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

What are doing here? It’s Friday! Shouldn’t you be out drinking shots of tequila from a stripper’s belly-button or something? Don’t tell me you’re… You’re at the office, aren’t you? I knew it! Why in the name of all that is holy are you at fucking work? Because of the money? The respect? The admiration? Well let me tell you something: The money’s not that great, the respect is of the begrudging variety, and you aren’t admired by coworkers for showing up, you’re admired for blowing off work and partying your ass off like you’re 23 again! Sigh. 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

I’ve always been blessed with a shockingly good memory. For instance, one time when I was in my mid-twenties, I shocked my mom by describing the home we lived in until I was three. I mean, I remembered the exact layout of every room and closet. “What else do you remember from that age?” she asked, curious to know what kind of stuff stuck in my head. Well, I remembered finding an axe handle in the field behind our house, I remembered waiting for a new couch to be delivered, and I remembered the first time I dropped the f-bomb. Continue reading

When I was done with college, which is to say when college was done with me, I spent about five months living with my parents, doing nothing. That this was not uncommon for someone in my position was of little comfort to my parents who were eager to see me make something of myself besides drunk. The deal was that as long as I was looking for a job, my parents (my mom, really) wouldn’t interfere in any way. After two months with no sign of me doing anything more productive than showing up at the dinner table, however, the subtle hints began popping up. It started with finding the Classifieds lying outside of my bedroom door, and ended with a statement designed to brook no argument: “You need to go find a job.” Continue reading

Boys tend to go through a phase during which they are fascinated by fire. This phase begins around the age of two, and ends with cremation, whether that cremation was intentional or not. When boys are young, we mainly keep them flame-proof with constant supervision and the kind of over-melodramatic warning parents can get away with when their kids are (let’s be honest here) fucking idiots. By the time boys close in on their twentieth birthday, they’ve got something vaguely resembling a clue (just barely) and spend most of their time chasing girls anyway. But in between, there is a span of three to five years where they are very likely to engage in what appears to be, by almost any standard, brain damaged behavior. “Hey! Let’s soak these grass clipping in gasoline, stuff them in this propane tank nozzle and light the whole thing on fire!” The following story fits into that category. Continue reading

It’s not healthy to live in a constant state of nostalgia, I know that. To endlessly wander around the recesses of your mind, lovingly recounting those magical, long-lost days is to ignore the wonder and joy that exists right in front of you every single day, namely the fact that technology has advanced to the point where you can now watch porn during a funeral. Still, there are periods of my life that I find myself returning to again and again, not so much out of a sense of loss and longing, but as a pleasant reminder of what it was like to be young and irresponsible to the point of constant felonious behavior. I’m speaking, of course, about college. Continue reading