I can’t believe it took me this long to get to this.  I mean, normally I’d be the first one to jump on a story involving hapless jurors being compelled to watch people vomit on each other - in a really sexy way, mind you - as a part of their civic duty.  I mean, it’s not every day that I get to feel that special kind of cognitive dissonance that comes from seeing some variation of the phrase “watch porn” show up multiple times in the Times‘ news feed.

So, yes, in case you missed it, Paul F. Little (aka, Max Hardcore) is in the midst of an obscenity trial for, among other things, serving out some nasty pr0n from a server in Tampa.  See, the law’s a little more lax when it comes to merely possessing things of an obscene nature.  It’s stricter when it comes to all this trafficking nonsense.  

Why in Tampa, you ask?  Like I said, that’s where some of his servers were for a time, and they were, you know, delivering content.  Yeah, I know, it’s one of those moments where the legal system’s usually nimble vocabulary hasn’t caught up with technology.  A server in Tampa means you’re operating in Tampa.  Whatever.  What if the server is just hosting a page that redirects you to Arizona?  Technicalities.    

None of that matters.  The freaking awesome part of this trial is that the jurors are being forced to watch hours of the kind of stuff that most “normal” consumers of teh pr0nz0rz accidentally stumble upon and spend years trying to forget.  It’s what eye bleach and unicorn chasers were invented for.

So, these poor people, jurors, in Florida no less, which means that they’re probably civic duty upholding, more or less god-loving, non-jaywalking folk, are being compelled to watch a whole crapload of porn that may or may not include actual crap.  These people are going to be scarred for life.  For serious.

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Holy crap. Our fair city now has Google Maps street view coverage. Take that, Columbus, OH! This post is also a formal invitation for you to exploit this wonderful new Intertron technology to seek out and submit random St. Pete Street View awesomeness like this, this, and this.

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While this is mainly Casey’s area of expertise, you don’t really need his excruciating familiarity with the entire online dating scene to know that there are loads of online dating sites out there at this point. They’re getting more specific, too.

Let’s face it; you got that ass because you like to go to Burger King and have it your way at least five times a week, and that’s ok, because there’s probably a site out there specifically for people at your local Burger King who order the same thing as you every day. Indeed, it’s called, thatoneBKweallgotoConnect.com.

Ok, maybe this new crop of sites isn’t that specific, but you know, they’re still pretty specific - well beyond Jdate and OnlineJesusFinder.com. Do you like teh w33d? Head on over to PotPartners.com. Are you batshit crazy? Would you like to date someone else who is batshit crazy? Then nolongerlonely.com is for you, where everyone on the site has some form of mental illness.

I wonder if your compatibility with someone there increases based on the similarity of your symptoms, or maybe you’re supposed to find someone with a disorder on the other end of the spectrum, you know, so you cancel each other out. I think this is what psychologists refer to as the principles of constructive and destructive interpersonal interference. You know, like waves, but different.

Why am I bringing any of this up? Because here in the Tampa area, we’ve got a company that developed its own niche dating site - SaferDates.com. To what niche do they cater? Well, it’s not immediately apparent. It’s pretty cookie cutter, really. You see most of the stuff you’d expect to see. You know, it’s a scary .NET generated template thing with your basic sampling of over compressed stock photography and blurry graphics. Profiles, search, user matching, etc., etc.

There’s the obligatory team of experts. Relationship expert? Check. Psych stats dude? Check. Private investigator and Martial Arts expert? Check.

Wait, what the fuck?

Maybe some copy from their press center will help:

According to the U.S. Department of justice, a woman is raped every 2 minutes somewhere in America.

Saferdates.com is the first online dating website to offer a background investigation utilizing fingerprint identification and screening. Our goal is to educate our members on safer dating - focusing on both your emotional and physical safety by offering access to monthly articles, tips on safety and relationships; as well as, Q & A by our Team of Experts.

Oh, I get it; it’s a dating site for hysterical people who failed to recognize that Orwell’s 1984 was a dystopian scenario - you know, a bad thing. Apparently, surveillance really is security. See, I mean, if you’ve really got nothing to hide, then you’ll willingly offer up your fingerprints, collegiate political history, colonoscopy results, genome map, polygraph, full genealogy, various cells, CT, blood gas, pre-school transcripts and voiding cystourethrogram results in order to qualify for the site’s Level II Verification. Level II means that you’re a model citizen, and you get a special icon on your profile that tells all your potential dates, “Hey, I’m a model citizen!  Freakin’ date me right now!”

It’s true, though, even a dating system founded on the time-honored principles of Total Information Awareness isn’t foolproof. This is why there’s an astrologist on staff. You might not be a sex offender . . . yet, but if it’s in your stars, she’ll know. If all else fails, you’ll be fully trained in ball-crunching self defense, just in case it turns out your painstakingly-certified Mr. Right holds that goodbye hug a nanosecond too long.

