I’m pretty wiped out from a long week of whatever the fuck it is I do, and usually when that happens I post strange, disturbing videos like the one where Oprah unhinged her law and ate a Vietnamese baby whole. But instead of doing that, I’m going to take this opportunity to remind everyone that voting is open for a couple more days over at the 2013 Bloggies, and also that Dogs on Drugs is up for Best Writing, and good pal Vesta Vayne’s blog The Cowardly Feminist is up for Blog o’ the Year. Get on over there and vote. If you’ve already voted once, honestly, show a little effort, would you? There are dead people in Chicago who vote more often than that. Continue reading

My kids are enjoying Spring Break this week, which is great for me too because I don’t have to nag them to get their homework done, or get out of bed so they won’t miss their bus, or practice lines for their play about how important teeth are, or any of the other million things I have to nag them about that makes school more exhausting for me now than when I actually went to school myself. Seriously, my parents never had to do any of this shit. I did all my homework in school because I was bored out of my mind and had nothing better to do, at least until I discovered the joys of mentally undressing classmates. Continue reading

One of the most entertaining stories of the year so far, in my book, is that of Manti Te’o. For those of you who have had your head stuck in a roll of Kirstie Alley’s back fat for the last three months, I’ll recap: Manti Te’o is a football player for Notre Dame who totally had a really smokin’ hot girlfriend, but you wouldn’t know her because she’s from out of town, dude. Then she died. Well, she didn’t really, because she never existed. Turned out some guy was pretending to be this smokin’ hot babe and that he had a thing for Manti Te’o. This, of course, set off alarms in the peanut-sized brains of NFL talent scouts because, holy shit, what if we have a GAY FOOTBALL PLAYER ON OUR HANDS? YOU CANNOT WIN THE SUPER BOWL IF YOU SPEND ALL OF YOUR TIME ANTIQUING, GODDAMMIT! Continue reading

Ok, look, I don’t want to alarm anyone or anything, but recent developments have made it clear to anyone who hasn’t been drinking varnish that we are all doomed. First it was robotic sparrows, then it was cinder block throwing robo-mules and internet-assisted evil rat brains. Now we’ve got tadpoles that see out of their asses. Science has officially run amok, and it is obvious that if we want to survive as a species we must learn to burrow deep underground like the mole-people. We also need to start fucking like rabbits on Viagra, although some of us have gotten off to a head start in this regard (*cough* Tara Reid *cough*). Continue reading

Last year when Dogs on Drugs was nominated for a Bloggie (I believe the category was Most Likely To Be Authored By Someone With A Bunch Of Bodies In His Crawl Space), I started receiving offers to write “sponsored posts”, which is industry speak for “become a giant tool for thirty bucks”. Seriously. I don’t mind when people review products or whatever, but I was specifically being asked to do so without letting my readers know what was going on. And they’d give me thirty bucks for my time. Needless to say, I wasn’t down with the idea and said so although kind of indirectly. (The result was the infamous “Corn Pops are not made of packing peanuts and speed” post, which still makes me laugh when I read it.) Continue reading

There’s an episode of Cheers where Woody asks Norm how he’s doing as he walks into the bar. Norm replies, “It’s a dog eat dog world, Woody, and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.” I had that kind of day today. With the exception of some very nice words from a good friend of mine, it was a stone cold bummer from beginning to end. So I came home and sat down to write and… Nothing. I knew what I wanted to write about, but the words just wouldn’t come. So I watched the movie Hard Eight instead, and watching Gwyneth Paltrow get slapped around a bit cheered me up just enough to give it another crack. Seriously, I don’t know why she irritates me so much, but I gave the movie Contagion five stars based solely on the fact that she dies in it. (SPOILER: The previous sentence contained a spoiler, and if you wanted to see Contagion without knowing what happens to Gwyneth Paltrow (she dies), you shouldn’t have read it.) Continue reading

Although I am justified in lecturing my daughter about the importance of school, I feel like a hypocrite when I do it. Not that I didn’t get good grades when I was a kid. I was pretty much a straight A student, with the exception of the Jr. High years when I was an awkward bundle of hormones and uncertainty. Jesus, those years sucked ass, big-time. The only thing that kept me from throwing myself off of a bridge was the possibility that someday an equally awkward and uncertain girl would let me feel up her goodies. Anyway, the reason I feel like a hypocrite when lecturing my daughter is simple: College. Continue reading

Last week I selflessly ran the very real risk of winning a Pulitzer Prize when I blew the lid off of the robotics industry’s secret plan to enslave us all with Robotic Death Sparrows. Because of this earth shattering story, several things happened: First of all, intelligent people from all walks of life began burrowing into the earth in an attempt to save their lives. (At least I did, and now my boss wants to know why there’s a huge hole in my cube.) Second, I was made to be aware that the robotics industry was not pleased with my exposé when I found the following DVD footage on my doorstep next to a pile of sparrow feathers.

Yes, the Robo-Mule now throws cinder blocks, and it is only a matter of time before it can throw increasingly heavier objects, like refrigerators, Volkswagens, and Kirstie Alley. Do not be deceived by its cute, pre-toss Robo-Mule-has-to-go-potty jig, the Robo-Mule is displeased, and if my lifeless body is found broken underneath a pile of masonry, you will know what happened. Continue reading

You awaken with a start and sit upright in bed. Adrenaline courses through your veins, your heart thuds violently in your chest. That sound… You wipe the cold sweat from your brow and scan the room. Waiting… Waiting… There it is again! That sound… Did it… Yes, dear God, it came from the window! You lie motionless, frozen in bed as you calculate your best course of action. There’s a gun in the closet, but you know it won’t do you any good. You might make a dash for the bathroom and barricade yourself inside, but there’s a window in there and besides, you’ve got to come out of there for food eventually. You spend the next few hours in a fever dream of dread and anguish until, finally, a blush on the horizon signals dawn. Slowly, the light seeps across the landscape until it hits your window and… Tree branches. It was just tree branches. Laughing, half from relief, half from exhaustion, you lie back in bed, intent upon getting at least an hour of sleep before you need to get up for work. And you can sleep soundly now, because your greatest fear is just that and nothing more: Fear. Well, I’ve got news for you. It’s real. Robotic zombie sparrows are real, and their day is at hand. Continue reading

I’ve been reading with no small amount of amusement recent reports that IKEA has been serving its customers meatballs tainted with horse meat. This makes me laugh not because I hate horses or anything, but because (and I can’t stress this enough) IKEA is a fucking furniture store, people. You should just be glad that you’re eating something that used to be a carbon-based life form. I had always assumed that anything for sale in the IKEA cafeteria was made out of excess polyurethane foam padding. Not that I particularly cared. “Yes, can I have some more of the “meat” balls, oh and some of that Bundt cake too? Yeah, the Bundt cake, over there. The one with the label that says ‘Do not remove under penalty of law’.” Continue reading