One of the most entertaining stories of the year so far, in my book, is that of Manti Te’o. For those of you who have had your head stuck in a roll of Kirstie Alley’s back fat for the last three months, I’ll recap: Manti Te’o is a football player for Notre Dame who totally had a really smokin’ hot girlfriend, but you wouldn’t know her because she’s from out of town, dude. Then she died. Well, she didn’t really, because she never existed. Turned out some guy was pretending to be this smokin’ hot babe and that he had a thing for Manti Te’o. This, of course, set off alarms in the peanut-sized brains of NFL talent scouts because, holy shit, what if we have a GAY FOOTBALL PLAYER ON OUR HANDS? YOU CANNOT WIN THE SUPER BOWL IF YOU SPEND ALL OF YOUR TIME ANTIQUING, GODDAMMIT! Continue reading

Ok, look, I don’t want to alarm anyone or anything, but recent developments have made it clear to anyone who hasn’t been drinking varnish that we are all doomed. First it was robotic sparrows, then it was cinder block throwing robo-mules and internet-assisted evil rat brains. Now we’ve got tadpoles that see out of their asses. Science has officially run amok, and it is obvious that if we want to survive as a species we must learn to burrow deep underground like the mole-people. We also need to start fucking like rabbits on Viagra, although some of us have gotten off to a head start in this regard (*cough* Tara Reid *cough*). Continue reading

There’s an episode of Cheers where Woody asks Norm how he’s doing as he walks into the bar. Norm replies, “It’s a dog eat dog world, Woody, and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.” I had that kind of day today. With the exception of some very nice words from a good friend of mine, it was a stone cold bummer from beginning to end. So I came home and sat down to write and… Nothing. I knew what I wanted to write about, but the words just wouldn’t come. So I watched the movie Hard Eight instead, and watching Gwyneth Paltrow get slapped around a bit cheered me up just enough to give it another crack. Seriously, I don’t know why she irritates me so much, but I gave the movie Contagion five stars based solely on the fact that she dies in it. (SPOILER: The previous sentence contained a spoiler, and if you wanted to see Contagion without knowing what happens to Gwyneth Paltrow (she dies), you shouldn’t have read it.) Continue reading

Although I am justified in lecturing my daughter about the importance of school, I feel like a hypocrite when I do it. Not that I didn’t get good grades when I was a kid. I was pretty much a straight A student, with the exception of the Jr. High years when I was an awkward bundle of hormones and uncertainty. Jesus, those years sucked ass, big-time. The only thing that kept me from throwing myself off of a bridge was the possibility that someday an equally awkward and uncertain girl would let me feel up her goodies. Anyway, the reason I feel like a hypocrite when lecturing my daughter is simple: College. Continue reading

You awaken with a start and sit upright in bed. Adrenaline courses through your veins, your heart thuds violently in your chest. That sound… You wipe the cold sweat from your brow and scan the room. Waiting… Waiting… There it is again! That sound… Did it… Yes, dear God, it came from the window! You lie motionless, frozen in bed as you calculate your best course of action. There’s a gun in the closet, but you know it won’t do you any good. You might make a dash for the bathroom and barricade yourself inside, but there’s a window in there and besides, you’ve got to come out of there for food eventually. You spend the next few hours in a fever dream of dread and anguish until, finally, a blush on the horizon signals dawn. Slowly, the light seeps across the landscape until it hits your window and… Tree branches. It was just tree branches. Laughing, half from relief, half from exhaustion, you lie back in bed, intent upon getting at least an hour of sleep before you need to get up for work. And you can sleep soundly now, because your greatest fear is just that and nothing more: Fear. Well, I’ve got news for you. It’s real. Robotic zombie sparrows are real, and their day is at hand. Continue reading

I’ve been reading with no small amount of amusement recent reports that IKEA has been serving its customers meatballs tainted with horse meat. This makes me laugh not because I hate horses or anything, but because (and I can’t stress this enough) IKEA is a fucking furniture store, people. You should just be glad that you’re eating something that used to be a carbon-based life form. I had always assumed that anything for sale in the IKEA cafeteria was made out of excess polyurethane foam padding. Not that I particularly cared. “Yes, can I have some more of the “meat” balls, oh and some of that Bundt cake too? Yeah, the Bundt cake, over there. The one with the label that says ‘Do not remove under penalty of law’.” Continue reading

When you’ve got two young boys like I do (ages six and four), they will wake you up in one of two ways: If everything is all right, they’ll wake you up by jumping directly onto your crotch while you sleep. If they’ve done something wrong, you’ll know it because they will walk quietly into your room and say, “Hey, Daddy?” Then they’ll solemnly inform you that they jammed half of the living room carpet into the garbage disposal, “on accident”. Believe me, waking up with a blow to the nether regions is preferable. Continue reading

I woke up this morning to a pleasant surprise: Dogs on Drugs was nominated for a Bloggie in the category of Most Gratuitous Usage of the “M-F” Word by a Weblog Written by Someone in a Mental Institution. Needless to say, this nomination has been a long time coming, and I’d like to thank the members of the… Hang on a second… Holy shitballs! I was actually nominated for Best Writing of a Weblog! Well, that just goes to show how far hard work and determination moderate hacking skills and a pint of ether will take you. What can I say? I’m honored, grateful, and for some strange reason I’d prefer not to analyze, incredibly horny. Continue reading

I fucking knew I shouldn’t have gone into the office today. After yesterday’s debacle, I knew that I was taking a big chance by going to work, but they’re kind of funny about people actually showing up and, you know, doing shit, and I didn’t think it was very likely that they’d accept a Chicago song as a valid excuse for missing work. So I went in, put on some headphones, and repeatedly jammed the polar opposite of Chicago: a song called Check My Brain, which is loud, and awesome, and has a riff that sounds like Alice in Chains mowing the lawn drunk. Continue reading

I’ve complained about the radio station that plays in my office before. It’s evil because their playlist consists mostly of songs that are so neutral that you let your defenses down. You hardly even know the music is there. Then they spring some fucking Air Supply on you and your day is ruined because sooner or later you’ll be approached by a coworker who asks you, “Dude, are you humming ‘All Out of Love’?” It’s the worst songs that fucking stick in your head. Anyone who has ever heard Karma Chameleon can tell you that. Continue reading