One of the things that I didn’t expect when I moved to Arizona is that from time to time I would have to deal with hurricanes. Hurricane Norbert blew through town yesterday, and let me tell you something: Phoenix is wetter than Rosie O’Donnell in a women’s prison right now. Continue reading

Hello, my name is Gordon Sumner, or as you have come to know me from my many albums and movies, Sting. I’ve received a fair amount of criticism in the press recently for my decision to charge people 200 Euros a day for the right to gather the harvest on my palatial Tuscan estate, Il Palagio. I understand that at first glance this seems to be the sort of thing you’d expect from your stereotypically self-obsessed and out of touch celebrity, so I wanted to take this opportunity to educate the public because I’m very excited about Il Palagio, and I think that once you understand what it is that we are trying to accomplish, you will be too. Continue reading

When my youngest son was born, a nurse in the maternity ward did a really odd thing. “Ooh! Someone made a stinky!” she exclaimed, and with expert efficiency, changed my son’s diaper and then weighed it. “Well! You’ve got to be happy about that, dad!” she said to me before rushing out of the room. I’m unsure what she thought it was that would make me happy, the fact that she left, or the fact that a random stranger just weighed my son’s shit. Continue reading

You ever have someone point out something unsettling to you and the very instant you hear it you know that it will stay with you for the rest of your life? That happened to me recently, and I’ve made it my mission in life to scar as many other people with it as possible, and so now you have to read about crotch fruit. You’re welcome. Continue reading

I’ve received more than one inquiry as to where, exactly, I have been the last couple of weeks. “Greg,” these inquiries typically begin, “it should go without saying that if you expect to be paid, you need to actually show up to work on a daily basis. Other things that should go without saying include the fact that you need to be sober, you need to be wearing pants, and that cockfighting is not only frowned upon by HR, but is a violation of federal law.” Jeez, host one drunken, pantsless cockfight at a day care facility and you’re branded for life. Continue reading

Long time commenter and even longer time friend B’Homey sent me a link recently, which I made the mistake of watching at the office with the sound somewhat turned up. I should know better than that, especially since all the people that sit within 50 feet of me now have HR on speed dial ever since The Incident. (I still don’t think it’s fair that I took the rap for that. It’s not like it was me having a screaming orgasm in that video, and how in the hell was I supposed to know that the woman having the orgasm with all of those longshoremen was the boss’s daughter-in-law?)

So you have been warned. This is totally, 100% safe to watch, but totally, 100% unsafe to listen to without headphones. (This isn’t hosted via YouTube, so it may not be obvious. Click to watch.)

When I first moved to the Phoenix area, I devised a unique way of learning my way around town. These days learning a new town isn’t that difficult. You simply ask your smartphone where to go, and it guides you there, turn by turn. I’m pretty sure that this is all part of a sinister plot and one day we will all find ourselves being told to turn left into a giant lava-filled hole, but frankly I’m ok with that just as long as I never have to fold up a fucking road map again. Continue reading

I live in the Phoenix area, and everything here seems new. I find it strange that people can live in places like London where you can walk down the street and find themselves smack dab in the middle of history. “Right, then! Right over ‘ere is where Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the bloody parliament, ‘e did! ‘E just got a bunch o’ ‘is lads and rounded up some bleedin’ gunpowder, and Jack’s a donut, there you ‘ave it, guvnor!” Jesus, those limeys love to fucking drink, don’t they? It’s like every time they do a shot, they drop 10% of their consonants. Catch an Englishman at the tail end of New Year’s Eve, and he’ll tell you the same story, only now it sounds like this: “Ri’! Oe ere ‘s whe G’ Fw’ trd t’ bl’ u’ th’ blo’ par’l’m”. This is also known as the Welsh language. Continue reading

I heard from several readers this morning who wrote to inform me that Dogs On Drugs, your one-stop shop for Bea Arthur penis jokes, was offline. At first I blamed my arch nemesis, Kenny Loggins, for the outage and quickly dispatched several Mexican drug cartel hit men to rectify the situation. Kenny once sang, “I’m all right, don’t nobody worry ’bout me,” and I used to think that was rather sound advice. After all, I had spent the better part of my life not worrying about Kenny Loggins, and look where it got me: I am on the list of Who’s Who Among Executives and Professionals. Also, I’m no longer allowed to come within 500 yards of Gavin MacLeod. Look, the point is that Kenny has made a nuisance of himself, forcing me to worry ’bout him, and now there’s going to be some fucking bloodshed. End of story. Continue reading

My friends, we are fucked flatter than hammered shit. A single glance at the news today would make that obvious to anyone. No, I’m not referring to the fact that as of this writing there is now a reported case of ebola in New York City, although that certainly is frightening. And irritating as fuck too, if you think about it. This guy flew from West Africa to New York with fucking ebola. Each year, we pay the TSA upwards of $72 trillion dollars to keep us safe, and to date all they’ve managed to keep us safe from is common sense. “Durrr, what’s that? You have ebola? That’s fine. Just as long as you don’t take more than three ounces of water on board with you.” Continue reading