If it weren’t for my kids, the 80’s wouldn’t seem as if they were so far away. They’re not that far away, really. Not to me at least. Any time I want, I can close my eyes and conjure up visions of… AAAUUUGGGHHH!!! Who the fuck thought dressing head to toe in neon colors was a good idea? And what was with everyone’s fucking hair?!? Jesus, what a vapid decade: Menudo, Chia-Pets, parachute pants, and Where’s the Beef? No wonder I started drinking as a teenager. Anyway, the 80’s, for me, are instantly accessible in the recesses of my mind, but for my kids, they may as well be a hundred years ago. And so when I have to explain that when daddy grew up, phones were attached to walls and they look at me as if I just told them that I rode a dinosaur to school, I think to myself, well of course, the 80’s started over 32 years ago… And then it seems really far away, and distant, and I feel old. So I ground my kids to their rooms for a couple of weeks and drink in front of the TV watching reruns of Cheers until I feel young again or the police tell me that they have the house surrounded, whichever comes first. Continue reading

From time to time, some random person makes the mistake of believing that this site is run by a normal person, someone who doesn’t purchase prank photos from Joyce Dewitt or ask a classic rock band to make him a Rueben sandwich. And I am always more than happy to point out the error they made in such a way as to make them seriously question the line of work they have found themselves in. Take, for instance, poor Derek, who thinks that I may be able to help him out with his client who has a web site about drug and alcohol dependency issues, I’m guessing because he thinks that my readers have those kind of issues themselves. You guys are a bunch of fucking pot-heads, you know that? Anyway, here’s what Derek had to say: Continue reading

The last couple of months of my senior year in high school were, in many ways, very common. I, like many other students, had front loaded so many classes throughout high school that the last semester consisted of just a couple of classes and lots of time fucking around with my friends on Senior Bench, a large bench that ran the length of the hall that contained senior lockers. Since I had been accepted to my university of choice, I could do almost anything I wanted to without fear of it having negative consequences. I can’t emphasize this enough: That kicked fucking ass. School is so much more fun when you aren’t weighed down by actually having to learn anything. The spring of 1987 seemed to roll by in slow motion, sunny skies, green lawns, and endless fun with my friends. Even then I knew it was something special, which is why, in an effort to spend even more time there, I volunteered to become the manager of the girls soccer team. Continue reading

This is Nick Delpopolo, American judoka, Olympic athlete, and bong smoking fool. Nick got booted from the Olympics for testing positive for marijuana. Yes, Tonya Harding can hire someone to go after your knees with a fucking tire iron, and she gets to compete. But get a little nutty with the reefer, and you, sir, are worse than Hitler. This makes no sense. Unless Mr. Delpopolo was competing in an Olympic burrito eating event that I haven’t heard about, getting stoned does nothing to enhance your performance. If it did, I would have won every single gold medal in every single event from 1988 through 1992. And I wouldn’t have been blowing bongs on the sly like Michael Phelps (who is allowed to get high, apparently), I would have done them on the fucking medal stand. “U! S! A! U! S! A! (inhale) … u… s… a… (cough cough)” Continue reading

I was alerted to some shocking news from France today: The French have four whole people willing to take up weapons and actually use them. This, of course, comes as a big shock to anyone familiar with World War II in which France played a crucial role because, hey, someone had to flee the battlefield crying like little girls. The news comes from “one of France’s largest festivals of medieval culture”, which, let’s face it, is just another reason for them not to shower. Anyway, here is the first sentence from the AFP report: Continue reading

My wife and I had a rare adult’s night out the other evening, and because we’d had a drink or ten, the next day we felt that an afternoon nap might be in order. This used to be a sure recipe for disaster, as the moment both adults fell asleep was the moment the boys would decide to see what happens when you shoot the contents of a juice box into an electrical outlet. But they’ve become a bit more responsible as of late, as evidenced by the fact that my wife and I woke up and the house was noticeably free of people from Child Protective Services. Continue reading

I got my hair cut today, something that always leaves me with mixed feelings. I was cursed with fine and very straight hair, which means that the only way it looks good is to keep it short. I’m ok with this now, but when I was growing up I desperately wanted to have hair like Robert Plant or Jimmy Page because look how much pussy those guys got! They were… So. Fucking. Cool. But even when I got to the age when my parents let me grow my hair (in other words, the age when I stopped listening to them), my hair would not fucking cooperate and instead of looking like Robert Plant, I wound up looking like the offspring of Axl Rose and Gollum after having gotten out of a pool. It was not a good look for me. Continue reading

I want to live on a farm in Vermont. Well, not an actual farm. I grew up in the Midwest, so I understand the dreamy, romanticized vision most people have in their heads when they think of farm life. Farms are nothing like that. Farms are hot, smelly places where backbreaking labor does nothing to guarantee success. And even if, against all odds, harvest time has come and everything has gone right, with no drought, or flood, or pestilence, or fire, or anything else crazy getting in the way, and you find yourself with an actual crop to sell, some motherfucking asshole from the city will pipe up and complain that eighty-nine cents is way too much money for an ear of corn that you’ve worked from dawn till dusk for an entire season to produce, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting in the county jail, charged with Murder by Combine. Continue reading

Do you ever find yourself thinking about really strange things? Have you ever been lost in thought during a meeting at the office and then snapped to, realizing that the things that you were thinking were so off the wall that had your coworkers any inkling of what was going on in your head, they’d have you fucking keel-hauled on general principle? Yeah, that’s me. I think of weird shit all of the time, such as what Pac-Man’s sex life must be like. Continue reading

Yesterday, I made a reference to the fact that the Japanese phone number for 911 is 119. I would like to point out that even though this number is literally backwards, it in no way should be construed as evidence that Japanese culture in general is backwards or fucked up. That evidence is provided by Japanese TV, which at any given moment can veer from traditional game show format into a graphic depiction of men getting kicked in the balls while scantily clad women eat sushi off of each others breasts. God, how I love Japanese TV.

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