I’ve already discussed my four year old’s penchant for holding it in until he’s ready to fucking explode, but last night he took a different approach to things. A couple of hours before his annual daycare Christmas Recital (which could more accurately be described as the annual Sit In A High School Auditorium While A Bunch Of Toddlers Forget The Lyrics To Jingle Bells Recital), he decided that it would not be in his best interest to suffer through an acute episode of I’ve Got To Poo! on stage, and so he told me, “Daddy, I’m going to get the poo-poos out before I go on stage tonight!” Continue reading

I was leaving a store today when an employee smiled at me and said, “Happy Holidays!” It was quite clear from her attire, gold cross, and extreme whiteness that what she really meant was, “Merry Christmas”, but was forbidden from saying so in case I celebrate Kwanzaa or something and took mortal offense to her pleasant salutation. And that caused me to wonder why anyone gets all fucking worked up over being told to have a Merry Christmas. If someone in a store looked at me and said, “It’s Christmas. I hope your dick falls off,” then I’d be offended. But someone wishing that I have happiness? I’ll take it. Why the fuck not? They can wish me a Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Glorious Kwanzaa, Prosperous Ramadan, whatever. When someone wishes me happiness, I absolutely don’t care if they append a holiday I don’t observe to the end of it. They still want me to be happy, after all. I don’t have to have a hard-on for trees to appreciate being told to “Have a wonderful Arbor Day!” Continue reading

Since our last installment, I packed all of my belongings into a U-Haul and moved to a house a couple of blocks down the street. If you’re wondering why I bothered with a U-Haul if the move was so short, it was because putting all your shit on a sled and having your dog and kids pull it Iditarod-style may be entertaining, but effectiveness-wise it blows goats. So I wrapped the goldbricking fuckers in bubble-wrap and threw them in the U-Haul with the rest of my shit and fucking moved. I say “fucking moved” not just because I’m a foul-mouthed, anti-social malcontent with the manners of a drunken sailor in a whorehouse, but also because the total elapsed time to move everything by myself was six and a half hours including the time it took to rent and return the U-Haul. I am the motherfucking man. Continue reading

I spent a large chunk of my day in the dentist chair, first getting a crown put in, then discovering that I also needed a $500 root canal. And while all that was going on, a filling got knocked loose and I had to get that fixed. All in all, not the best day I’ve ever had, even if I spent the entire time on the maximum amount of nitrous oxide you can give a person. (I haven’t had that much nitrous since college.) So instead of thinking up witty funny immature shit to amuse myself with, I’m going to relay something interesting I ran across yesterday (H/T to Squatch for sending it to me): Continue reading

I work close to a fairly rare thing in the Phoenix metro area. A fairly rare thing in the United States, actually. It’s a roundabout. For those of you unfamiliar with a roundabout, it’s a circular road. They like to use them in Europe instead of stop lights. The idea is that you drive up to the roundabout, make sure that you’re not cutting anyone off, and you drive into it. Then you drive in a circle until you find the road that you’d like to exit onto. Pretty simple, no? They even put Yield signs at each entrance so you know that the laws of civilized society haven’t been suspended and you won’t be allowed to ram other people’s cars. Drive up, pause, drive in, drive off. How hard is that? Continue reading

When The Sims first came out, many years ago, I was intrigued by a promise on the box: “Control every aspect of your Sim’s life!” And so I shelled out the money, installed the software, and immediately created the unhappiest Sim in the history of the universe. He had no job, lived in a shithole (literally, it had no toilet), and I wouldn’t allow him to eat, bathe, or do anything even remotely healthy. It was like college in a lot of respects. But I had also set his characteristics to the worst settings I could imagine, and as a result he spent 95% of his time weeping on the floor. This delighted me because I am a horrible person. Continue reading

You know what I love? Exposition. Not an exposition, you know, like the World’s Exposition, which is nothing but a pretentious fair. No, the exposition that I love is the explanatory text that is inserted into, say, a sitcom so that your average knuckle-dragging moron can keep up with what’s going on. Some guy will answer the phone, “Well, hello Margaret, my older sister who lives in Seattle! How are you?” and you will know without having to actually think that this asshole has an older sister named Margaret that lives in Seattle. I love that shit. Continue reading

My two youngest kids, both of them boys, are six and four years old. Naturally, I spend a lot of time telling them what to do because if you didn’t tell kids this age what to do, Child Protective Services would take them away from you. “Take a bath”, “Eat something other than candy”, and “Don’t put knitting needles into your eye sockets” are things that you would think would go without saying, but with kids this age they’re not. I’ve got a twelve year old daughter and she’s not much better, to tell you the truth, the only difference being that she wouldn’t put knitting needles in her eye sockets unless her friends did it first. Continue reading

A few weeks ago, I made fun of Kenny Loggins, the Urkel of Rock and Roll. He richly deserved this, of course, as anyone who actually sat through “Whenever I Call You Friend” can attest. In fact, he won an accompanying poll which pitted him against eight (count ’em, eight!) of the lamest acts imaginable. It says something about you when you out-lame Boz Skaggs, or at least it should. Not that I want anything bad to happen to Kenny Loggins, but when he passes on his headstone should read “Kenny Loggins, lamer than Boz Skaggs” and it should dispense coupons to visitors for 1% off of their next meal at Sizzler. Continue reading

Anyone who knows me knows that I’ve got a thing for fucking with people semi-anonymously. Whether it’s over the phone, via email, or via offensive skywriting, if I feel that someone needs to be fucked with you can rest assured that I will do it. One time, in high school, a friend and I spent an entire afternoon getting baked and writing Dear Abby letters that were serious enough to be published, but silly enough that they provided our friends entertainment in the Chicago Tribune for months. That’s how I roll. Continue reading