I live in the Phoenix area, and everything here seems new. I find it strange that people can live in places like London where you can walk down the street and find themselves smack dab in the middle of history. “Right, then! Right over ‘ere is where Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the bloody parliament, ‘e did! ‘E just got a bunch o’ ‘is lads and rounded up some bleedin’ gunpowder, and Jack’s a donut, there you ‘ave it, guvnor!” Jesus, those limeys love to fucking drink, don’t they? It’s like every time they do a shot, they drop 10% of their consonants. Catch an Englishman at the tail end of New Year’s Eve, and he’ll tell you the same story, only now it sounds like this: “Ri’! Oe ere ‘s whe G’ Fw’ trd t’ bl’ u’ th’ blo’ par’l’m”. This is also known as the Welsh language. Continue reading

I heard from several readers this morning who wrote to inform me that Dogs On Drugs, your one-stop shop for Bea Arthur penis jokes, was offline. At first I blamed my arch nemesis, Kenny Loggins, for the outage and quickly dispatched several Mexican drug cartel hit men to rectify the situation. Kenny once sang, “I’m all right, don’t nobody worry ’bout me,” and I used to think that was rather sound advice. After all, I had spent the better part of my life not worrying about Kenny Loggins, and look where it got me: I am on the list of Who’s Who Among Executives and Professionals. Also, I’m no longer allowed to come within 500 yards of Gavin MacLeod. Look, the point is that Kenny has made a nuisance of himself, forcing me to worry ’bout him, and now there’s going to be some fucking bloodshed. End of story. Continue reading

My friends, we are fucked flatter than hammered shit. A single glance at the news today would make that obvious to anyone. No, I’m not referring to the fact that as of this writing there is now a reported case of ebola in New York City, although that certainly is frightening. And irritating as fuck too, if you think about it. This guy flew from West Africa to New York with fucking ebola. Each year, we pay the TSA upwards of $72 trillion dollars to keep us safe, and to date all they’ve managed to keep us safe from is common sense. “Durrr, what’s that? You have ebola? That’s fine. Just as long as you don’t take more than three ounces of water on board with you.” Continue reading

It’s that time of year again, when the entire blogosphere comes to a halt. Every summer it happens; Maybe everyone’s tired from having fun outdoors all day. Maybe the heat has baked the goddamn sense out of everyone’s head. Or maybe an entire summer vacation spent with the kids has left everyone hiding in the closet, weeping and drinking vodka in bulk. Me? I’m busy with my charity work, serving as a spokesperson for Tequila Para Los Perros. We do good work at TPLP. Every summer we round up stray dogs, get them ripped to the tits on tequila, then turn them loose in nursing homes. Why? Well… Uh… Wow. That’s a really good fucking question. Hmmm. I may have to rethink this whole thing. … Dammit. Continue reading

I try to eat a sensible lunch when I’m at work during the week. Back when I was in my 20’s and immortal, I used to eat all kinds of crap because I was only eating it to soak up the alcohol anyway, and besides, burritos with pork, sour cream, and guacamole wrapped in a flour tortilla have damn near all the food groups in them, right? Unfortunately, when I got a little older, eating from this bastardized food pyramid made me start to look like a pyramid, and I knew I needed to change things up a bit. I remember that eating spicy Italian sandwiches at Subways made be blow up like a goddamn balloon, causing me to think to myself, “Jared, you dogfucker, you are a lying sack of shit.” Continue reading

It was 109 degrees out today. That’s in Fahrenheit, incidentally. 109 degrees Fahrenheit is… I dunno, a hectare or something? I don’t know shit about the metric system because I’m American, and unless we’re talking about kilos or 9 millimeter ammo we don’t know a meter from a 3.28 foot wide hole in the ground. Suffice it to say that 109 degrees is ball-scorching hot. But then again, I live in Phoenix and it’s July, so that should go without saying, right? Continue reading

I signed up for a writing class the other night. Now I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking, “But Greg, you don’t need to learn how to write!” And of course you’re right. No one knows how to make goodly words on the screen like me does. But there was a very specific skill that I wanted to learn (how to write effective ransom notes), and I figured that it might be fun to take a class on the subject. It’d be like going to college again, only this time I’d actually attend the class rather than stay home drinking beer out of paint buckets. Continue reading

I have to apologize for something. During the course of writing yesterday’s post, I embedded a video of U2 playing the song Lemon. This was a terrible and inexplicable lapse in judgement on my part, and I find it almost impossible to apologize enough for it. I love my readers, and although from time to time I like to shake them up by posting strange and bizarre videos, this was clearly a case of going way, way too far. I should have posted a video of something easier to stomach, like Aretha Franklin getting her asshole waxed. I am sorry. Continue reading

I’ve pretty much been exposed to rock music from the moment I was born. Well not the exact moment I was born, obviously. I mean, there weren’t any drum solos going on, or laser shows, and no one was holding up a lit cigarette lighter in the maternity ward when I made my debut. Babies don’t really belong at a rock show, really, except maybe when Courtney Love is in town because you take one look at her and you know damn well that she’s aborted a few behind a stack of Marshalls with a syringe full of heroin and a Dustbuster. (I’m going to just go ahead and apologize for that line right now.) Continue reading

I was watching an episode of The Wire the other day, because that’s exactly the kind of with-it, up-to-date guy I am. My middle name is Zeitgeist. I have my finger so firmly on the pulse of this nation that I’m about to steal the nation’s watch. I am hep to the jive, even though I’m not sure what the word “hep” means, and up until a week ago, I thought that “the jive” was something that you treated with hydrocortisone. I am up to fucking date is what I’m saying, just as long as that date is June 2nd, 2002. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go dance the Charleston on top of a flagpole. Continue reading