Wow, so there you have it. If you’re one of the increasing number of people who are falling over themselves to divulge as much personal information as possible to some web service, then this site might be for you. I’ll be the one standing over by the jukebox with the conspicuously ink-free fingerprints.

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From the first, sizzling installment of “Nude maid cleans Cheval house, including the jewelry”:

The woman arrived at the Cheval home in a one-piece light colored dress. She took off the one-piece light colored dress. She cleaned the house per their $100-per-hour agreement. Four bedrooms, three baths.

She redressed and left.

So hot. Seriously, she cleaned the jewelry. Wait, what? She stole the jewelry? Oh, well, hrmph. I mean, the headline says she cleaned the house, including the jewelry. Oh, I get it. The house was cleaned out! Yes! That would have been a good one, except that it wasn’t. Besides, at least she apologized before she left. Wait, she didn’t? Oh, you meant that other, incorrect usage of redress. Sure, yeah, I get it; she put her dress back on. Hey, is this erotica or not? You’re doing it wrong.

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Happy Memorial Day kids!  I happened upon this painstaking and very patriotic display yesterday over by North Shore Park and figured it would make as fitting a tribute as any to all the things that bear memorializing on this day of memorializing the memorialworthy.  This was curated by a very tan gentleman in a speedo, who, when the smoke from his cigarette curled in just the right way, bore a remarkable resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson.

Oh right, and in case you’re not catching all the details, that is indeed a scale model of the twin towers, which means, holy fuck, those flags are huge!

Also, I’d like to remind all of you that apparently we’re in imminent danger of some sort of alien assault.  However, while I can’t be certain of this, it appears we’ve got the creature from the black lagoon on our side.  Whew!

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If you live in a city, chances are you have to park on the street most of the time. You lock it up, start walking to your destination, maybe give one last glance over your shoulder as if to stay, “You stay strong, little camper; I’ll come back for you.” It’s true, sometimes you come back and there’s a new scratch, and you die a little inside. And then sometimes shit like this happens:

If you’ve ever been driving to work in the morning and seen a car that looks like it decided to start a new life as an abstract public sculpture at some point in the night, it’s probably because of something like this. This of course, doesn’t answer the question of like, seriously, how do you even pull something like that off? Full speed, no brakes, completely against the curb. That’s just some next-level automotive asshattery right there (and yes, it’s local; 1st Ave, FTW!).

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Well, it’s that time of year again. Summer is upon us. Most of the tourists have either been arrested (note the tats!) or left to go drive poorly somewhere else (Yes, I’m looking at you, ubiquitous Ontario Minivan). It’s getting stupid hot again, rednecks are lighting large swaths of the state on fire, the termites are waking up from their winter slumber to remind you that the structural integrity of your house is probably something you should really look into this year, and oh, right, and the full team super elite ninja weather coverage machines are revving up.

Get ready, people. Weather is on the horizon, and well, it’s doing shit. Shit that may or not be normal. Shit that may or may not be cause for complete and utter terror . . . or joy, or uh, mild alarm. Well, you know, shit is happening. We may not know what it is, but stay on your toes, goddammit. In fact, the Splog is recommending that you maintain a state of non-specific and total anxiety until further notice.

Here’s a little something from this fascinating exercise in clickbait to set the mood:

Start of Rainy Season?

. . .

So could these showers be the start of rainy season?

Could be.

The rainy season typically begins between mid-May to mid-June. But there have been exceptions.

There’s twenty-five seconds of my life I’ll never get back. I actually wrote something like that yesterday, it goes like this:

Can light exercise be fatal?

You could probably find someone, somewhere who thinks so. I mean, my neighbor Jeff once knew a dude who had a heart attack doing Jazzercise . . . or maybe he didn’t. Not sure, really.

Ok, now that we’re all primed for that sort of thing, today was the day that the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association busted out a press release summarizing the stats in turn busted out by the National Weather Service’s Climate Prediction Center, all of which was condensed in a Times post entitled “NOAA calls for active 2008 hurricane season“. You still with me here? Good.

Ignoring for the moment that the clunky idiomatic usage makes it sound like yes, indeed, NOAA is demanding more fucking hurricanes this year, what does this article tell us? It tells us this:

NOAA’s Climate Prediction Center is calling for a near or above normal 2008 hurricane season, according to predictions released today.

The outlook calls for considerable activity, with a 60- to 70-percent chance of 12 to 16 named storms, including six to nine hurricanes and two to five major hurricanes.

An average season has 11 named storms, including six hurricanes, two of which reach major states.

