I was sitting at work today doing, you know, the usual: Dropping a quarter million hits of LSD into the office water cooler. Normal Thursday afternoon kind of stuff, right? When all of a sudden I became aware of the fact that dear friend, fellow blogger, and the winner of the 2003 Nobel Prize for Chemistry, the very Reverend Back It On Up 13 was under attack. And not a fun attack, either, like when your body is being attacked by the Rockin’ Pneumonia, the Boogie Woogie Flu, or even Reggae AIDS. No, this was a concerted attack by that most terrifying of enemies: Phil Collins fans. Well fuck all of you male-pattern baldness loving motherfuckers, because I am not going to just sit around while a friend is under attack. Continue reading

As a professional writer, it is very important that I have a system to help me remember all of the wonderful and creative ideas that I have. For instance, the other day I had an idea to refer to myself as a professional writer and pretend that I have wonderful and creative ideas. Hahahaha, I know, hilarious, right? The fact of the matter is that I do not get paid for what I write, and as has been explained to me by law enforcement personnel, mailing a box of enraged hornets to Scott Baio is neither a wonderful, nor a creative idea. (Yeah, whatever Homeland Security guys. You’re just jealous because your best idea involved landing a job which entails looking for weapons in terrorist buttholes.) Continue reading

I got involved in a conversation today about how people like to spend their vacations. Some people like to spend them at home, some people like to go to a resort, and people like me like to spend them drunk in a ditch, apparently. I mean, what the fuck? One minute I’m leaving the office, looking forward to a four day weekend, the next minute I’m waking up on top of a pile of Shriners in a ditch. Again. Continue reading

A few years ago, I contributed a post to another web site which I can no longer find, probably because my foul ramblings rendered the entire site unfit for human consumption. It happens. Anyway, in the intro to my post, the editor referred to me as “mysterious”, I guess because I maintain a certain level of anonymity in my online dealings. This, as it turns out, pisses people off. They’d greatly prefer that I provide the public with detailed and specific directions to my house so that when I print something they don’t like, such as “Oprah Winfrey uses live geese for tampons”, they can come over to my house and Do Something About It. Continue reading

I ran across some old fashioned finger-in-the-wet-cement artwork today, and I had to step back and admire it because it has been a while since I’ve seen that kind of thing. It used to be that if there was wet cement, there was a kid lurking nearby to quickly defile it. These days those same kids are posting nude celebrity pics, defacing corporate web sites, or hacking into Indian government servers and starting a regional thermonuclear conflict by making it appear as if the Indian Prime Minister just said that “Pakistan blows goats”. And so when I read the unknown artist’s words of wisdom, “Gosnell SUCKS” I immediately agreed. Yes! Fuck that guy! Or girl! Or whatever the fuck Gosnell is! The evidence is clearly in, Gosnell, and I am afraid that you suck. Case closed. Continue reading

I read an interesting scientific paper the other day because that is that is the type of thing that I do with my free time; I read scientific papers. Or at least that’s what I tell people, because people are narrow-minded and judgmental and if I tell them that I actually spend all of my free time drinking shoe polish and lurking in the plus size lingerie department at Walmart, they act as if they’re better than me, which is clearly bullshit because… Well, to be honest, I can’t think of a good way to end that sentence. But my point is, fuck those high-horse motherfuckers. They don’t bother me! Not as long as I’ve got another Kiwi and Coke at the ready. Continue reading

You know what I hate? Commercials that ask questions. “What would you pay for this?” Listen, asshole, I didn’t sit down on the couch and turn on the TV so I could engage in witty repartee. Just get to the fucking point and tell me how much the decorative Abe Vigoda corn cob holders cost already! Jesus. Continue reading

I’m going to come right out and say it: I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time this last month trying to calculate how many people have gotten laid in Abraham Lincoln’s lap at the Lincoln Memorial. Oh, stop looking at me like that. Like you haven’t given it some thought. I suppose next you’ll tell me that you’ve never spent the night lurking in the bushes outside Cap’n Crunch’s house. Right. Continue reading

I had a dream last night that I was in a Godzilla movie. I found myself in an industrial park, cowering in the corner of a large plant as I watched Godzilla’s massive form stomping about in the distance. I remember feeling good about my chances because I wasn’t that poor bastard who always gets stepped on in the middle of the street. Seriously, people, are we not all familiar with the Godzilla drill yet? When a 400 foot tall fire breathing monster is walking down Main Street, you stay the fuck indoors. That’s the rule. Well, that and stay out of trains. I don’t know if Godzilla had some random pervert touch his butthole in the train when he was little or what, but trains send him into a motherfucking rage. He’s always tossing trains around, and so even though a swipe of his mighty tail could bring the factory I was hiding in crashing down upon me, I still felt good about things. I wasn’t crossing a street, and I wasn’t in a train. Continue reading

I’ve been a reader all my life, and so it was only natural that I would spend a lot of time reading to my kids when they were little. They’d get all dressed up in their footie pajamas, we’d hunker down in bed with a big, fluffy blanket covering us all, and I would open a book and begin to read: “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.” Hahahaha, just kidding. I would never read Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas to my kids. Too many words. We mostly read things with lots of pictures, like Hustler, although if the comics were good, we’d read Playboy in a pinch. Continue reading