I was recently reading a book about the safety of our nuclear arsenal because… Well, honestly, it’s because in a lot of ways, I haven’t really gotten past the stage in my life in which explosions = awesome. I still have a hard time showing restraint when it comes to lighting birthday cakes and campfires, and just forget about asking me to ignite a charcoal grill using anything less than 3 gallons of napalm. Naturally, I live in the hottest and driest state in the country, so it’s just a matter of time before a mishap ensures that this blog is written entirely via prison notes smuggled out in someone’s anal cavity. But until that happens I’m free to do as I please, even if that involves testing out home made incendiary devices next to an orphanage. Continue reading
I’ve always been a big fan of the Beatles, but one thing that drives me nuts about them is the controversy surrounding their breakup. Everyone is always so quick to blame Yoko Ono for the split. On the one hand, people will hail John Lennon as a genius, but then they’ll turn right around and say that he was effectively retarded when it came to women, and couldn’t see that Yoko Ono was just tearing the Beatles apart. It never seems to occur to these people that John, Paul, George, and Ringo had just grown apart, and that there wasn’t any one reason for the split. To blame Yoko Ono is unfair. It’s unfair to Yoko Ono, it’s unfair to John Lennon, and it’s unfair to the Beatles.
Then I see this and I think, “You know what? Fuck her. Let’s blame everything on Yoko Ono. The Beatles breaking up, our economic slump, global warming, everything. ‘What’s that, officer? What happened? Well, I was driving down the road, minding my own business, when all of a sudden Yoko Ono was standing there, shrieking like a goddamn lunatic, and so I swerved to avoid her. That’s how I wound up driving into this day care. Yes, I know I’m going to be ticketed for Failure to Run Over Yoko Ono. I understand.'”
Note: Bonus points to anyone who watched that without thinking, “I bet that’s what she sounds like in bed.”
I was in the grocery store today when I noticed the guy in front of me was buying two things: A fifth of whiskey and a pack of gum. It’s admirable, in a strange way. Here’s a guy who fucking owns his secret drinking. “Sure, I get whore-walloping drunk by 2:00 PM, but I don’t need to hide that fact from you.” I’m surprised he wasn’t buying a lampshade too. Continue reading
I don’t have a lot of energy in the evenings, lately. Work is pretty crazy, with one crisis following hot on the heels of another. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I have a good job that pays well, and I’m paid fairly for what I do. But when you get home at night and send your dog a meeting invite to play fetch (complete with agenda), it’s time to rack up some couch time.
And what better way to spend time on the couch than to watch the late 70’s anti-PCP movie, Death Drug, starring Philip Michael Thomas. This movie teaches you everything you need to know about PCP: You buy it on a tennis court, it makes you hallucinate black cowboys, and grocery shopping is about a million times more interesting when you’re on it. The entire world owes Philip Michael Thomas a debt of gratitude. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t know how hilarious angel dust can be.
I know what you’ve been saying to yourself. You’ve been saying, “You know what makes me happy? Bubble-wrap. But just when I’m teetering on the edge of orgasm, I run out. Whatever am I to do?” You are a sick and perverted person, you know that? In a just society, you’d be sterilized and set aside for others to gawk at behind a wall of glass, just like Michael Jackson. Dogs on Drugs, however, is an equal opportunity
dick-joke factory website, and so, dear reader, I bring you the Bandai Mugen Puchipuchi Infinite Bubblewrap, brought to you by Japan, the fine people that invented tentacle porn, talking butt-plugs, and other miraculous inventions that make you weep for humanity.
The Bandai Mugen Puchipuchi Infinite Bubblewrap lets you pop bubblewrap, weep ribbons of pure sorrow, and contorts your mouth into the Rictus of Ultimate Joy. Or it gives you lockjaw. I’m not sure which, even after watching the entire 90 second commercial. Who in their right mind would make a 90 second commercial for something so trivial? Japan. Have you not been paying attention? I love the Japanese, but those motherfuckers are crazy.
Most of the email solicitations I get to advertise on this site are a yawn. Usually I ignore them. Sometimes I toy with them. The other day I was asked what it would take to get me to advertise. I offered to host a banner ad for one year for $50,000. The counter-offer was to essentially turn over my entire site to strangers for a year, which would net me $60. Not $60K, sixty bucks. Needless to say, I dispatched my friends in the
Mafia Italian-American Social Club to deal with this person. They made me a necklace out of his teeth. Continue reading
When I was in high school, the country was in the middle of the Hair Metal era, which was characterized by grown men with guitars who spent more time applying mascara than playing their goddamn instruments. I fucking hated hair metal, and still do. It was spangly, neon, makeup-laden, and emphasized everything about the music industry that I hated. If you were alive in the late 80’s, chances are that you experienced the same Power Ballad overdose that I did. If it’s true that Every Rose Has Its Thorn, then I wanted to pour 85 gallons of DDT on that rose and just be fucking done with it.
There were some bands in that era that made me literally want to vomit, Poison and Warrant being at the top of that list. But for some reason, I really, REALLY hated Bon Jovi, or as I referred to them, Bon Juvie, because only a twelve year old girl could fall for such hokey bullshit (probably since they both shopped at Claire’s). They wore sequined trench-coats, poofed their hair to the moon, and made asinine videos that featured asinine people in asinine costumes striking asinine poses to asinine music.
But, and I hate to admit this, I love this new version of Livin’ on a Prayer:
As I’ve mentioned before, there are advantages to having your kids get a little older. When you first see them they’re adorable, tiny little miracles of nature, and you treasure them, and love them, and thank your lucky stars for them every day of your life until they have a massive Stage V diaper blowout at the DMV, and then it occurs to you that it’d be nice when they outgrew the stage of life that requires you to carry a fucking Hazmat bag with you wherever you go. Continue reading
Ladies, please stop being so selfish. Oh, sure, a career sounds like a fun thing to have and all, but where does it lead you? Well, I’ll tell you where: It leads to a land where braless lesbians roam the countryside wearing pants teaching the odd Womyn’s Herstory class, while us hard working gents sit at home dealing with lousy fucking coffee.
Or so TV from the black and white era would have you believe. Get a load of this hilarious set of clips from the Misogyny Coffee Company. Misogyny Coffee: Real men take it black, like their wives’ eyes. (Oh, also, pay attention to the guy at the 40 second mark, who was probably voted Most Likely To Have His Finger Broken Off And Jammed Up His Own Ass.)