You might know Michael Bay as the producer of the Transformers movies which, if you’ve never seen them, is the cinematic equivalent of watching a lawnmower fight in a dynamite storm. Just super-brainless crap, with a body count in the opening credits. So naturally, the Samsung corporation asked Michael Bay to come to speak a few words at the 2014 CES, because if there’s one thing you want your company to be associated with, it’s movies that make professional wrestling seem highbrow. Continue reading

The smartest thing my parents did when they bought their dream house in 1974 was to dedicate a single room in the basement to their three sons. “Here,” they said, “if you’re going to do anything bad in the house, do it in this room. You’re free to do whatever you want in here.” And they meant it, too. We wrote on the walls, broke light fixtures, and left that room looking like a tornado had hit the Mattel corporation, and they never said a word. Not even when my older brother, during a furiously contested game of indoor basketball, threw me through the drywall and into an entirely different room. I’m sure there were limits to the immunity they had granted us. I mean, it’s not like we could start doing needle drugs and hookers down there (we had a different room for that), but any of your garden-variety male offspring destructiveness was accepted with a shrug, just as long as it never left that room. Continue reading

Well, I’m back from my well deserved holiday break. What did I do on this break, you ask? Mind your own fucking business. You’re just like the cops. “Can you explain why you were hiding in the dressing room at Victoria’s Secret with a drill, a camera, a tube of Astroglide, and a pumpkin?” Can’t a guy have any privacy any more? Sheesh. Continue reading

Well, Christmas is over, so it’s time to get back to doing what we do best: Making fun of foreigners. And today’s episode is brought to you by Nissin Milk Seafood Noodles, because we really bombed the fucking sense out of the Japanese, didn’t we?

May your holidays bring you as much joy as 210 plastic water bottles did to this little guy.

As part of the Dogs On Drugs Official Holiday Extravaganza And High Colonic Blowout, we proudly present the following video, which illustrates several important points:

1. 80’s-styled yuppie moms are ok with PCP, crack, and needle drugs, just as long as you don’t drink a beer.
2. Jimmy is a shrewd negotiator and knows when to accept a deal that clearly gives him the upper hand.
3. Jimmy’s mom has given up on life.

Seriously, look at Jimmy’s mom. If you had to guess whether or not Jimmy’s mom’s next move would be to make Jimmy a peanut butter sandwich, or engage in triple penetration-porn on top of Jimmy’s homework, you know the correct answer: A confused teacher somewhere is going to be wondering why a 12 year old’s homework smells of poontang, Astroglide, and desperation. Tough times over at Jimmy’s house.

It’s here! That magical time of year in which families come together in true appreciation of the meaning of Christmas. Hahaha, just kidding. Most people I know just buy lots of shit. Cause, you know: Jesus! That’s not to say that there aren’t people out there for whom Christmas is a meaningful holiday. But if they have kids, they know all too well how quickly one can go from celebrating the birth of the Lord to punching a fat woman in the neck in Walmart because she got her grubby fucking mitts a little too close to the last Furby. ‘Tis the season for a lot of things, fractured larynxes included.

I am not immune to the special pressures of Christmas by any means. For instance, every year I spend approximately seven and a half weeks removing toys from their packages because of those fucking grey wires. Oh, those fucking things drive me apeshit loonball crazy! I’d like to find the guy that invented those things and [Extreme rant including references to medieval torture techniques omitted.] …and then smash it flat with a ball peen hammer. Asshole.

Anyway, rather than divert precious grey wire time into something I enjoy doing (i.e. my normally tasteless and offensive posts), I will instead offer seasonal videos of an inspirational nature. And by “inspirational”, of course, I mean “really fucking horrifying”. So kick back, and celebrate good times this holiday season. Just like Ponch.

My kids woke up the other day in “a mood”, by which I mean they were hyperactive beyond description. My youngest son is five and still has occasional issues dressing himself, so in order to ensure that we get out the door before the current presidential administration leaves office, I help him get dressed. But when he’s in “a mood”, it’s like trying to dress a hummingbird on fucking speed. Flit! Flit! Flit! He’s all over the room, and the only way that I can get him to settle down is to offer him sugar-water from a plastic red flower. Continue reading

Oh, those crazy, violent, drunken Micks.

I, like most people I know, noted the passing of Nelson Mandela with sadness. Here was a man of great fortitude, willing to sacrifice the best years of his life in protest of an unjust regime so that the day might soon arrive when all South Africans were treated equally. So it was sad to see the passing of such a great man, but by no means was it a surprise. He was, after all, 95 years old which is crazy fucking old. The rule of thumb is that you aren’t truly old until you can shit on a cafeteria tray at the metropolitan museum of art and everyone just accepts it because of your age. You can get away with that shit when you’re 95, but if you try it when you’re, say, 28, you know what would happen? You’d be fined $1,700 and ordered to perform 120 hours community service, that’s what would happen. Not that I would know. (Editor’s Note: He knows.) Continue reading