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

I just got done dealing with tax stuff, and although taxes are a wonderful exercise in absurdism, they’re not really conducive to structured thinking. I suppose I could try to weave some coherent narrative through the foul ramblings I’m about to unleash on the rest of the world, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. So you get semi-digested bits of weirdness from my brain. Sorry. You want plot, go watch Law & Order or something. Continue reading

I was stretching my legs today at lunchtime when I saw what I can only describe as a gaggle of bicyclists: A collection of Lance Armstrong wannabes wearing spandex shorts so colorful that blind people were shielding their eyes, flying down the road, blowing off stop signs, cutting off cars, and otherwise acting like a bunch of fucking assholes. These are the pricks that will lecture people that they need to “share the road” with bicyclists, then get on that road and ignore every traffic law known to mankind. God, how I wish I drove a steamroller to work. Continue reading

Usually, I can come up with a subject for any given post. Sure, I may then go off on a ridiculous tangent that involves drunken college depravity, stories about how my kids have managed to almost kill themselves this week, and musings on what kind of tampons Kenny Loggins uses, but I eventually circle back and… Wait, what was I talking about again? Gahh, stupid… thinking thing… Make me not think the… thing… Dammit! Be thinker! Continue reading

I hate when technology fucks me up. I realize that everyone hates that, but I really hate it. This is because I’m in IT (aka a computer guy, propeller-head, dork, etc.) There’s not a problem that can come up that I don’t think I can solve because of my awesome technical skillset. A live nuclear weapon could drop in my front yard with a digital timer counting backwards from 0:10, and while everyone else was hugging their loved ones before they turned to vapor, I’d be all, “Ok, relax. This weapon’s motherboard is probably running on a custom UNIX kernel, and if I can find a way to get myself into a sudo-enabled command prompt…” and that would be the last thought in my brain before it was blasted beyond Pluto’s orbit, because skillset or not, I’m a fucking idiot, but I think I can solve anything. Continue reading

I fucking knew I shouldn’t have gone into the office today. After yesterday’s debacle, I knew that I was taking a big chance by going to work, but they’re kind of funny about people actually showing up and, you know, doing shit, and I didn’t think it was very likely that they’d accept a Chicago song as a valid excuse for missing work. So I went in, put on some headphones, and repeatedly jammed the polar opposite of Chicago: a song called Check My Brain, which is loud, and awesome, and has a riff that sounds like Alice in Chains mowing the lawn drunk. Continue reading

I’ve complained about the radio station that plays in my office before. It’s evil because their playlist consists mostly of songs that are so neutral that you let your defenses down. You hardly even know the music is there. Then they spring some fucking Air Supply on you and your day is ruined because sooner or later you’ll be approached by a coworker who asks you, “Dude, are you humming ‘All Out of Love’?” It’s the worst songs that fucking stick in your head. Anyone who has ever heard Karma Chameleon can tell you that. Continue reading

I was driving home today when it struck me that the cars we drive these days are fucking lame. Not mine, of course. I drive a Jeep Wrangler, which is macho, and studly, and boy don’t I look like a motherfucking wildman with two child seats in the back of mine? But most of the other cars on the road suck in my eyes. This is because I was alive during the 70’s, which although it brought us terrible things such as leisure suits, disco, and Kenny Loggins (ahem), it also brought us great things such as Led Zeppelin, the original Saturday Night Live, and muscle cars. Continue reading

I had planned to use the first post of the new year to crown a winner of the Dick Loggins Contest in which one lucky reader would be rewarded for illustrating a penis dressed up as Kenny Loggins with something from the Official Dogs On Drugs Giant Bookcase of Crazy Shit, but that plan was thwarted by my six year old who took it upon himself to ring in the new year by swallowing a ball bearing. (If you’re new to this site and find yourself wondering about that contest, yes, it is a real contest, and no, I haven’t taken my meds in quite a while.) Continue reading

My two sons, four and six, like to wake up early. And by early, I mean they wake up at hours that I haven’t experienced since I was in college, and even then I only saw them through the bottom of a bottle. It’s not unheard of for them to wake up at 2:15 AM and loudly begin having Maximum Fun before storming into my room to demand that I allow them to go outside to play. This is what is known in parenting circles as bullshit. After a brief showdown during which I may or may not threaten to have Santa’s hands and feet cut off, my boys will settle down for upwards of thirty minutes before starting the process all over again. I could club retarded baby seals for a living and still make Santa’s Nice List just based on the fact that I haven’t once put my sons in leg irons (although I have frequently considered it). Continue reading