My two year old son is great for many reasons, not the least of which is that you can take him into a toy store and walk out without buying anything, and not only will he not lose his shit, he will thank you for taking him in there. No kidding. He thanks you for everything, including changing his shitty diapers. That, my friends, is way, way overdue.

Because I didn’t get thanked for doing that by my five year old son. If I recall correctly, he laughed at me. He also will cry and sometimes throw a Force 10 tantrum if I walk out of a toy store without buying him something. Given his age, it’s expected, but it gets tiresome, as do the comments by random passersby. “Is he having a seizure?” “Yeah, probably.” Continue reading

Here is some news of great import for the thousands of imaginary beings that read this website on a regular basis: I am no longer posting while under the influence of heroin! Yes, it’s been tough so far, but I… umm, that is to say I… uhhh… Hold on a second. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes…

(3 hours later)

Where was I? Oh yes, I wastellinyuouhowfqsdqiwueor pwqoeiqedjnalkdjf leqif pqedfga;edjnv as.djkv qedfiuh qperoifo;weirutp 3tu4gw erg lkjerflkj edfkljelgfkjhdlkjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj. WHAT? HEY! Oh, sorry, man. I must’ve nodded off for a minute. Hey can I borrow your TV set for a while? Continue reading

Seriously, dude, whatever you’re on, cut the dose. (For the ADHD crowd, cut to roughly 48 seconds when the going gets weird.)

Before we get on to what you missed during the week after you rekindled your romance with prescription cough syrup, a quick note to the douchebag driving a maroon Scion who missed my bumper by 6 inches on Route 60 on Friday: This is not The Fast and the Furious. You are not Vin Diesel. You couldn’t even spell Diesel if I spotted you the “D”, the “S”, and all of the vowels. And you are not driving a cool car, you are driving a fucking toaster on wheels. Stop acting like you’re a professional stunt driver. You are a professional asshole, of that I have no doubt, and the only way you’ll live long enough to become a professional human being is to chill the fuck out before you kill yourself or before I find your ass and rip it a new dual-exhaust tailpipe. (I’ll even throw in under-carriage lights.)

Asshole. Continue reading

Eagle-eyed reader Eric sends in this video, which he calls “THE concert of the 60’s (no acid needed)”. I’ve got to agree with him on that last point. I don’t need acid because when I’m watching this I can’t help but feel I’m on acid.

An unnamed 42 year old Dutch woman broke up with her boyfriend recently. So she did what anyone in her situation would do, assuming they were 13 and had unlimited cell phone access: She called him 65,000 times in one year.

On trial in The Hague (because things get mighty slow between genocide cases), the 42 year old argued that the calls weren’t excessive, and I tend to agree with her. It’s only 178 calls a day, people. I get just as many from my homeowner’s association telling me that it is illegal to bury prostitutes in my back yard to quiet down.

Sit back and revel in the subtle wonder that is Nicolas Cage.

Let’s say you’re a 16 year old moron who just got his license.  Or a thoughtless senior citizen needing to brush up on the rules for a driver’s license test.  Maybe you’re new to this country and don’t know the rules of the road.  Or maybe you’re just a knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, waste of genetic material with a vicious body odor problem and an IQ of 14.  Whatever the reason, you’ll need to become familiar with traffic laws and to judge by my morning commute, there’s one law in particular you’ll need to know about.  So it is in the spirit of public service that we proudly present the Official Dogs On Drugs Guide To Rubbernecking.

A conversation I had this afternoon with my five year old son:

Him:  Can we watch the video of you skydiving again?

Me:  Forget that, let’s just go skydiving.

Him:  Really?  Mommy, can I go?

Mommy:  No.

Me:  Mommy’s no fun, is she?  I have no problem throwing you out of a plane.

Him:  Yeah, cause you’re cool!

Another Labor Day has come and gone, and with it another of my personal holiday traditions:  Getting shitfaced and loitering on the grounds of an old folks home.  Well, that sounds a bit creepier than it is in reality.  The Missus and I ditched our kids (not literally.  It was more of a culvert) and headed over to a fun-loving couple’s house where he had dinner, played poker, got wasted, and got semi-dirty in the pool.