What does that mean? I have no fucking idea. Now, mind you, this isn’t the fault of the Times. This is nearly verbatim from the NOAA site, which itself is nearly verbatim from the NWS site.

According to the NWS, there’s a 65% chance of an above normal season, a 25% chance of a near normal season. This means that there’s a 90% chance of an above or near normal season. But wait, there’s still a 10% chance of a below normal season.

Wait, what? Shouldn’t “below normal” be the polar opposite of “above normal.” Nope. Check the definitions. Starting from below normal, it goes: below normal, near normal, above normal. Seriously. Chance of simple normalcy? Zero. I’m no statistician. I’m just a simple caveman who doesn’t understand your modern histograms and beta coefficients, but you’d think it might just go: below normal, normal, above normal, and then, if you really need one higher than that, I propose “Kanye West.”

Yeah, I are confused. As always, of course, the bottom line is, be prepared. As a reminder, this will be slightly less easy this year as due to budget cuts, the tax-free - get yourself some granola and duct tape - holiday is not happening this year. I know, right? Usually the first thing I do in an understimulated economy is cut programs that encourage people to shop.

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You may or may not have noticed that my favorite mocha-colored superhero and political BFF, Barack Obama is going to be speaking today at the St. Pete Times Forum. There were 20,000 official tickets available, and they are all gone. Organizers are encouraging people to still head down there, though, as they might let people in if there’s still space available around noon or so. This makes sense to me, as even if people don’t get in to see him speak, there’s something undeniable about a throng of people who might just be happy to get themselves within five miles of something awesome. There’s something unequivocally irrepressible about an aerial shot of say, a metric ass ton of people all just kicking it in support of a man and his ideas.

That being said, has anyone noticed that all the media outlets around here can focus on is how much of a GODDAMN MIND BLOWING NIGHTMARE it’s going to be in terms of traffic and parking. Jesus. We get it already. The Times seems to have the most level-headed response to the whole situation, the advice being this:

1. Arrive early.
2. Don’t expect a ticket to the event.
3. Bring 20% of an umbrella.

If I were just slightly more paranoid, I’d think that some people were trying to minimize attendance by focusing mostly on the GODDAMN MIND BLOWING NIGHTMARE it’s going to be downtown. And did you notice how there was a convenient accident on the bridge this morning that shut down two lanes of traffic? Coincidence? Surely. Although I swear I saw a sign that read, “I’m Hillary Clinton, and I approve this accident.” Just sayin’.

Here’s a little something to get you in the mood:

By Lukas Ketner. Reblogged from here, who grabbed it from here.

That’s right, the man hangs with unicorns.

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You may have noticed this article over the weekend about local police being angry about a departmental memo issued recently banning officers’ display of the “thin blue line” plate on their cruisers. You know, this one:

According to the Executive Director of the Pinellas County Police Union, “The plate is simple: a horizontal black stripe, a blue stripe, then another black stripe. The black is for fallen officers, and the blue represents the bond among those still living.” Wait, what? Hang on, I’m sorry; I think I was momentarily blinded by some sort of paramilitary melodrama. Crap. I think some got on my shoes.

Anyway, hyper-romanticized visions of police camaraderie notwithstanding, someone might want to remind them that the notion of the thin blue line, probably due to Errol Morris’ excellent documentary, reminds people more of the whole code of silence and mutual ass-covering side of this fabulous brotherhood.

Speaking of ass covering, because I am the extraordinarily worldly person that I am, I couldn’t help but notice that this plate reminded me of another very popular item that bears a strikingly similar use of space and color. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking about the official Leather Pride flag.

I have neither the space nor the inclination to explain the myriad complexities of your local leather and fetish color palette and iconography. I suggest you spend some quality time at Wikipedia and get your learn on.

What’s that? Still not seeing it? Hang on:

There, that’s better.

Also, I mean, not that I’d ever accuse hipsters of appropriating the symbols and styles of various marginalized subcultures and/or revolutionary groups, ’cause, you know, you guys need those kerchiefs around your necks - I mean, you never know when the shit is gonna hit the fan in Starbucks and it’s gonna be like WTO Seattle all over again, man. Anyway, PROTIP: The handkerchief hanging out of your back pocket probably has a lot more significance than you know. Seriously, choose wisely when picking a color - especially you with the brown one. Ewwww, man. Seriously.

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Ohhhhhh, ROFLCOPTER. Who knows how long it will be up, but if you go to stpete.org right now, you’ll see that Network Solutions has imposed a compulsory redesign on the site for our fair city. It looks like someone forgot to renew their domain in a timely manner, or at the very least missed a bill payment. I know, it’s your first day, right? The intertron is hard. Screengrab for teh posterity.

