If you were particularly bored this past weekend, you may have noticed that the Technological Juggernaut that is the Dogs on Drugs web server went down a couple of times. I haven’t had time to check, but I’m assuming that this caused the New York Stock Exchange to crash because that’s what stock exchanges do: At the slightest sign of trouble, they shit the metaphorical bed. “In other news today, the Bolivian Minister of Gumballs ate foie gras, sending the New York Stock Exchange into a death spiral. The President urged citizens not to panic, stating, ‘There is no reason for alarm. The United States economy is robust and secure. Also, I will suck your dick for five dollars.'”

I was proof-reading my post from the other night, which I realize may be surprising to some people. Usually, when people read things on this site such as “parakeet stuffed with cocaine”, they assume that it must be the result of some sort of autocorrect weirdness, or failing that, the author has had a mild stroke. When they discover that it was, in fact, a conscious effort to entertain, they usually laugh nervously and sidle away from me, sometimes sidling as fast as 45 miles per hour. Heaven forbid that I tell them what the original line was before editing. That would be something so foul and depraved that it would result in large men armed with butterfly nets and powerful psychotropic drugs converging on the Dogs on Drugs Headquarters/Bordello, and fuck that. That’s how Highlights magazine went out of business.

Are you sitting down? You’re going to need to sit down for this. Ready? Ok. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to come right out and say it: The Empire of Taste has fallen. Yes, the official Dogs on Drugs Gimmicky Restaurant, Troy in Staten Island, has gone out of business. That means no more of these commercials will ever be made:

I will give you a few minutes to weep/rend your garments/shake a bony fist at the heavens while bemoaning your sorry fate. No rush, I’ll wait.

Entertainment has undergone a sea change in the last 20-something years. It is now to be had on demand, preferably in all popular formats, with options for both rental and purchase, and certainly it has to be consumable on mobile devices because I’m sitting here at this funeral and let me tell you something: BORING! Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s sad. I understand. And he was taken too soon, I’ll give you that. But if he didn’t want to wind up dead, maybe he should have thought of that before he slammed his bedroom into my bitchin’ monster truck at upwards of 85 miles per hour. Asshole. Anyway, the least the grieving family can do is provide something to take our minds off of all of the sadness, like strippers, or maybe a dunk tank.

The shopping mall is a uniquely American experience.  Oh, sure, other countries have malls, but they’re really fucked up.  I was at a shopping mall in Mexico, for instance, and the mall cops there having fucking Uzis.  That’s not cool.  Here in America, the mall cops have pepper spray, which is much safer.  Well, safer for everyone but the mall cops, because in America it’s the shoppers that are carrying Uzis, and with good reason:  The mall cops are carrying pepper spray!  I also remember that about a year ago, the terrorist group Boko Haram bombed a mall in Nigeria, which caused me all kinds of confusion.  “What?  Procol Harum bombed a shopping mall?”  (I might need to get my hearing checked.) Continue reading

I don’t know if you are aware of this or not, but I am a paragon of modern style. There is not a single decision in the fashion industry, for instance, that is made without my consultation. Oh sure, the fashion moguls are proud, and they disguise their queries and pleas for help in the form of emails with subjects such as “Hot Sluts Want Your Credit Card Numbers!!!”, but I see through their thin charade. Like I said, I am a paragon of modern style because I am Up To Fucking Date. Which is why today I will be reviewing the book The Stand, first published in 1978. Continue reading

You will be happy to know that my long running streak of receiving accidental phone calls from the elderly is now at two. Last October, if you’ll recall, I received a wrong number voice mail from an old man named Ben who hails from Canada and is the most insanely polite person I’ve ever talked to. He was so over-the-top polite that after a while I started to suspect that maybe it was all a smokescreen and that he was overcompensating to hide some terrible secret. “All right, Ben,” I felt like yelling into the phone, “knock off the horseshit politeness act. We both know that you’ve got a basement cemetery full of hobos and drifters!” But knowing Ben, he’d deny it and then apologize for being so contrary. Continue reading

My life has been a living nightmare lately, and it’s all Joan Jett’s fault. Seriously, this isn’t like the time I blamed my indecent exposure arrest on the Trix Rabbit, which I now know was wrong, and that ultimately the person responsible for my actions is, and always has been, Pauly Shore. No, this episode is based in reality. That’s right! Reality! Actual events that transpired right here on planet Earth! And to think that just two short months ago, medical professionals labeled me delusional and a danger to myself and others. Well, who’s laughing now, highly trained professionals from Johns Hopkins medical school? I’ll tell you who’s laughing: Me. The guy who has Pauly Shore buried in his basement. Continue reading

When my brothers and I were younger, we went through a phase when we would spend an inordinate amount of time watching what we called chop-socky movies. These were Chinese kung-fu movies that played late on Sunday mornings when there was nothing else to watch. You know the kind of movie I’m talking about: Some poor Chinese schlub, usually a cook, gets involved in a misunderstanding with local toughs, and all of a sudden every single move they make, including batting their eyelashes, is accompanied with a violent SWOOOSH! sound. Then they kick the living shit out of each other for 90 minutes while the horribly dubbed voice-over actors would say ridiculous things such as, “Ha-ha! You have mastered the Crooked Tiger! But now you will suffer at the hands of the Flatulent Eagle!” You know, those movies. Continue reading

I took my two sons camping a few weeks ago, a joyous and wholesome family affair which, with time and extensive therapy, we might someday be able to blot from our collective memory. It did not go well. It started, as camping usually does, with a rousing game of Car Tetris. I used to drive a pickup truck, which made camping preparation an exercise in excess. “Tent? Check. Cots? Check. Giant novelty sombreros? Check. Player piano? Check. Inflatable scale model of the Alamo? Check.” But when you have a car the limited amount of storage forces you to be selective. (“Should we bring water, or pornography?”) And with a limited amount of space, you find yourself utilizing every square inch, even if it means the dog has to ride in the glove compartment. Continue reading