I’ve got a full evening tonight: I’ve got my 5 year old son’s Christmas show to attend, which is always funny because it’s through the day care that he goes to. For every intelligent, precocious, and well spoken child up on stage, there are at least three who are in the act of shitting themselves when the curtain goes up, and you can pick them out by the horror in their eyes. Good stuff. Continue reading

I got a massage the other day because my right hip was hurting me. I’d gone to the doctor, and he told me that pain was my hip’s way of telling me that something was wrong. “Oh really, that’s how it works?” I asked him. “We communicate through pain?” So I punched him in the face and told him that I wasn’t going to pay the bill. Listen up, medical professionals: Insurance sucks, our bodies are essentially leaky bags of meat, and we’re likely to die of old age in the waiting room. We don’t need to add condescending doctors to the list of shitty things associated with health care. Just tell me that you don’t know what the problem is and give me a prescription for some gnarly painkillers already. Don’t make me go all Drugstore Cowboy on your ass. Continue reading

I bought a new car recently. Those of you who are long-time readers but have somehow managed to retain cognitive function may remember that I used to drive a Jeep Wrangler, which has all the aerodynamics of a small mountain range with only slightly worse fuel economy. You know how new cars list the city and highway mileage? My Jeep Wrangler needed a third number to represent the gallons of gas it consumed just sitting there in my garage. Once I realized that they were naming deep-water drilling rigs after my Jeep, I realized that it was time to trade it in. Continue reading

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend and over the course of it I discovered many things to be thankful for, the most important being my children. I had a wonderful time with them, and even though my days were incredibly busy, I got to relax each night, surfing the web as they slept soundly, dreaming of damaging major appliances before they’re fully paid for. Surfing the web, incidentally, is even more enjoyable now that I classify it as “job-related research” for tax purposes. Getting a $7 million tax refund may not be common, or even legal, but it’s certainly a hell of a lot more fun than being law-abiding. Continue reading

(facepalm)

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.