Every once in a while, a story in the news catches my attention for no other reason than the fact that it’s just plain crazy. I remember 18 years ago (Jesus, really? 18 years?) I was putting together a desk in my apartment in Tucson when my roommate told me, “Greg, come here and check this out. The cops are chasing OJ Simpson, and he’s driving like 15 miles per hour!” It was nuts, and it captured my attention, as well as the rest of the world. (Robert Blake, meanwhile, didn’t get in a car chase and as a result, no one gave a rat’s ass about his murder trial. Hell, he can’t even get himself arrested these days. Wait, I guess that’s a good thing.) Continue reading

I was driving home from work the other day when my check engine light came on. That is the worst fucking feeling in the world. I’ve had radically weird shit happen with my body, and the first sign of trouble never bothers me as much as my check engine light going off. That’s because most of the time whatever ailment you have is trivial and you’re just out an office visit copay. Not so with cars. You will never, ever go in to the mechanic and have him tell you, “Yeah, there’s something going around. Just don’t drive it much for a couple of days and make sure it gets plenty of liquids.” It’s always clutch this, or transmission that, and the end result is you have to give the mechanic all of your money because you desperately need to have your windows rotated. (Note: I know jack shit about cars, so I’m assuming that rotating your windows is a pretty standard thing. Also, do mechanics normally own yachts?) Continue reading

I’ve already discussed my four year old’s penchant for holding it in until he’s ready to fucking explode, but last night he took a different approach to things. A couple of hours before his annual daycare Christmas Recital (which could more accurately be described as the annual Sit In A High School Auditorium While A Bunch Of Toddlers Forget The Lyrics To Jingle Bells Recital), he decided that it would not be in his best interest to suffer through an acute episode of I’ve Got To Poo! on stage, and so he told me, “Daddy, I’m going to get the poo-poos out before I go on stage tonight!” Continue reading

Now that my daughter is twelve, I find that I can watch actual movies with her. You know, movies that don’t involve princesses, or Care Bears, or anthropomorphic sponges. Honest to God movies with characters that aren’t for sale in Toys R Us. Sure, she still likes some utterly worthless crap (*cough* Twilight *cough*), but that’s to be expected at her age. But I can sit down with her, pop in a movie, and we can watch it for more than 30 seconds without her saying, “This is BORING! I want to watch Spongebob!” which is pretty much all my kids have ever said in regards to the TV when I control the remote. Up until now, that is. So I’m enjoying the fact that I can sit down with my daughter and watch some nice, wholesome entertainment with her, like Blue Velvet. Continue reading

Why don’t blind people go skydiving? Because it scares the shit out of the dogs. Hahaha, isn’t that a laff riot? Well, not according to the blind guy I told it to last week. What a baby. Just kidding, actually. I’d never say something like that to a blind person. They can hear really fucking well. I might make some silly faces, maybe throw a couple of punches that land short just to see if they’re faking it, but I’d never go so far as to actually say that to a blind person because I’ve got class. That and I’m a richly deserving social pariah who is no longer allowed out in public. Continue reading

I was leaving a store today when an employee smiled at me and said, “Happy Holidays!” It was quite clear from her attire, gold cross, and extreme whiteness that what she really meant was, “Merry Christmas”, but was forbidden from saying so in case I celebrate Kwanzaa or something and took mortal offense to her pleasant salutation. And that caused me to wonder why anyone gets all fucking worked up over being told to have a Merry Christmas. If someone in a store looked at me and said, “It’s Christmas. I hope your dick falls off,” then I’d be offended. But someone wishing that I have happiness? I’ll take it. Why the fuck not? They can wish me a Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Glorious Kwanzaa, Prosperous Ramadan, whatever. When someone wishes me happiness, I absolutely don’t care if they append a holiday I don’t observe to the end of it. They still want me to be happy, after all. I don’t have to have a hard-on for trees to appreciate being told to “Have a wonderful Arbor Day!” Continue reading

Since our last installment, I packed all of my belongings into a U-Haul and moved to a house a couple of blocks down the street. If you’re wondering why I bothered with a U-Haul if the move was so short, it was because putting all your shit on a sled and having your dog and kids pull it Iditarod-style may be entertaining, but effectiveness-wise it blows goats. So I wrapped the goldbricking fuckers in bubble-wrap and threw them in the U-Haul with the rest of my shit and fucking moved. I say “fucking moved” not just because I’m a foul-mouthed, anti-social malcontent with the manners of a drunken sailor in a whorehouse, but also because the total elapsed time to move everything by myself was six and a half hours including the time it took to rent and return the U-Haul. I am the motherfucking man. Continue reading

If you are a regular reader of this site, you know that I post on a pretty regular basis, even if only to put up videos of dogs fucking themselves unconscious. I’ve got a lot to say, apparently, and if what I have to say is juvenile, offensive, and flagrantly libelous, then that’s even better. It gives me an outlet that I don’t otherwise have. I mean, you try going into the office and telling people you dressed your dick up like Kenny Loggins and see what happens. Continue reading

I spent a large chunk of my day in the dentist chair, first getting a crown put in, then discovering that I also needed a $500 root canal. And while all that was going on, a filling got knocked loose and I had to get that fixed. All in all, not the best day I’ve ever had, even if I spent the entire time on the maximum amount of nitrous oxide you can give a person. (I haven’t had that much nitrous since college.) So instead of thinking up witty funny immature shit to amuse myself with, I’m going to relay something interesting I ran across yesterday (H/T to Squatch for sending it to me): Continue reading

Is it me, or does everything make a special effect sound in India?