I made the mistake of going to see the new Star Wars movie the other day. I knew it was going to be awful, but I was 8 when the first Star Wars movie came out and it was so insanely popular that for a lot of people like myself, Star Wars has become a cultural touchstone. I felt that since it was the last movie, I had to go see it in the theater. Basically, I just gave my hard earned money to the Disney corporation in exchange for entertainment so bad that it’s been banned in prison. I have three kids. This kind of shit has been going on with Disney for years.

When I was in college, I knew a guy who had chosen a truly ridiculous major. I wish that I remember what it was, but alas, time and alcohol-induced amnesia have thoroughly scrubbed that particular factoid from my brain. Suffice it to say that it was, in my opinion, a colossally useless major, the kind of major you’d pick if you were from a wealthy family and wanted to piss off your parents. “Whitaker! Comparative Queefing? Really?” A major for losers, that’s what I thought. Of course my major was getting higher than Jesus, so I shouldn’t talk. (I told my parents that I majored in Street Pharmacology. Didn’t work.)

Nothing will make you feel older than having kids. You have to start acting responsible, you wind up becoming very concerned over shit that no one cares about (for instance, this article), and if all else fails, your children will not hesitate to tell you how old and uncool you have become. It’s become a running gag in my house.

Daughter: My friends think you’re really cool.

Me: Oh yeah? Well, I guess I fooled the shit out of them, huh?

Daughter: Boy, I’ll say.

Pretty funny, huh? My daughter thought so too, although she may feel differently about it now. I’ll let you know what she has to say about it once they let her out of the convent.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Guys are filthy, disgusting perverts who cannot walk 30 feet in public without thinking of shit so foul that it would make Larry Flynt cry. You know how I know this to be true (besides, you know, being a guy)? My iPhone told me so.

I don’t have much of a point to make in this post, but when the President of the United States declares himself to be the Chosen One, I’m not sure that there’s a point to anything anymore other than to ram home the idea that it’s not so smart to go out and vote after a full frontal lobotomy. Crispy fried Jesus in a bucket, did he really say that? We need to check the White House water supply for hallucinogens. It would explain SO much.

Are you bored of plain, old, ordinary line dancing? Have you racked your brain trying to come up with new ways to spice your evenings up? Are you afraid of black people, but secretly admire their sweet, sweet moves? Then buckle the fuck up, cowboy, because Diane Horner is going to rock your goddamn world with… Cowboy Hip Hop!

I was listening to Lenny Kravitz the other day, which isn’t something that I do a lot of, honestly. He’s a little too middle-of-the-road for my liking and he’s also responsible for a remake of the Guess Who’s 1970 hit American Woman, a song so lame that it contains a spelling lesson (“Say A, Say M, Say E, Say R…”). But one thing he has going for him is that he’s an actual musician, the kind that writes songs and plays instruments. That’s in stark contrast to current “artists” whose musical accomplishments consist of a single handshake-deal with Satan. Listen to Taylor Swift and tell me I’m wrong.

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.

If you were particularly bored this past weekend, you may have noticed that the Technological Juggernaut that is the Dogs on Drugs web server went down a couple of times. I haven’t had time to check, but I’m assuming that this caused the New York Stock Exchange to crash because that’s what stock exchanges do: At the slightest sign of trouble, they shit the metaphorical bed. “In other news today, the Bolivian Minister of Gumballs ate foie gras, sending the New York Stock Exchange into a death spiral. The President urged citizens not to panic, stating, ‘There is no reason for alarm. The United States economy is robust and secure. Also, I will suck your dick for five dollars.'”

I was proof-reading my post from the other night, which I realize may be surprising to some people. Usually, when people read things on this site such as “parakeet stuffed with cocaine”, they assume that it must be the result of some sort of autocorrect weirdness, or failing that, the author has had a mild stroke. When they discover that it was, in fact, a conscious effort to entertain, they usually laugh nervously and sidle away from me, sometimes sidling as fast as 45 miles per hour. Heaven forbid that I tell them what the original line was before editing. That would be something so foul and depraved that it would result in large men armed with butterfly nets and powerful psychotropic drugs converging on the Dogs on Drugs Headquarters/Bordello, and fuck that. That’s how Highlights magazine went out of business.