I'll Remember to Gas Up the Buick, if You'll Remember to Lube Up the Butt Plug. Deal? - Walter

The people at Huffington Post found this shopping list “unconventional.” Maybe it is for most of the country, but for Seattle, it's ho-hum, pretty much standard supplies for a Moist Town pantry.

In fact, the only thing shocking about it is that the writer is planning on fueling up for a night of passion and bondage with Hamburger Helper.

Really, Seattle lady? Well, slap the ball-gag on Walter early if you don't want to get an ear-ful about that.

Shake Weight – The DVD

Testimonial #1: “This DVD is great for anyone who likes to watch women get all porno with a gym weight.”

Testimonial #2: “I like that forward-lunge reach-back position. She looks like she's about to run a marathon, but, first, she's got to help a guy out.”

The faux-mercials and shorts are really the only reason to watch SNL anymore.

Dear Japan, I Love You, Too. Yours, Biff

Ah, Japan, just when I thought I couldn't love you more, you put two tastes together into one delicious entertainment confection, strippers and zombies, and then, you kicked the flavor up a notch with a Bam!-load of camp.

As the kids say, “I heart you.”" (Oh, they're saying it.)

…Oh, Sure, Paris Is Beautiful and Rich with History, but Can You Get a Little Man-on-Mouse Action while There? Point, Washington State.”

A Whatcom County man's friendship and aggressive support for a man convicted in the infamous Enumclaw horse-sex case led to his arrest this week for allegedly operating a bestiality farm just south of the Canadian border, federal prosecutors said Friday.

Douglas Spink, 39, a one-time dot.com millionaire, convicted drug smuggler and horse trainer, was quietly living on rural property south of Sumas when he connected with James Tait, who was in a Tennessee jail on a bestiality charge.

Tait had earlier been convicted of trespassing in 2005 in the Enumclaw case, in which a Gig Harbor man died after having sex with a horse.

The two men's communications set in motion an investigation that resulted in Spink's arrest Wednesday at the Sumas farm for suspicion of violating his federal probation for drug smuggling. Federal prosecutors and Whatcom County sheriff's officials say Spink also allowed people to come to the farm and have sex with animals.

He was "promoting tourism of this nature for bestiality," Whatcom County Sheriff Bill Elfo said Friday.…

On Wednesday, authorities took several animals, including horses and large-breed dogs, found on Spink's property into protective custody, Elfo said. Several mice were euthanized, he added. "At this point, we don't know how many people visited this location or how many engaged in illegal conduct," the sheriff said. "We'll see as the federal investigation unfolds."

The property, Exitpoint Stallions, is reportedly owned by Spink's mother.…

"These are just allegations," Spink's attorney, Howard Phillips, said after the hearing. "My client said he has not been engaging in bestiality at all."

Reporting on a Washingtonian for bestiality or anything related to it amounts to reporting a dog-bites-man story. Well, it's more like a dog-bites-man-and-man-gets-a-throbbing-erection story, but why quibble over that when there are more important things to quibble over—namely, the reporting of the matter of the mice.

Ms. Sullivan, Jennifer, if I may, I don't mean to tell you how to do your job. I'm sure you went to one of the finest schools of journalism in the nation. Upon graduation, you, no doubt, honed your investigative and writing skills working on the staffs of the most reputable newspapers in the country. Kudos for your hard work and accomplishments; but, with all due respect to your education and training, you dropped the ball on this one.

How so? Well, I don't know if they dropped the ball at j-school or if your editors didn't mentioned it when you were a cub reporter just learning your beat, but when you're reporting on bestiality and you're told by the police that they had to euthanized several mice, you don't just leave that comment hanging. You, my friend, have follow-up questions to ask.

For future reference, you can start with these:

“Did you say, ‘Mice?’”

“You know they're such a lesser species that scientist regularly subject them to otherwise intolerable abuses in the name of progress, right?”

“So, knowing what little regard we have for rodents in general and knowing what little consciousness is available to them, what, possibly, could Mr. Spinks and his Johns have been doing that could traumatize a mouse so much that you would have to put it down?”

“This doesn't involve a hollow, wooden dowel, a vat of lube, and Richard Gere, does it, because that guy…?”

Whatever it was, dude, that must have been some fucked up shit right there, and the public has the right to know the gory details (and by “the public,” I mean “I do.”).

It's 11:30 p.m., April 15. Time to Stick It to the Man One Mo' Time, I Mean, Do My Taxes

To everyone else up at this hour doing his taxes, cheers!

Death and Taxes: Neither accomplished this year. (I've got until midnight on at least one of them.)

Rosa Parks? Dead.

This guy? He's got the indomitable will of a cockroach.

Run into the light, fucker. You've already stayed too long at the fair.

If Aretha Franklin dies before he does, I'll never believe in any sense of justice ever again.

“This Is Where Pies Go to Die”

Man from Another Place: Where we're from the birds sing a pretty song, and there's always music in the air.

When I moved to Seattle, the first road trip I took was to all the locations used by David Lynch to make Twin Peaks. I've hiked down to falls, eaten at the Double R Diner (“Damn fine coffee—and hot!”), slept in the Great Northern Hotel, got lost out in the woods, looking for Glastonbury Grove, and had a drink at the Road house. I couldn't help myself. Even when it was losing steam in the second season, I was (and still am) the biggest fan of that show.

Tonight marks the anniversary of the premiere of Twin Peaks. I'm going to pop in the DVD, drink some bourbon, and do the Man from Another Place dance. Excuse me, won't you?

“Was That Wrong?” He Didn't Ask. “Because if Someone Had Told Me that Was Wrong, I Wouldn't Have Done It”

“The proclamation issued by this Office designating April as Confederate History Month contained a major omission. It failed to include a specific date for when the South will rise again and smite the New England hypocrites, the milquetoast Midwesterners, and the effete, Left Coast, PC thugs that have oppressed us lo these many years.

“That date is 12 April 2015. Mark your calendars.

“Apparently, there was a minor omission in the proclamation, as well—the failure to include any reference to slavery. That was a mistake (more like a slip, really when you think about, not really a big deal), and for that, I apologize to any Virginian-Americans—if you know who I mean and I think that you do— who may have been offended or disappointed.

“(When I say ‘disappointed,’ I'm only referring to Sheila Johnson, my black supporter. Hey, girl. Shout out. No one else can really make that claim, that they are disappointed. I mean, belittling slavery? ‘Duh,’ right? But I digress.)

“The abomination of slavery divided our nation, deprived people of their God-given inalienable rights, and led to the Civil War. Slavery was an evil, vicious and inhumane practice which degraded human beings to property. It has left a stain on the soul of this state and nation, and, my hand to God, it totally slipped my mind when I was writing the proclamation. Hey, black folks and race-betraying Virginians, my bad.

“In 2007, the Virginia General Assembly approved a formal statement of ‘profound regret’ for the Commonwealth’s history of slavery, which was the right thing to do, because it was the kind of empty-handed gesture legislators love and the Virginia General Assembly excels at—all talk and no statutes or state action. God bless 'em.

“I, myself, just don't see race, partly, because of my hiring practices and, partly, because of my constitutional right to associate with persons of my choosing. And I exercise that right and only frequent places where a man can enjoy the company of like-minded and similarly hued others—golf clubs, churches, Sandra Bullock's vagina—bastions of racial exclusivity where a person of no color can be alone with his thoughts. So, if I'm occasionally insensitive to the feelings of roughly 20% of you, you'll have to forgive me.

“It's not that I don't know better. It's simply that I don't care.

“Thank you for giving me this opportunity to clarify my remarks. God bless you, and God bless most of the citizens of Virginia”