I was driving home from work today, when I noticed that the car in front of me was missing its rear bumper. Well, it wasn’t missing as much as it was torn completely off except for one small strip of plastic on the side. You would have had no trouble finding the bumper: it was being dragged beside the car. I assumed that this had just happened and that the guy was going to pull over to deal with it, but no, he just kept right on driving like he was an extra stunt driver in Mad Max or something. Yes, everything is falling apart and going to hell, just the way I want it to.

My life has been a living nightmare lately, and it’s all Joan Jett’s fault. Seriously, this isn’t like the time I blamed my indecent exposure arrest on the Trix Rabbit, which I now know was wrong, and that ultimately the person responsible for my actions is, and always has been, Pauly Shore. No, this episode is based in reality. That’s right! Reality! Actual events that transpired right here on planet Earth! And to think that just two short months ago, medical professionals labeled me delusional and a danger to myself and others. Well, who’s laughing now, highly trained professionals from Johns Hopkins medical school? I’ll tell you who’s laughing: Me. The guy who has Pauly Shore buried in his basement. Continue reading

I took my two sons camping a few weeks ago, a joyous and wholesome family affair which, with time and extensive therapy, we might someday be able to blot from our collective memory. It did not go well. It started, as camping usually does, with a rousing game of Car Tetris. I used to drive a pickup truck, which made camping preparation an exercise in excess. “Tent? Check. Cots? Check. Giant novelty sombreros? Check. Player piano? Check. Inflatable scale model of the Alamo? Check.” But when you have a car the limited amount of storage forces you to be selective. (“Should we bring water, or pornography?”) And with a limited amount of space, you find yourself utilizing every square inch, even if it means the dog has to ride in the glove compartment. Continue reading

I had planned on writing a lengthy post this weekend, and I am here to tell you that it would have been the funniest thing you’ve ever read. Fuck side-splitting, it would have been side-evisceratingly funny. You probably would have died laughing, which doesn’t sound all that great, what with the dying and all, but you wouldn’t have minded and there would have been chuckles coming from your grave for months afterwards. But dear friend and Dogs on Drugs Hall of Fame Commenter Squatch put a fucking end to that. Continue reading

When I was a freshman in college and living in a dorm, I frequently butted heads with a guy named Chuck. Chuck was what we referred to as a night clerk, which meant that he was a student but also worked for the University and helped to keep the dorm running. Usually this meant that he worked behind the front desk after hours, when the real, salaried employees had gone home. And one of the tasks that a Night Clerk was responsible for was doing rounds, which meant walking around the dorm and making sure that nobody was doing anything Against the Rules, such as flagrantly smoking bongs and loudly jamming Pink Floyd at three o’clock in the morning. Why he had a problem with me, I’ll never know. Continue reading

When I was young, I spent a lot of time in the woods. I lived in semi-rural Illinois, and so there were a lot of woods to be had. It wasn’t like Siberia or anything, with 5,000 miles of trees separating every couple of vodka-swilling drunks, but pretty much everywhere you looked, there was at least a small grove of trees, and as kids who lived in an era that didn’t have video games, they served as the backdrop for a large portion of our youth. We explored the woods, built tree-houses in them, and later on, in our teenage years, we used them as cover to get higher than Jesus. Man, did we like getting high in the woods. 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’ve got a couple of young boys, 8 and 6, and so of course a large part of their life revolves around video games. They are crazy about videogames, and often I find myself giving them the old, “When I was your age” lecture, telling them how when I was a young boy, I played outside, and read books, and did all kinds of other things that didn’t involve dropping virtual tactical nukes on virtual villages, blowing tiny little virtual people into virtual Kingdom Come. But as I’m telling them this and rounding them up to head outside, I see what they’re playing and I think to myself, “Shit, if video games looked like that when I was a kid, I would never have left the couch.” Because they look AWESOME, and beautiful, and lifelike, and they’re everything I dreamed about when I played video games as a child because what I played looked like someone vomited on a computer and then smashed it with a pipe-wrench. Continue reading

It has come to my attention recently that many of my readers have either forgotten, or just did not know that I am a Man of God, which explains the general lack of groveling and tithing around here. Well, I am here to tell you that just because I became an ordained minister on a lark does not mean that I take my spiritual duties lightly. Why, just the other day, I damned some asshole straight to hell for cutting me off in traffic. I don’t fuck around, something you should consider when determining whether your 10% tithe is based on your gross or net income. Continue reading