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.)

I once spent a night in Oklahoma. A friend and I were moving from Chicago to Tucson, and on the drive down we chose to spend the night in a small motel outside of Tulsa. The “town” was called Wagon Wheel, and it consisted of the motel, a gas station, and a house where the owner of the motel and the owner of the gas station lived together. Wagon Wheel is no longer on the map, probably because the two inhabitants divorced and Wagon Wheel was divided into two new towns, “Fuck You, Earl”, and “You’re a Money Grubbing Whore, Janice!” Continue reading

Happy Halloween, everyone.

As I mentioned last night, I’ve got a full plate this week, with way too many things to do every evening. So instead of a regular post, I’ll answer a question from my inbox. An old, childhood friend writes, “You mentioned that you go hiking in the mountains a lot. What’s that like?” I’m glad you asked, John…

Actual footage:

I’ve got a weird week in front of me: I’m working tonight, I’ve got my son’s baseball game to attend tomorrow night, Halloween is Thursday night, daughter’s choir concert on Friday night, cooking, cleaning, blah, blah, blah, nobody cares, Greg. But it does mean that I have less time to think about what I write on this gigantic collection of dick jokes that I call a blog. So instead of a well-thought out post with a point and other niceties (such as sentences with word order correct), you’re more likely to get a strange, stream-of-consciousness post with little or no socially redeeming qualities. Kind of like MTV. Continue reading

I read an article over the weekend about how the ratings for the World Series this year are low, and I thought to myself, “Well of course they’re low. It’s baseball in October.” I mean, I like baseball, but it’s essentially a reason to drink beer outdoors. Once the warm weather passes, sitting in the stands shirtless and drunk isn’t quite as much fun anymore, so savvy sports drunkards lose interest in baseball and begin attending NBA games sans pants. Or so I imagine. I’m still recovering from an entire summer of drinking beer in the sun, and sometimes my thinking sports grab finest petticoat. Continue reading

Sunday morning, 10:00 AM, and we were waiting in line at a tool booth on I-90, As we approached the toll booth, Octopus’s Garden came on the stereo. That was not the first time we’d heard the song that weekend. Just two days prior, the song had come on and we agreed that it was a stupid, throw-away song, pretty much like any song Ringo had anything to do with. Now, however, tripping in an old Dodge Colt on the interstate, the ripply background vocals and special effects made Octopus’s Garden undeniably the Best Song of All Time, a title we bestowed upon many more songs before we reached home that afternoon. Squatch pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket to pay the toll. “Hey,” I laughed, “I dare you to stick that dollar in your crack and hand it to that bitch ass first.” We had a volcanic giggle-fit in front of the unimpressed tool booth attendant. Continue reading