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In light of today’s decision by the State Board of Education to add language to the state’s science standards prefacing the word “evolution” with the phrase “the scientific theory of,” I think we should all just bow our heads and pray to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. While at first I thought this decision was just another victory by a cretinous tyranny of mediocrity, so devoid of intellectual humility as to reject and fear anything that exceeds an order of complexity not covered by its third-grade education, I realized that this was actually a great day. I mean, if we’re opening the door for competing ideas here, then it means that finally, the door is open for the teachings of the great Flying Spaghetti Monster to be taught in earnest in our schools. Hey, you pick your magical superhero in the sky and I pick mine, you mouth-breathing fuckwit.

Now let us pray:

Our spaghetti
Who art in the colander
Hallowed be thy sauce
Thy serving come
Thy strands be wrung
On forks as they are on spoons
Give us this day our daily meatball
And forgive us our starchiness
As we forgive those who are starchy against us
And lead us not into Kraft parmessan
But deliver us from Chef Boy Ardee
For thine is the garlic
And the onion and the bay leaves
For ever and ever.
Ramen

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That’s right; Early Day Miners are back in town for a show. That can only mean one thing - that you need to get your ass down to New World Brewery this Friday to have the aforementioned ass get rocked. I mean, you know, rocked kind of gently and without vocals for the most part, but rocked nonetheless. But wait; there’s more. The show also includes a ton of local awesome from Petrograd in Transit, When Tides Collide and, wait for it, Wade Tatangelo’s favorite band, Zillionaire. Zillionaire’s new record just got a 6.8 in Pitchfork. Not bad for a bunch of Tampions, not bad indeed. Details. Check them.

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Yeah, I bet when you read that headline you, like me, were filled with a strange mixture of mild interest and severe wtf??!1! I think I might liken it to having some orange juice too soon after you’ve brushed your teeth. I’m sure you, like me, thought, “Hmm, it seems a little odd that TLC would pick Tampa as the next location for the series, since you know, they already did one in Miami, and you know, uh, it’s Tampa.”

Fear not, dear reader, your sense of reality and your uncanny ability to predict all things related to reality television are still solid. The Learning Channel doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with this show. According to this awesometastic tbo.com article, it’s actually being put out by a dude named Mike Cooper, but I prefer to call him by his other name, Capt. Mike. While the article on Capt. Mike’s television venture notes that homewad “has made several local fishing shows,” I prefer to get my info from the source, which in this case is the the bio linked from the Tampa Ink site. Oh, I see, so “several shows” actually means several episodes of the same show. Crafty, Capn’, very crafty.

It’s really not apparent from any of the info presented what separates that dude from the dude who is chained to an editing deck cleaning up the sounds of muffled flatulence in the audio feed of The View, but hey, he says he’s a television producer; who am I to demand reference to credentials and show credits that would support that?

Apparently, with this article we’re back in that fun world of media make believe that we seem to have around here where people get press for talking about all the rad shit they’re doing in their imaginations. I am starting a unicorn cloning facility in Lealman. Get a news van over here pronto.

I don’t necessarily think this should reflect on the shop he’s “profiling.” I’ve never been there; I’m sure it’s an awesome shop. I just hope they’re making that dude pay for all the work he’s apparently getting done (Snaggle-toothed skull tearing through flesh? Check. A sprawling seascape as a back piece with his charter boat as the centerpiece? Pending.).

Probably the best part about the article is their hope “in March” (specificity makes it true, too) to get acquired by TLC, or you know, The Discovery Channel. We’ll just let the fact that TLC is a sub of Discovery slide. They knew that. Totally. This actually seems pretty likely, because if there’s one thing I’m sure about it’s that TLC is all about reacquiring their own brands for extraordinarily large sums of money. Deep sea fishing money, broseph. Cease and desist in three, two . . .

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I’m not even going to try to pretend to understand the nature of the peculiar genetic defect that makes it impossible for a large segment of the population to make simple decisions based on space and time at four-way stops. I can only imagine that if you happen to suffer from this defect that you already have no idea what I’m talking about. Please, by all means, continue to wait until there are no cars within 300 miles before you venture out into the intersection, even though you were the first to arrive at the stop. And stop trying to pass off your automotive incompetence as charity. It’s your fucking turn. Go.

Apparently, these things are difficult enough on crystal clear days in the absence of all obstacles, which is why I recommend you avoid completely the intersection of 9th Ave N and Bay Street NE, as there is a particularly vindictive palm tree that has decided to hide the stop sign there so that you can’t really see it until you’re about five feet away. No, seriously.

What’s this? Smooth sailing, floor it, Timmy.

Same spot. Two steps to the left. Oh snap! Where did that thing come from?

Palm tree of doom.

Ow. The question, it burns. Is it your fucking job to trim this tree? Send us a note and tell us why you suck at it.

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