When I first moved to Phoenix, I rented a house for two years. The landlord was an elderly lady who wrote the lease out on notebook paper with one hand as she sipped on a pint glass full of vodka with the other. In her lap was her granddaughter. This lady could drink. The only problem was, she still drove. And by drove I literally mean she weaved curb to curb until she got to where she was going to. How she managed to avoid a serious accident and arrest, I will never know. Continue reading

A quick postscript to yesterday’s post, which detailed some of the more outrageous moments I experienced in college. I heard from some of my friends who have heard me retell these stories ad nauseam (which is Latin for “Shut the fuck up, already, Greg!”) They generally wanted to know why I left out my psychotic lesbian roommate who thought cigarette smoke was radioactive and could travel through walls, or why I didn’t talk about the asshole who wouldn’t stop hitting on my girlfriend, whom I later found passed out in the bushes and for whom I managed to arrange an unconscious lingerie photo-shoot, or any one of a hundred other fucked up things that happened while I was supposed to be getting an education. Continue reading

The last year that I was in college (which is to say the year that I was cordially invited to not return), I lived in a house with several friends I would charitably characterize as “derelicts-in-training”: The only things separating their behavior (such as waking up on a lawn) from that of your garden variety bum were enthusiasm and time. And when their time ran out, so would their enthusiasm, I had no doubt of that. It’s one thing to broke, hungover, and foodless when you’re 22, and quite another when you’re 45. Continue reading

So you’re a new parent. Congratulations! Now I know it seems like you’re woefully unprepared, but it’s not that hard. It’s common sense, mostly, so just calm down. There you go… Take a few deep breaths… Much better. Ok, let’s take it from the top: Nutrition. You’ve got your food pyramid, right? Your fruits, your grains, dairy, meat, and whatnot. So let’s start with breakfast: A little milk and cereal, maybe topped with blueberries, some yogurt, some eggs would be nice. Maybe even some low fat sausage. Oh, and orange juice. Sounds like a nutritious breakfast, right? Wrong, asshole. That’s a baby you’ve got there, not a fucking garbage disposal. That fucker wants milk and it’s going to want milk for a long time. Then after that… what? No, not the fucking food pyramid. After being weaned your child will eat two things and two things only: Sugary crap and Mac ‘n Cheese. And you can shove those Brussels Sprouts right up your ass for all he cares.

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During the course of an average week, I get anywhere from 70 to 100 emails of which roughly 10% are hypothetical questions in need of answering. (The other 90% are advertisements for Peruvian fetish porn involving yaks, which are 100% unsolicited, I swear.) Without fail, one of those emails contains a question so foul, so depraved, so incredibly retarded, that I weep for mankind. For instance, this week I received an email which asked, “If you had to go through life with genitals on your forehead, which would you pick: The pole or the hole?” Continue reading

My daughter has an extensive track record of trashing furniture. I’m not talking about scratching the finish, spilling water on it, or any of those kind of pussy minor accidents that I would gladly deal with in my house. She fucks furniture up. I mean, makes it fall apart into individual furniture molecules. Case in point, her dresser. She had a dresser with five drawers on the front of it, and she would CRAM clothes in there until the drawers would burst. I’m not kidding, her jeans drawer had a wad of jeans in there so dense that they were on the verge of gravitational collapse. And when I say the drawers would burst, I’m not talking about the cheap particle board bottom most dresser drawers contain these days. The solid wood front of the drawer would fly off like a button on Oprah’s pants. One time I reattached the front of the drawer with 4 inch wood screws. That lasted a week. Continue reading

In the summer of 1987, I had my whole life in front of me. I had just graduated high school and was working a summer job to set aside money for college, which I was starting in the fall at a Big Ten university. I had, for my age, ample access to money, girls, alcohol, and drugs even though at the time I felt I didn’t have quite enough of any of those things. What I did have plenty of was youthful stupidity, which is how I found myself with a bag of drugs in my underwear in a car billowing pot smoke on the Illinois-Wisconsin border while a State Trooper got ready to shoot my best friend. That’s how I used to roll. Continue reading

If you pay attention to my Twitter feed (over there, to the right), you’ll know that I often use it to troll celebrities. Like the infamous Foreigner/Roast Beef imbroglio. Or the time I asked Journey if they shot the man responsible for their mind-bendingly retarded video, Separate Ways. But you’d have to be paying extra close attention to have caught the tweet in which I discussed my plan to ask Joyce DeWitt (Janet from Three’s Company) to sign a photo with the words, “Greg, Thanks for the herpes! Love, Joyce DeWitt!”. (Huh, I guess I mentioned it in the infamous Lindsay Lohan post, too.) Well, today I got a little something in the mail. Continue reading

The day after New Year’s, I went hiking on a trail here in Arizona known as the Goldfield Ovens Loop. This is a nine or so mile trail that includes an odd feature: A giant fucking oven carved out of the side of a mountain, as if God himself decided to make some hash brownies or something. Another odd feature: A large sign informing me that there are nesting bald eagles about, and that I’m keeping them from getting their groove on. Apparently, if you’re a bald eagle getting ready to do your sexy thang, a hiker walking at the base of the cliff you’re perched upon is the equivalent of a cold shower, a kick to the nuts, and a surprise visit from the mother-in-law all rolled into one. That’s fucking lame, bald eagles. Very, very lame. Continue reading

Ok, I realize that I’m treading on some shaky ground here. Let’s face it, there is nothing funny about having a stroke. In fact, the idea that you can be sitting there and all of a sudden you can’t remember your address, how to dial a phone, or whether or not you are the type of asshole who watches the Bachelor is downright terrifying. If I had to rank strokes on the list of health issues I’d like to avoid, they’d be right up there with Ebola, dick-rot, and explosive decapitation. Bleeding in the brain? No fucking thanks. Continue reading