I had a wonderful post lined up for tonight, something that would make you weep with joy, gasp in wonder, and laugh until your sides were sore. Then I got my iPhone. Yeah, I’m one of those Apple freaks and I have been since I got my first computer, the Apple II, way back when computers were so primitive that they had carburetors. I know, I know, Apple is not perfect, their shit is kinda pricey, and when he wasn’t revolutionizing every industry he touched, Steve Jobs was kind of a dick. I don’t care. Their stuff simply blows their competition out of the water. So you can cram your fucking Windows Phone (*stifled laughter*). I like my new iPhone. Continue reading

Whenever I hear the song Mother’s Little Helper by the Rolling Stones, I’m whisked away into a world of pure idiocy, a world in which I am immortal and immune to the laws of both nature and man. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car, and in the reality that I am detached from I am either going home, to jail, to the hospital, or to the morgue. But I don’t know this, or if I do, I simply don’t care. Mother’s Little Helper is blaring from the speakers and we are singing along, laughing maniacally, even though merely being seen by a police officer at this point is enough to ensure our arrest. I am 18 years old. Continue reading

Ugh, I got some distressing family news today, and even though no one died, and no one is sick, it’s been enough to knock me off of my regular schedule. And now I just want to sit on the couch and veg, something I rarely do, so I’m going to.

Instead of the normal menu of dick jokes, immature haikus, and slanderous statements about game show hosts, I’ll throw this doozy out into the ether from the funny as hell guys (who used to be) in The Whitest Kids U Know:

I remember sitting in the back seat of a car in the parking lot of a liquor store when I was eighteen, glumly watching as my friend got shot down again. As he settled back into the car where we were waiting, I said to no one in particular, “Man, when I turn twenty-one and some kid asks me to buy him beer, I’ll totally do it. I’ll buy him a fucking keg if he wants me to!” My statement was met with a chorus of “Yeah’s” and “No kidding”, and we hunkered down to wait for someone “cool” enough to break the law for a bunch of moron teenagers that they didn’t know. I remember that well. And so when I was approached by a gangly-looking teen the other day and asked to buy him some beer, it was with a pang of regret that I said, “Sorry, pal.” As I walked away, I swear the kid’s eyes said to me, “What happened, man? You used to be cool!” Continue reading

For those of you who read last week’s Week In Review, you’ll be familiar with the picture off to the left of what appears to be a Japanese woman slowly turning into an inflatable fuck doll. This is wonderful fodder for smug American pricks such as myself, who like to make fun of anything nonsensical, foreign, or (ideally) nonsensically foreign. In this case, however, I was wrong to poke fun at that advertisement because this wonderful invention will help all of you ladies out there whose faces are slowly turning into mush. Behold the Face Slimmer from the wonderful folks over at Glim. Continue reading

Well, it’s that time of year again: The time when I make up children, donate non-existent funds to fictional charities, and declare myself a blind, Nicaraguan orphan. This is done for “tax purposes”, which is another way of saying that I plan to defraud the IRS out of at least $72,000. Continue reading

If you’ve ever bellied up to the bar and really tied one on, you know that one of the most terrifying things you can ever do is pass out in front of your friends. This is because your friends are drunken reprobates, and also because the urge to fuck with someone who has passed out is almost overwhelming, especially when that person was acting like a total jackhole just fifteen minutes earlier. Oh, you say you have the world’s biggest cock? All right, then let’s just burn your pants in the street so everyone at the bar can confirm your claim. What’s that? You’re not objecting? Ok, then, here we go! Continue reading

A couple of months ago, I mentioned that once a month I pay another woman to give me physical pleasure. And my wife is ok with it, because the same woman physically pleasures my wife too. Alas, while this may have been the opening for an awesome letter to Penthouse Forum (“I never thought it would happen to me, but…”), it is actually a description of the massage situation in our house. I decided that since we have to lug the fucking kids around while they are in the throes of sugar seizures and whatnot, we should have some way of working out the kinks, relieving the stress, and being away from them in a sound-proof room for an hour, and so we splurged and signed up for monthly massages. Continue reading

Ok, giggle all you want about the incongruous name of the “diet candy” in this commercial. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. For instance, guys, if you ever feel the urge to take a picture of your wife while uttering the words, “Gotta get a shot of this! You’re eating less!” you are about to experience a pole lamp to the groin. The more you know!

I remember the first time I ever watched Jerry Springer. My brains rolled out of my ears and made a break for the door. That show was fucking ultra-stoopid and catered to the worst and basest aspects of humanity. You felt like a horrible person for watching it, and then hated yourself even more for watching it again the next day. I did this for a week before I reached my limit, and in that week I was introduced to husbands with secret boyfriends, sex addicted thirteen year olds, people scared by socks, and all kinds of other wacky shit. At least the week I can never get back had a bit of color, that’s about all I can say for it.

But there was an almost zen-like appeal to the show in its simplicity. A simple genius. You may not be interested by a kindergarten teacher, and you may not be interested in a whore (if you’re not employing her), but a kindergarten teacher that whores on the side is undeniably interesting, and Jerry Springer knew it. He’d set the stage, play the straight man, and let the tranny chips fall where they may.