I’ve already discussed my daughter’s liberal shit dispensing policies, so I guess it stands to reason that I discuss my three year old son’s stance on the issue. He’s against it. Really against it. In fact, if he had any say in the matter (and he does, to a large extent) he would never shit again. Welcome to the wonderful world of stool refusal, or in short, your shorty won’t shit. Continue reading

During the course of an average week, I get anywhere from 70 to 100 emails of which roughly 10% are hypothetical questions in need of answering. (The other 90% are advertisements for Peruvian fetish porn involving yaks, which are 100% unsolicited, I swear.) Without fail, one of those emails contains a question so foul, so depraved, so incredibly retarded, that I weep for mankind. For instance, this week I received an email which asked, “If you had to go through life with genitals on your forehead, which would you pick: The pole or the hole?” Continue reading

It squeaked in just under the wire, but we’ve got a new frontrunner for Best Picture: 2016! Or as it is pronounced in Ghana, “T-t-twenty sixteen!” It’s got everything: Aliens, terminators, punting toddlers, state of the art CGI… Simply stunning.

My daughter has an extensive track record of trashing furniture. I’m not talking about scratching the finish, spilling water on it, or any of those kind of pussy minor accidents that I would gladly deal with in my house. She fucks furniture up. I mean, makes it fall apart into individual furniture molecules. Case in point, her dresser. She had a dresser with five drawers on the front of it, and she would CRAM clothes in there until the drawers would burst. I’m not kidding, her jeans drawer had a wad of jeans in there so dense that they were on the verge of gravitational collapse. And when I say the drawers would burst, I’m not talking about the cheap particle board bottom most dresser drawers contain these days. The solid wood front of the drawer would fly off like a button on Oprah’s pants. One time I reattached the front of the drawer with 4 inch wood screws. That lasted a week. Continue reading

In the summer of 1987, I had my whole life in front of me. I had just graduated high school and was working a summer job to set aside money for college, which I was starting in the fall at a Big Ten university. I had, for my age, ample access to money, girls, alcohol, and drugs even though at the time I felt I didn’t have quite enough of any of those things. What I did have plenty of was youthful stupidity, which is how I found myself with a bag of drugs in my underwear in a car billowing pot smoke on the Illinois-Wisconsin border while a State Trooper got ready to shoot my best friend. That’s how I used to roll. Continue reading

If you pay attention to my Twitter feed (over there, to the right), you’ll know that I often use it to troll celebrities. Like the infamous Foreigner/Roast Beef imbroglio. Or the time I asked Journey if they shot the man responsible for their mind-bendingly retarded video, Separate Ways. But you’d have to be paying extra close attention to have caught the tweet in which I discussed my plan to ask Joyce DeWitt (Janet from Three’s Company) to sign a photo with the words, “Greg, Thanks for the herpes! Love, Joyce DeWitt!”. (Huh, I guess I mentioned it in the infamous Lindsay Lohan post, too.) Well, today I got a little something in the mail. Continue reading

I’ll be the first person to tell you that if you judge people based on the color of their skin, you are a fucking scumbag and a much, much worse person than any of the people you believe you are superior to. Racism is evil, wrong, stupid, ignorant, and if there’s anything I hate more than a racist, it’s a Belgian. Continue reading

How much do you want to bet that this guy has been told by a judge that he can’t hug kids like that any more?

I stopped by one of those quickie oil change places for lunch today, one whose name rhymes with “Iffy Lube”. I generally don’t do that, preferring to change my own oil. I do this not because I’m one of those studly kind of guys that can, say, replace a starter. Far from it. I’m not even sure where the starter is or what it looks like, just that, oddly enough, it’s not the part of the car you use when you actually start your car. No, I change my own oil because it’s one of the few things I know how to do with a car besides drive it, change the tire, and get laid in the back of it. So I do it myself because it’ll save me a few bucks and I’m fairly unlikely to rip myself off. I’m talking about changing the oil, not the getting laid part. Continue reading

I’m going to cut right to the chase with this week’s installment of Weekly Hypothetical. I just don’t have the energy to ramble on about random shit for several paragraphs before diving into some asinine question about something mondo-bizarro like fecal transplants. Yes, you read that right: Fecal transplants. There is a medical procedure where someone donates shit, and you put it in your pooper. I am not lying. Continue reading