As I’m busy celebrating the holidays with my family, I’ve turned over today’s post to my cousin Charlie who has been going through a rough patch lately. He has assured me, however, that he has turned a corner and is trying to do something positive with his life. And even though it terrifies me as a human being, I am his cousin and I will stand behind him and his decision to dedicate his life… to kids? Oh, good God, this can’t end well. – Greg Continue reading

I was at Toys R Us just now, and the strangest fucking thing happened. First of all, the place was PACKED. There were no unused carts in the store, and when you walked in and realized it, you had to turn around and go into the parking lot in search of one. So when you pulled up and started approaching the store, it looked like the fucking place was on fire: People streaming out of the building from both sets of doors, some with purchases, some without. And of course there were kids crying, which just added to the effect. And as I walked up to see what the problem was, I had a strange thrill. What if some guy had finally snapped in a Toys R Us and totally lost it? I mean, braining people with baseball bats and stabbing employees with Tinkertoys kind of losing it. Wow! And then I got in there and realized it was just a lack of carts, and I felt kind of bummed. Continue reading

I’m a little pissed that the producers of How It’s Made haven’t come calling yet. If you are one of the four people in the known universe who haven’t seen How It’s Made, it’s a show that goes behind the scenes and shows the viewer the inside story of how some of our favorite products are made, such as anal beads. It’s fascinating. And even though featuring the process by which I come up with immature jokes utilizing terms such as “fuck-tard” and “ass-spelunker” could literally increase their ratings by up to as many as ten people, they haven’t come knocking. Those unmitigated fuckers. Continue reading

For those of you who follow this blog and have somehow managed to avoid forcible incarceration in a room with rubber walls, it will come as no surprise to you that I am asking bands to make me sandwiches. That’s normal and expected behavior for me, and unless I am subject to forcible incarceration myself it will probably continue. One day I’m petitioning Congress to declare February 16th National Avocado In Your Pants Day, and the next day I’m asking all blind people to wear sombreros. That’s just how it goes. Sunrise, sunset. Continue reading

You see the person pictured down below? This is Vesta Vayne, and she’s an internet friend of mine. An internet friend is someone you meet online, usually on a blog or in a series of comment posts, that you communicate with on a semi-regular basis, forming a bond over common experiences and similar outlook. That is, you do this until you realize that the person you thought you were getting to know is actually a disgusting 60 year old sex offender from Baltimore who has been jerking it to every single one of your emails. That, my friends, is the magic of the internet. Continue reading

My wife and I recently received a note from our son’s kindergarten teacher stating that after a careful review of his journal, he was being sent to the principal’s office for what I can only assume was a crash course on Nobel Prize acceptance speech etiquette. I mean, I was kind of in a hurry and didn’t take too much time to read the email because mostly those emails are of the “your son spent all of today’s ‘carpet time’ trying to make the other students laugh” variety. And beside being puzzled as to where he’d get that kind of behavior from, that shit gets repetitive and old really quick, so I admit I kind of skimmed the contents. Continue reading

Dear makers of Gatorade: Can you just go back to making Gatorade again? You know, the funky “lemon lime” flavor that tastes a little bit off like either the lemon or the lime had been fished out of a homeless guy’s pants? Yeah, that stuff. That is Gatorade. Not the orange stuff, not the red stuff, and certainly not that Windex blue shit. And not Gatorade Ice, or Gatorade Frost, or G!, or whatever the fuck you’ve taken to calling your product. Just make regular, lemon-lime Gatorade. Continue reading

My favorite rock band of all time is Led Zeppelin. I could go into the reasons why, but the last time I did that I got so wound up that I was arrested for playing air guitar in the nude in front of my house. While intoxicated. And removing the label from my mattress without the express written consent of Major League Baseball. Again.

Anyway, as I’m a huge, slavering Led Zeppelin fan, I get alerts sent to me whenever there is some related breaking news. Yes, they broke up 31 years ago, but you never know what the future holds. I may wake up tomorrow to find that it’s 1975! (This has happened before.) And so it was while reading through the “breaking news” that consists of old people like me going on and on about how awesome Led Zeppelin was that I ran across the guy that legally changed his name to Led Zeppelin II. Continue reading

My five year old son fell down the stairs this morning.  Those things are a goddamn hazard, aren’t they?  Hey, you know what would be safer than stairs?  Fucking anything!

Seriously, put a slide right next to the stairs and your kids would never fall down the stairs again.  They’d slide down, and to judge by their behavior in the playground, they’d climb the slide right back up again.  And if they fall going up the slide, wheeeee!  Down they go.  Who cares?  Plus, they’d be distracted enough to stop staring at the TV long enough that we could finally put the Disney Channel out of business.  (Editor: Disney assassins are on their way as we speak.)

I was sitting at home the other day reading Rolling Stone, because when you have three kids you will engage in any activity that makes you even remotely cool or trendy. Unfortunately, reading a magazine ranks right below flagpole-sitting and barbershop quartets on the cool and trendy scale.  I’m sure my kids see me doing this kind of thing and think to themselves, “What’s next?  A handlebar mustache?”  (Note to self:  Yes!)