tonight it is Mom, Dad and I making the trip back to my old high school. Despite the fact that I have lived at six or seven different addresses (plus a couple of states) over the past two years, I still have yet to change my legal address. So tonight I go home and vote with my parents.

The three of us are in agreement to vote for Barak. Mom has a more defensive stance as she feels he represents the best chance of winning; Dad likes him more for his charismatic nature, and the fact that he could unite the country. Over a dinner of overly done pot roast we have discussed his takes on Health Care, his values and his past voting record-- is there any time better to be a political junkie then now; it's basically on par with spring training being over, and going to the ball park for Opening Day.

The line of cars to reach the caucus started half a mile away. By the time we find parking spots people are walking out; knowing, friendly smiles are exchanged with these veterans. The ability to participate in our civil and democratic duty has never tasted so sweet.

Four years ago, Minnesota had 50,000 people, across the state, come out to vote. Tonight DFL'ers were hoping to have 100,000. In all actuality the total amount of people would more than double that. Crossing the threshold of my high school, which typically sees graduating classes around 500 kids, will be over 20,000 people. My Dad had wanted to be part of the actual caucus, but by the time we enter the classroom we see that the entire room is swamped, and we won't be able to sit down.

Despite the fact we are only forty-five minutes arriving after the caucus officially opened, an exasperated woman informs us that they have run out of the formal voting ballots. Instead we are given little squares of paper (Ma, was quick to notice that they at least had patriotic red, white and blue stars on them) to write in the name of our choice for the next President. A few quick strokes with a pen and the name is slipped into a cardboard shoe box with a slit cut into the top-- after thanking the woman behind the counter she told me it was my perogative whether I folded my ballot or not.

These past years, it has been easy to be discouraged over America, and the direction that we've been headed. Tonight, seeing this many people instills a sense of pride in our democracy. That there is still something good, that there are still people that believe, that what we're doing is worth fighting for.

A single vote may not seem like it matters much, but tonight we are an army.

Blue Balls from London Conclusion

Marcy again takes advantage of my situation and makes another swing at my Manhood .
" What the Fuck is wrong with you!" I yell out

"Oh your little friend told us everything " Marcy screams as Barry and Stacy keep her off of me.

With that Marcy lets me know that Barry in passing told them both my true reasons for visiting London .

I'm enraged, more importantly I am in Pain, Frantically I make my way for the door Once I'm free I fall to the Floor there I lay crying, my balls are on Fire I lay on the floor in the middle of there hallway with my pants down to my ankles and my Cock totally exposed I am ashamed, I just lay there still erect and sore it could get worse. Someone could walk into the Hallway see me, then call the cops then I would truly be Fucked I couldn't run it took all I had just to make it out the door well at least I'm free from Marcy Kung fu Kicks .

I pass out ..