A week or two ago, Hall of Fame Commenter Tonya, of Going To Mensa fame, informed me of two things: She also writes for The Mouthy Housewives. She has lost her fucking mind.

I base that last one on the fact that Tonya asked me to be a guest on their site and answer a question submitted by a soon-to-be-former-reader because, let’s face it, what I don’t know about women, relationships, and healthy sex lives could fill the Grand Canyon and still leave plenty of room for what I don’t know about raising kids.

But head on over and check it out for yourself. Stay a while, read the archive, click on lots of advertising. I get a kickback. (Actually, I don’t, but I should! Tonya? What the fuck?)

Ok, take me to where the magic happens!

My birthday is on Thursday, and to celebrate the 14th anniversary of my 29th birthday, we are going to head out of town and spend a long weekend up in the mountains north of Phoenix. This will give us an opportunity to get away from our normal day-to-day lives, spend some time with each other (and some good friends who are coming with us), and do something about the fact that in a recent study, the United States came in 56th in a poll of the drunkest countries in the world. Fifty-sixth! This, quite frankly, is pathetic. I don’t know who commissioned this poll (because I was too hammered to read it), but obviously the people compiling the data completely missed my house on New Year’s Eve, Arizona State University, and Boston. Continue reading

My family and I were eating at IHOP on Friday night, and my kids were drawing with the paper and crayons they provide kids so that they won’t entertain themselves by pouring syrup all over everything. After looking over the menu, I looked up at my five year old who was just putting the finishing touches on a minor masterpiece. “Hey, what are you drawing?” I asked. Without hesitating he said, “Indiana Jones punching a jaguar.” Continue reading

If you’ve been following my site for a while, get help. Really. Also, you might remember that someone approached me wanting to sully my precious web site with advertising. And what’s worse, secret advertising, designed to make me seem like the kind of guy that would all of a sudden turn into a giant tool and start hawking the wares of others in the middle of a perfectly good post about unicorns having herpes. The very thought sickens me. Continue reading

Ok, kids, extremely juvenile content ahead (so use headphones if you’re at the office). This made me laugh, not so much because of the content (which is really, really immature), but because of how much time went into something this brief and retarded. It’s dubbed well, the sound effects are good, and if you are a Gregory Peck fan (and I know some of you are), this is a real jolt to the system.

Anyway, foul, crude language ahead (which isn’t exactly new for this site) and the dreaded c-word checks in only five seconds in, so you’ve been forewarned.

Every once in a while you’ll read some study that claims that guys think about sex every six minutes or so. Whenever these studies come out, women always have the same reaction. First, they say, “No kidding!” Then, invariably, they ask, “How do guys get anything done?” First of all, if anything, those studies are too conservative. Thinking about sex is something guys are constantly doing with almost no breaks. Maybe you can go six whole minutes without thinking of sex when you’re ninety, but I still kind of doubt it even if sex at 90 is like shooting pool with a rope.* Continue reading

Have you seen the Powerball jackpot? It is up to $250 million. That’s a quarter of a billion dollars. To put that in terms the average person can understand, $250 million would fill up your car’s gas tank 3.5 million times. It would buy you over 41 million six packs of beer. Lindsay Lohan would jerk you off in an alley 100 million times at her customary rate. That is a lot of fucking money, and I want you to know that it is all mine. Continue reading

As you may have noticed, I did a little redesign on my site in order to point out to people that Dogs On Drugs is up for a Bloggie, which is the rough equivalent of an Oscar, only the odds that a young starlet will blow you if you win are much, much lower. Maybe if you were dealing with one of the dumpier Kardashians, she’d give you a tuggie out of pity. Anyway, if you follow me on Facebook or Twitter you’ll know that I put out really fucking annoying periodic reminders to let people know they should go vote for me. I have no problem whoring myself out in this fashion. Continue reading

I started making prank phone calls due to an AT&T malfunction in the late 1970’s. The phone rang and I picked it up to hear a phone ringing on the other end. “Hey, come here and check this out,” I said to my older brother. “I answered the phone, but it’s acting like I called someone!” After a couple more rings, an irritated man answered on the other end and kicked off one of the more surreal phone conversations I’ve had to date. “Hello?” “Uhhh, hello?” “Hello?” “Hello?” “HELLO?” “Hello?” “HELLO!” “Hello?” “GODDAMIT, WHO IS THIS?” Continue reading