Are you sitting down? You’re going to need to sit down for this. Ready? Ok. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to come right out and say it: The Empire of Taste has fallen. Yes, the official Dogs on Drugs Gimmicky Restaurant, Troy in Staten Island, has gone out of business. That means no more of these commercials will ever be made:

I will give you a few minutes to weep/rend your garments/shake a bony fist at the heavens while bemoaning your sorry fate. No rush, I’ll wait.

The shopping mall is a uniquely American experience.  Oh, sure, other countries have malls, but they’re really fucked up.  I was at a shopping mall in Mexico, for instance, and the mall cops there having fucking Uzis.  That’s not cool.  Here in America, the mall cops have pepper spray, which is much safer.  Well, safer for everyone but the mall cops, because in America it’s the shoppers that are carrying Uzis, and with good reason:  The mall cops are carrying pepper spray!  I also remember that about a year ago, the terrorist group Boko Haram bombed a mall in Nigeria, which caused me all kinds of confusion.  “What?  Procol Harum bombed a shopping mall?”  (I might need to get my hearing checked.) Continue reading

You will be happy to know that my long running streak of receiving accidental phone calls from the elderly is now at two. Last October, if you’ll recall, I received a wrong number voice mail from an old man named Ben who hails from Canada and is the most insanely polite person I’ve ever talked to. He was so over-the-top polite that after a while I started to suspect that maybe it was all a smokescreen and that he was overcompensating to hide some terrible secret. “All right, Ben,” I felt like yelling into the phone, “knock off the horseshit politeness act. We both know that you’ve got a basement cemetery full of hobos and drifters!” But knowing Ben, he’d deny it and then apologize for being so contrary. Continue reading

Suspended for two weeks without pay? Hey, it’s not my fault that I was asked to give a presentation without any guidelines whatsoever! This is bullshit.

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

When my brothers and I were younger, we went through a phase when we would spend an inordinate amount of time watching what we called chop-socky movies. These were Chinese kung-fu movies that played late on Sunday mornings when there was nothing else to watch. You know the kind of movie I’m talking about: Some poor Chinese schlub, usually a cook, gets involved in a misunderstanding with local toughs, and all of a sudden every single move they make, including batting their eyelashes, is accompanied with a violent SWOOOSH! sound. Then they kick the living shit out of each other for 90 minutes while the horribly dubbed voice-over actors would say ridiculous things such as, “Ha-ha! You have mastered the Crooked Tiger! But now you will suffer at the hands of the Flatulent Eagle!” You know, those movies. 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

Eagle-eyed Dogs on Drugs readers will have noticed that I have taken some time off from posting recently. To them I say, go fuck yourselves. Seriously, you have eagle-vision? Gah, I am SO jealous. I am at the age where I can’t read the instructions on medication without the use of an electron microscope. Who the fuck came up with the idea for small print for medicine labels anyway, a fucking undertaker? “Hmmm, this medication causes fatal bleeding from the eyeballs when taken in North America… Better put that little nugget of information in one point font.” If you ask me, important health information should not be conveyed via the printed word. Deleterious effects should be demonstrated at the pharmacy with condemned prisoners. That shit would work, too. I mean, no one is going to take too much Viagra, for example, after having watched an inmate’s junk explode. 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

You know what I miss? Cable access shows. For those of you too young to remember, it used to be damn near impossible for your average Joe to make a complete and total fool of himself in front of an audience of millions. There was no YouTube, there were no digital videocameras, and the bulky, gas-powered camcorders of the era may have recorded video, but didn’t do anything in terms of delivery to an audience. This, for the vast majority of cases, was a good thing. And since there is no thing so good that the government won’t get involved and fuck it up eight ways from Sunday, the government created cable access shows. Continue reading