I spent some time today discussing hamburgers and other fast food abominations with a group of self-appointed experts in the field, when the topic of foreign McDonald’s menu items came up. I knew that the McDonald’s experience varied from country to country somewhat, and you could get a beer at McDonald’s in Germany, rice in Japan, or intestinal bleeding in Mexico, but I had no idea the wide range of oddball fucking products they have to offer. So come with me, if you will, on an educational, international, gastronomical journey that I like to call McWhatTheFuck? Continue reading

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’ve lost what few marbles I had to begin with. Well, let’s recount the facts here: First of all, my mail is missing. That much is true. In fact, my entire mailbox is missing. I woke up this morning to find my car parked where my mailbox used to be, keys in the ignition, floorboards littered with empty beer cans. For the life of me, I can’t remember when I went to bed last night, but I can’t imagine that it was later than 10:00, what with it being a weeknight and all. Since I woke up at noon, that means that anyone within twelve hours of Phoenix could have done this, but who? Ok, let’s get to work. It’s time to get all Sherlock Holmes on this motherfucker. Continue reading

When I’m at work I need to concentrate very hard on what I’m doing. This is because I’m a computer programmer, and my job is to focus on complex problem-solving tasks because if I didn’t, I’d hear a coworker start blathering on about Battlestar Galactica or some such shit, and if that happened I’d roll my eyes until they rolled right out of my fucking head. So I need to focus. And because I do, I rarely listen to music while working. It’s distracting, especially if I am listening to Led Zeppelin because once that happens, then I run the very real risk of Rocking The Fuck Out and attracting all the hot bitches to my cube. And then no one gets anything done. Not me, not the hot bitches, and not the drooling IT types outside my cube that couldn’t catch crabs in a whorehouse. Continue reading

It’s been a while since I’ve toyed with Al Gore. I used to enjoy lurking in the bushes behind his house and just when he was getting ready to go to sleep… BAM! I’d light a totally unnecessary campfire in his back yard and run like hell. “God dammit!” he’d shout, running into the back yard. “Do you know how much carbon this releases into the atmosphere?” And as he was putting out the campfire, I’d come around the side of his house wearing a hat with the word “PRESS” on the brim and snap his picture. “Wow, Mr. Gore! For someone who loves the environment, you sure do light a lot of unnecessary fires!” One time he got so worked up that Tipper had to come out of the house with a glass of lemonade and a moist towel. “Al, honey, sit down! You know what the doctor said!” I’d laugh and stroll off, saying my goodbyes over my shoulder. “See you, Mr. Gore! I have to drive my Hummer down to the paper to deliver this photo. This is front page news!” Continue reading

Yesterday, I hinted that Sting, Bruce Springsteen, and Bono had joined forces to make the world a safer, preachier, and much, much whinier place. This was all in good fun and not, as friends, family, and copyright lawyers at A&M records insinuated, a sign of impending mental breakdown on my part. The idea that these three musicians could get their shit together long enough to rule the world is ludicrous. It was a joke, although to judge by the email that informed me that “STING WOULD NEVER HURT ANYONE LIEK THAT YOU FOOL!!!!!”, not a very good one. Continue reading

I’ve always been blessed with a shockingly good memory. For instance, one time when I was in my mid-twenties, I shocked my mom by describing the home we lived in until I was three. I mean, I remembered the exact layout of every room and closet. “What else do you remember from that age?” she asked, curious to know what kind of stuff stuck in my head. Well, I remembered finding an axe handle in the field behind our house, I remembered waiting for a new couch to be delivered, and I remembered the first time I dropped the f-bomb. Continue reading

I read today that Taco Bell has decided to go “upscale” with its menu, by which I assume they mean they will stop recycling food from Guatemalan trash heaps. I don’t mean to pick on Taco Bell. I know there are plenty of other fast food restaurants with horrible food that does horrible things to your colon, and truth be told I used to love going on late night drunken Taco Bell runs until my plumber told me that my toilets couldn’t handle that kind of abuse. But let’s not fool ourselves here, Taco Bell. No one looks to you when they want quality food. And I mean no one. Continue reading

When I was done with college, which is to say when college was done with me, I spent about five months living with my parents, doing nothing. That this was not uncommon for someone in my position was of little comfort to my parents who were eager to see me make something of myself besides drunk. The deal was that as long as I was looking for a job, my parents (my mom, really) wouldn’t interfere in any way. After two months with no sign of me doing anything more productive than showing up at the dinner table, however, the subtle hints began popping up. It started with finding the Classifieds lying outside of my bedroom door, and ended with a statement designed to brook no argument: “You need to go find a job.” Continue reading

Boys tend to go through a phase during which they are fascinated by fire. This phase begins around the age of two, and ends with cremation, whether that cremation was intentional or not. When boys are young, we mainly keep them flame-proof with constant supervision and the kind of over-melodramatic warning parents can get away with when their kids are (let’s be honest here) fucking idiots. By the time boys close in on their twentieth birthday, they’ve got something vaguely resembling a clue (just barely) and spend most of their time chasing girls anyway. But in between, there is a span of three to five years where they are very likely to engage in what appears to be, by almost any standard, brain damaged behavior. “Hey! Let’s soak these grass clipping in gasoline, stuff them in this propane tank nozzle and light the whole thing on fire!” The following story fits into that category. Continue reading

It’s not healthy to live in a constant state of nostalgia, I know that. To endlessly wander around the recesses of your mind, lovingly recounting those magical, long-lost days is to ignore the wonder and joy that exists right in front of you every single day, namely the fact that technology has advanced to the point where you can now watch porn during a funeral. Still, there are periods of my life that I find myself returning to again and again, not so much out of a sense of loss and longing, but as a pleasant reminder of what it was like to be young and irresponsible to the point of constant felonious behavior. I’m speaking, of course, about college. Continue reading