I’ve got a weird week in front of me: I’m working tonight, I’ve got my son’s baseball game to attend tomorrow night, Halloween is Thursday night, daughter’s choir concert on Friday night, cooking, cleaning, blah, blah, blah, nobody cares, Greg. But it does mean that I have less time to think about what I write on this gigantic collection of dick jokes that I call a blog. So instead of a well-thought out post with a point and other niceties (such as sentences with word order correct), you’re more likely to get a strange, stream-of-consciousness post with little or no socially redeeming qualities. Kind of like MTV. Continue reading

I read an article over the weekend about how the ratings for the World Series this year are low, and I thought to myself, “Well of course they’re low. It’s baseball in October.” I mean, I like baseball, but it’s essentially a reason to drink beer outdoors. Once the warm weather passes, sitting in the stands shirtless and drunk isn’t quite as much fun anymore, so savvy sports drunkards lose interest in baseball and begin attending NBA games sans pants. Or so I imagine. I’m still recovering from an entire summer of drinking beer in the sun, and sometimes my thinking sports grab finest petticoat. Continue reading

Sunday morning, 10:00 AM, and we were waiting in line at a tool booth on I-90, As we approached the toll booth, Octopus’s Garden came on the stereo. That was not the first time we’d heard the song that weekend. Just two days prior, the song had come on and we agreed that it was a stupid, throw-away song, pretty much like any song Ringo had anything to do with. Now, however, tripping in an old Dodge Colt on the interstate, the ripply background vocals and special effects made Octopus’s Garden undeniably the Best Song of All Time, a title we bestowed upon many more songs before we reached home that afternoon. Squatch pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket to pay the toll. “Hey,” I laughed, “I dare you to stick that dollar in your crack and hand it to that bitch ass first.” We had a volcanic giggle-fit in front of the unimpressed tool booth attendant. Continue reading

Today’s mind-melting video of ultimate oddity comes to us courtesy of long time friend Squatch, with whom I was traveling one fine day when he had an acid-induced laughter attack in the men’s room of an Illinois rest area which sent fellow travelers scurrying off, throwing nervous glances over their shoulders while Squatch and I high-tailed it the fuck out of there, because acid + driving = hilarious fun for everyone. Clearly. Earlier in the trip, I had dared Squatch to wedge a dollar bill between his ass cheeks and present said dollar bill to the toll booth operator we were about to be confronted with. I think he might have done it too, except just then Octopus’s Garden came on, and we got very, very distracted by it. Ever notice how much that song sucks unless you’re on drugs? And then it’s totally awesome? Well, we noticed it. That was a weird day. We went from seeing Robert Plant in concert, to drinking a bunch of high school students into oblivion, to hassling first a couple of softball players, then a couple of priests, and wound up the day driving a couple hundred miles because… Well, if we didn’t drive right then, on acid, we’d have to drive much later, not on acid. Look, it made sense at the time.

Which is more than you can say for this clip. Crispy-fried Jesus in a bucket, what in the fucking fuck was that?

I have some of my best ideas in the shower, ideas such as, “Hey, I bet if I inject some adrenaline into this hooker’s heart, I won’t have to go out to buy another bag of lime!” and “I’m on my 14th beer. I better call in sick to work.” Something about the combination of water and soap seems to energize my mind, although to be fair it could also have something to do with the 14 beers. Continue reading

My daughter came home with a case of strep throat last week, which of course meant that she soon passed it on to her brother, and then me. This is because children are Keds-wearing bags of contagion. Syria missed a real opportunity: They didn’t have to attack anyone with sarin. They could’ve just sent my kids in there and within a week the war would’ve been called on account of sore throats. Continue reading

I was at work today, calmly minding my own business when an alert on my news feed interrupted me in the rudest way possible: “Hall & Oates nominated for Rock and Roll Hall of Fame”. What a kick in the fucking teeth. I mean, why don’t you just break all the bad news at once, why don’t you? “Planet Doomed: Last Days of Earth to Feature Million Degree Temperatures, Glee Marathon”. Fuck. Continue reading

One day in the distant future, my grandchildren will ask me, “Grandpa, where were you when you heard the news?” And I will, of course, ignore them because I will be too busy watching three-way insertion porn on Fox. Yes, that’s the future of Fox. Don’t act surprised. (But because it is Fox, it will be conservative insertion porn, with no migrant workers or welfare mothers involved.) Continue reading

I usually don’t post on Friday, but today I’m making an exception. Because I’ve got a backlog of videos, and posting them requires hardly any effort at all. (This is opposed to the normal collection of dick jokes and slander that passes as a post in these parts, which requires a little effort.)

Our first video is a music video by Mark Gormley, who is either auditioning to be a musician or a child molester. Dude, you need to update the look. And the background. And the song. And the lyrics. Don’t give up the day job, is what I’m saying. The folks at Foot Locker would probably miss you.

Ouch. Let’s move on, shall we? More videos after the jump. Continue reading

And you people think I’m fucked up. This cartoon was produced in the 20’s. As in the 1920’s. And it proves my long standing theory that cartoonists are sick, dirty, perverted heroin addicts that animate smut for dope money. On the plus side, this cartoon taught me that women hide alarm clocks in their personal zone, which could come in handy wakeup-call-wise.

(Note: The sound is 100% a-ok (it’s just piano music), so if you’re watching it at work, you don’t need headphones. But if anyone catches you watching this, you will become a richly deserving social pariah.)