Two days before our nuptials, I asked my fiancee if she minded if I check my e-mail on her parents computer. She said that it was fine and continued to stare blankly at the monitor, apparently not heeding my blank stare back at her for not getting up and finding something else to do for five minutes. You see, I have no problem with people reading my e-mail. In fact, if you asked me I would probably let you read mine whenever you wanted, it’s no big deal. But there is something about seeing that new mail and opening it for the first time that is entirely sacred, like a marriage, and it shouldn’t be mussed by an orgy of eyes. The virgin e-mail could be an executive order the Guv’nah that says, “Kill the person sitting next to you reading this!” I don’t want my wife to have to read that before I…do. So there is my predicament. And it’s the same old song and dance. “Are you hiding something from me?” “Why can’t I read your e-mail with you?” “You can read mine and I don’t care.” And on it goes. And the point is taken about needing to trust the person you’re with, the person that in two days you will be bound to until either of you dies. But for Lord sakes, lookaway! Lookaway!

So long story short all of this culminates in me admitting that I contribute to a site on which I occasionally post seedy tidbits of information. I also admitted that I’m not proud of some of my posts because of their tendency to ridicule and belittle their subjects. So upon realizing how I had harmed not only my spouse but possibly others by unconsciously keeping them unaware of the existence of Dank, I forged a new covenant and vowed to post items on Dank which do not (or should not) bring great ridicule to any person from my past, present, or future.

One caveat that I received in this pact is that I am able to disclose that Martha German does indeed dance at the ‘Vu. Thank you for your time.

Just in case anyone has ever doubted my ferocity and toughness I have this little tidbit which just might shine a little light on my history of thugishness and mayhem.

When I was in 5th grade I was a founding member of a bicycle gang. We terrorized the eastern half of Yokota Air Force Base in Tokyo, Japan. If it hadn’t been for our mothers not allowing us to ride our bikes around the flight line, you can bet your ass we would have been terrorizing that western half too. The west side was a bunch of snooty officer’s kids anyway. We could have had our way with those Huffy riding pussies.

The name of this elite crew (3 of us) of maniacal bike riding villains?
B.R.A.T. Bad. Rad. And. Tough.

Our symbol?

You better recognize.

Well, it looks like Dank staffer Lou has officially tied the knot, becoming the second of our contributors to “change” his life in this manner. Since I’m not really sure how they met and fell in love, I’ll recount someone else’s story, replacing the names with those of Lou and Beth, his significant other. Now, since I’m doing this, I cannot be positive that this whimsical set-up is entirely accurate when applied to Lou and Beth, but I’m compelled to think it doesn’t really matter.

Beth and Lou met in Toronto while Beth was filming “How to Deal.” Beth’s mother was an avid tennis fan, and set her daughter up with Lou, then a hunky 20-year-old tennis star.

“It’s weird,” recalls Beth, “because we met during the last couple of weeks of the movie. Here I am wrestling with these feelings on-screen about falling in love, and here I am having just met this guy that I’m completely crushing on and mad about. As soon as I’m off camera, I’m running to check the phone to see if he’s called. I felt like such a teenager.”

Lou, interviewed in 2002 while accompanying his girlfriend to a media event in London, said it doesn’t hurt that the coupling was initiated by Beth’s mother. “You are always working on the mom approval factor,” he said with a wink.

Though their busy schedules often kept them apart, they recently managed to squeeze some time together this summer with Beth shooting in Europe and Lou playing there (He played in the French Open and Wimbledon).

And so the famous couple was married July 12th, 2003 in Chatham, Illinois. Dank nods it’s head in the direction of it’s prodigal Dr. Jekyll in approval.

Spotted in Bonita Springs, FL by the eagle eyeballs of mrfildo:

Jer LIES! My terrible secrets cannot be revealed by his inane prattle!

Attack him, my ferral beasts!! Natalia! Star! Show him no mercy! I’ll be wearing his teeth as a necklace before night falls!

Subj: a fox
Date: 7/08/2003 12:26:57 PM EDT
From: mrfildo@dank2k.org
To: jerome@dank2k.org

I saw them in the Trading Post. Infant Fennec foxes. I want them badly, and this is the fantasy my lust has created. I’m very serious.

I will have two.

They weigh 3 pounds each and act like super advanced dog-cats. I love them like my children and they love and protect me like I am their mother.

One is named Starfox. He is a mighty warrior of the skies. His ship is light-years beyond our technology. It is a good thing that he is fighting for us and not against us. He has no remorse.

The other is Natalia. She is foxy and speaks with a Russian accent. She is probably a spy. She has many secret weapons and an astounding intellect.

I could go to the mall and they would hide in my pockets. They would sneak out and steal things for me, as they are sly like foxes. They would smuggle ice for me, and sometimes food. They would know my tastes and fancies.

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Like the malodorous carcass of some faceless sea creature that has recently drifted ashore, a few weeks back I stumbled upon the only worthwhile accomplishment of my senior year of high school: the spatch mix. Lucky for you I used to be obsessed with making backup cds of my mp3s. This stems from my obsession with read-only files. Well anyway, join me on an excursion through the time that Spatch did and said enough stupid crap to force me to make a mix cd mockery of him. We may as well go balls out on this one. With no pants, underwear, or protective cups to hinder us, there’s just no other way.

“Spatch” is a nickname given to T*m Pachla. That is him pictured on the right. Pachla is pronounced so that it rhymes with “spatula.” Hence the nickname. Really clever, I know. Well anyway, Spatch moved into town I think his sophomore or junior year of high school. He came from the Chicago suburbs, and that was mostly normal. It’s the same old story for most people, everyone has a smart cousin that lives in Schaumburg or whatever. Spatch was most certainly intelligent…but perhaps in a way that cannot be bridled by human beings.

Hawking-esque with the ladies, Spatch patented his own brand of failure with females ranging from his own dance step (grind on crotch without asking) to playing a Journey song on piano and trying to hit on Sneetch’s high school sweetheart. This sort of behavior points to Spatch’s general disregard for social mores. But the fuel for the Spatch mix was garnered from listening and writing down everything that came out of his mouth. And Spatch had plenty to say with his signature “raa”. An excerpt:

“Raaa…yeah so some of my friends and I got together every day and played pass the pigs. Then someone raa suggested that we create a pass the pigs arena. So we all went to Jeffrey Alans and we bought green felt, wood glue and other raaaa various supplies and we built a pass the pigs arena. I can show it to you if you’d like raaaaaaaaaa.”

You can see where it goes from here. After spending a year or two in classes with Spatch, the quotes abounded. In fact, a future release is in the works for a series of Spatch Quote books on tape, read in a Spatch voice by yours truly. All this pomp about Spatch and I only can offer to you some table scraps of the original Spatch mix. This is the “Spatch Preview” Mix that undoubtedly was created to tide over the masses of screaming suburb nerds that owned homemade pass the pigs arenas. Click here and do that “Save File As…” crap.

The good news is that Spatch seems to be finding success in his studies and I hope he continues to pursue his dreams. Maybe not all of them. The world can do without a lifesize pigs arena, or a cloned Billy Hunt. And while there may be a underlying cruelty to all of this, I assure you it is glazed over in good wholesome fun. Mix on, Timmy.