It’s getting close to summer here in Phoenix, when you can fry an egg in your pants just by walking outside (this is why I no longer trust IHOP). Because of this, I’m forced to take my post-lunchtime walk across the street in the air-conditioned confines of our local mall. It’s a pleasant, comfortable walk as long as you can avoid the assholes selling helicopters and are able to mentally block out the sight of unfortunate ass-crack. Seriously, what is with all the ass-crack? If you’re so big that you can’t find pants large enough to cover your ass-crack, you need to run over to a sporting goods store and buy a god damn tent because no one who isn’t being paid in some capacity should ever have to see that shit. Continue reading

I ran across something kind of nutty today: There is a guy in Phoenix who looks exactly like Sean Connery, and you can hire him to hang around so that you can… impress people, I guess. I’m not really sure what word belongs in that sentence, actually, because I know that I wouldn’t be impressed by the fact that a friend was hanging out with Sean Connery as much as I would be… Mystified! That’s the word I’m looking for! You can hire this guy to hang around so that you can mystify your friends: “Dude, why is Sean Connery eating Funyuns on your couch?” Continue reading

I work across the street from a massive electronics store, the type where you can buy a 100″ HDTV, a washing machine, or an iPad all under one roof. It’s a very dangerous place for a person like me to go because at any given moment I’m liable to convince myself that life isn’t really worth living unless I can buy myself a giant, remote-controlled blimp shaped like a cheeseburger. I’m not much for rampant consumerism, but this store has my fucking number. One time I went over there to buy a new hard drive on the company’s expense account. I came back with 6 inch Gumby and Pokey dolls. I’d forgotten all about the hard drive. Continue reading

The 80’s: That decade when everyone was so fucking high that even the people who wrote anti-drug PSA’s were baked.

I don’t know how grocery stores work in other parts of the world, but if they work anything like the ones around here do, you’re familiar with the concept of a club card. A store’s club card is your way of telling the world that you’re too smart to pay $47.99 for a jar of pickled beets and would prefer to be charged $2.99 like everyone else on planet Earth. And then when you pay for the beets, they make a big deal about the money they “saved” you, as if that fools anyone over the age of two. Continue reading

I think that it is fair to say that the first words that run through a person’s head when they initially encounter this blog are “high fashion”. Oh, sure, I may sometimes wear white after Labor Day, and yes, sometimes I mix plaids with polka dots, and I have also been known on occasion to show up for a funeral in beach attire (although I should note that I take great care in selecting a tasteful, black Speedo). But high fashion is not about following the rules. It is about making the rules, often after having consumed 38 beers with mescal on the side. Continue reading

Have you heard of Uncanny Valley? Uncanny Valley is the name of a phenomena (doo-doooo-doo-doo-doo) in robotics when a robot looks and acts like a human being, but slight, hard to finger imperfections cause revulsion in people. What was intended to be beautiful is now perceived as horrifying because it just doesn’t quite look natural. It’s why Tori Spelling is so off-putting. Continue reading

Word.

When I was five, I had a neighbor that owned an Irish Setter, a breed of dog known for being dumb as a bucket of dicks. One day, as I watched from my bedroom window, the dog, Duffy, became irritated by the shadow of some trees waving in the wind. He pulled, and yanked, and pulled some more until the rope that he was tied to gave way, and then he spent five minutes furiously attacking the ground. If you had taken that dog’s brains out and replaced them with a pound of shit, only then would the dog have had a chance to look up and think to himself, “Wait a minute, what I’m doing makes no sense.” Stupid fucking dog. Continue reading

When I imagine most people going about their business, I picture them doing so quietly with a sense of purpose, a determined look on their face. This is not how I do things when I am alone. I’m loud, and totally random, and if anyone happened to be eavesdropping on me, I’m sure they’d assume that I’d gone off some pretty powerful psychotropic drugs. I’ll give you an example from the other day involving the Beatles and my dog Mojo. Continue reading