I remember sitting in the back seat of a car in the parking lot of a liquor store when I was eighteen, glumly watching as my friend got shot down again. As he settled back into the car where we were waiting, I said to no one in particular, “Man, when I turn twenty-one and some kid asks me to buy him beer, I’ll totally do it. I’ll buy him a fucking keg if he wants me to!” My statement was met with a chorus of “Yeah’s” and “No kidding”, and we hunkered down to wait for someone “cool” enough to break the law for a bunch of moron teenagers that they didn’t know. I remember that well. And so when I was approached by a gangly-looking teen the other day and asked to buy him some beer, it was with a pang of regret that I said, “Sorry, pal.” As I walked away, I swear the kid’s eyes said to me, “What happened, man? You used to be cool!” Continue reading

For those of you who read last week’s Week In Review, you’ll be familiar with the picture off to the left of what appears to be a Japanese woman slowly turning into an inflatable fuck doll. This is wonderful fodder for smug American pricks such as myself, who like to make fun of anything nonsensical, foreign, or (ideally) nonsensically foreign. In this case, however, I was wrong to poke fun at that advertisement because this wonderful invention will help all of you ladies out there whose faces are slowly turning into mush. Behold the Face Slimmer from the wonderful folks over at Glim. Continue reading

Well, it’s that time of year again: The time when I make up children, donate non-existent funds to fictional charities, and declare myself a blind, Nicaraguan orphan. This is done for “tax purposes”, which is another way of saying that I plan to defraud the IRS out of at least $72,000. Continue reading

I got an email from my eleven year old daughter’s teacher the other day. She was removed from class for communicating in fake sign language with a classmate across the room. During a test. She has absolutely none of the cunning and guile that I had at that age. Through a mixture of wily intelligence, parental cluelessness, and dumb luck, I managed to go through my entire childhood without getting busted for anything major after the age of five. Nothing. My daughter, on the other hand, is evening up the family score by getting busted for every idiotic thing she even thinks of doing. Continue reading

The years I spent in Junior High were the worst of my childhood. That’s relative, of course. I had a happy home life, friends, I wasn’t bullied, and I don’t have any real reason to complain. But those three years were at the bottom of the list for me. The reason is simple: Going through puberty with a couple of hundred other kids is fucking horrible. No one knows where they fit in. The unpopular kids hate the popular kids for being popular. The popular kids don’t think they’re terribly popular and hate the unpopular kids for hating them. You have to conform to current fashion (as seen by tweeners, no less) or be ostracized, yet you have to stand out in order to be recognized. In short, it’s three years of insanity with pubes. Continue reading

If you’ve ever bellied up to the bar and really tied one on, you know that one of the most terrifying things you can ever do is pass out in front of your friends. This is because your friends are drunken reprobates, and also because the urge to fuck with someone who has passed out is almost overwhelming, especially when that person was acting like a total jackhole just fifteen minutes earlier. Oh, you say you have the world’s biggest cock? All right, then let’s just burn your pants in the street so everyone at the bar can confirm your claim. What’s that? You’re not objecting? Ok, then, here we go! Continue reading

A couple of months ago, I mentioned that once a month I pay another woman to give me physical pleasure. And my wife is ok with it, because the same woman physically pleasures my wife too. Alas, while this may have been the opening for an awesome letter to Penthouse Forum (“I never thought it would happen to me, but…”), it is actually a description of the massage situation in our house. I decided that since we have to lug the fucking kids around while they are in the throes of sugar seizures and whatnot, we should have some way of working out the kinks, relieving the stress, and being away from them in a sound-proof room for an hour, and so we splurged and signed up for monthly massages. Continue reading

It’s funny how my kids are familiar with the entire Santa Claus mythology, yet they could give a flying fuck about where the Easter Bunny comes from. They know all about the North Pole, Mrs. Claus, their sex slaves elves, the reindeer, and any of a million details related to Christmas, but nothing about the Easter Bunny. I asked my three year old, “Where does the Easter Bunny come from?” He looked at me as if I was a mental patient, threw up his arms and said, “I don’t know!” exactly the same way you would say it if I asked you how many purses Lindsay Lohan has. They really don’t give a rat’s ass about the Easter Bunny, just as long as that fucker makes with the candy. Continue reading

Ok, giggle all you want about the incongruous name of the “diet candy” in this commercial. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. For instance, guys, if you ever feel the urge to take a picture of your wife while uttering the words, “Gotta get a shot of this! You’re eating less!” you are about to experience a pole lamp to the groin. The more you know!

I remember the first time I ever watched Jerry Springer. My brains rolled out of my ears and made a break for the door. That show was fucking ultra-stoopid and catered to the worst and basest aspects of humanity. You felt like a horrible person for watching it, and then hated yourself even more for watching it again the next day. I did this for a week before I reached my limit, and in that week I was introduced to husbands with secret boyfriends, sex addicted thirteen year olds, people scared by socks, and all kinds of other wacky shit. At least the week I can never get back had a bit of color, that’s about all I can say for it.

But there was an almost zen-like appeal to the show in its simplicity. A simple genius. You may not be interested by a kindergarten teacher, and you may not be interested in a whore (if you’re not employing her), but a kindergarten teacher that whores on the side is undeniably interesting, and Jerry Springer knew it. He’d set the stage, play the straight man, and let the tranny chips fall where they may.