When you’ve got two young boys like I do (ages six and four), they will wake you up in one of two ways: If everything is all right, they’ll wake you up by jumping directly onto your crotch while you sleep. If they’ve done something wrong, you’ll know it because they will walk quietly into your room and say, “Hey, Daddy?” Then they’ll solemnly inform you that they jammed half of the living room carpet into the garbage disposal, “on accident”. Believe me, waking up with a blow to the nether regions is preferable. Continue reading

I woke up this morning to a pleasant surprise: Dogs on Drugs was nominated for a Bloggie in the category of Most Gratuitous Usage of the “M-F” Word by a Weblog Written by Someone in a Mental Institution. Needless to say, this nomination has been a long time coming, and I’d like to thank the members of the… Hang on a second… Holy shitballs! I was actually nominated for Best Writing of a Weblog! Well, that just goes to show how far hard work and determination moderate hacking skills and a pint of ether will take you. What can I say? I’m honored, grateful, and for some strange reason I’d prefer not to analyze, incredibly horny. Continue reading

I fucking knew I shouldn’t have gone into the office today. After yesterday’s debacle, I knew that I was taking a big chance by going to work, but they’re kind of funny about people actually showing up and, you know, doing shit, and I didn’t think it was very likely that they’d accept a Chicago song as a valid excuse for missing work. So I went in, put on some headphones, and repeatedly jammed the polar opposite of Chicago: a song called Check My Brain, which is loud, and awesome, and has a riff that sounds like Alice in Chains mowing the lawn drunk. Continue reading

I’ve complained about the radio station that plays in my office before. It’s evil because their playlist consists mostly of songs that are so neutral that you let your defenses down. You hardly even know the music is there. Then they spring some fucking Air Supply on you and your day is ruined because sooner or later you’ll be approached by a coworker who asks you, “Dude, are you humming ‘All Out of Love’?” It’s the worst songs that fucking stick in your head. Anyone who has ever heard Karma Chameleon can tell you that. Continue reading

I started writing a post about how, roughly once a year, some pervo is seen driving down a highway here in Phoenix while beating his meat. I quickly went from marveling at his multi-tasking skills (I know I couldn’t do a good job at both of those things simultaneously), to marveling at the wide range of human kinks. Unfortunately, I had the internet at my disposal, and I learned a fuckload more about the subject than I had planned, or ever wanted to. All I know is that I’ll never look at a bicycle the same way again. Continue reading

I did a lot of hiking over the weekend, and ran across something interesting. Arizona is a fairly unique state, and there are things you can see here that you only rarely see in other places, if at all: The Saguaro cactus, the Roadrunner, the single-digit IQ person who gets elected governor… On Sunday, I ran across a herd of wild horses (that’s a couple of them in the main photo). Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “That’s great, Greg. But can you somehow turn this wonderfully serene tableaux into a story involving horses and dangerous drugs?” Why, yes. Yes, I can. Continue reading

It takes a special kind of person to have kids, the kind of person that is able to drop everything at a moment’s notice, break numerous traffic laws in a high speed dash across town, and take their child to the ER (where he is known by first name). This is because kids are accident prone, spending half their time reeling around like tiny little drunkards. Actually, I take that back. That’s an insult to drunkards. I drank my ass off in college, and I only fell down and hurt myself once, and I really had to work at it. I was trying to jump down two flights of stairs, 8 steps at a time, using only my left leg. I broke a bone in my foot, and spent six weeks learning how to stagger on crutches. But I had an excuse: Extreme intoxication. Kids need no excuse other than that they’re kids. Continue reading

I had a dream last night that I was a supercop. You know, the kind of cop you see in movies like Lethal Weapon or Die Hard. A supercop is one who doesn’t play by the rules, but always gets results. Of course, those results are often obtained by leveling entire city blocks with automatic weapons, grenade launchers, and the occasional tactical nuke, but a supercop doesn’t care. A supercop goes back to the precinct, gets chewed out by the captain for causing $17.3 million in damage in pursuit of a jaywalker, and settles the matter once and for all with a well placed catch phrase. Being a supercop kicks ass. Continue reading

I spent the night attending a lecture by Harvard theoretical physicist Lisa Randall, because that’s how I roll, yo. Some people like to get high out of their minds, I like to get high out of my mind and attend physics lectures. Just kidding, I wasn’t high. I’m not the kind of dope-fiend that finds it necessary to warp my reality in order to deal with it, unlike your ordinary house cat. (Seriously, this made me giggle my ass off like I was back in college…)

I took my kids to the circus this weekend. There are few things in life I hate as much as the circus, that gaudy, shucksterrific slice of Americana whose sole purpose is not to entertain, but to give gainful employment to pederast drifters and people who like to burn things. I look at the ringmaster, who has now apparently had singing added to his list of super-annoying job duties, and I think to myself, “Good God, man. Your job is to go from town to town wearing that suit. That’s pretty much it. Have you no pride?” I guess I just don’t get the circus. Continue reading