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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Regular, long time visitors to this site may recall a momentary fascination with Japanese WTF band BabyMetal. They were even considered (along with Mini-Kiss, Nudist Priest, and Fat Benetar) as an act for the first annual Dogs on Drugs liver-stomping party and AA recruitment drive. But if I have learned one thing during my brief stay on this planet (and I haven’t), it’s that people give you sidelong looks when you’re a grown man trying to hire thirteen year old girls in any capacity, let alone one in which they must fly across the globe to shake their asses on stage for a room full of howling drunks. It just doesn’t look right. Continue reading

Zooey Daschanel has been making cameo appearances in my life all too often lately. Everywhere I go, I either see Zooey on a TV show, in a commercial, on a magazine cover, or even being prominently mentioned and discussed in the websites that I visit. The other night I walked through the living room and glanced at the TV: Zooey was on a panel of judges for some moronic television show. (I’m surprised that they have any contestants. The day Zooey Deschanel sits in judgement of me is the day I sit down and eat the barrel of a handgun for lunch.) But the real problem is that once you notice the ubiquity of a certain person, the less able you are to ignore it. I see Zooey Deschanel everywhere. Continue reading

The internet is a wondrous invention, providing entertainment to billions of people across the globe. Mostly, this entertainment is provided in the form of videos of dudes being blown by midgets. But the internet is a source of valuable information as well, a tool that we may use to enrich our minds and, indeed, our very lives, or at least it is until you stumble across WebMD and quickly freak yourself out, convincing yourself that you are dying of ball cancer. Continue reading

I realize that I’ve complained about grocery shopping many, many times before, and although I honestly try not to go to the well too many times, I find myself doing it anyway. This is because people are inconsiderate fucking pricks that make me want to lunge at their genitals with a long and powerful cattle prod. Case in point, the two fucking old bags in front of me at the grocery store this afternoon. Continue reading

Every four years we are treated to the Olympic games, and by “treated” I mean forced to watch 187 hours of people walking into a stadium wearing moronic clothing followed by fifteen straight days of women’s gymnastics coverage. This is because gymnastics is an event that is watched by women, and if there’s one thing that gives programming executives multiple, shuddering orgasms, it’s the idea of women getting really, really into sports. So they’ll do anything to keep women interested, running gymnastics non-stop and creating a stirringly emotional and entirely fictional backstory for everyone even remotely associated with the Olympics, including the guy who sells tickets to the loser events like the trampoline event. Continue reading

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