Usually when things go missing in your home, there’s a simple and prosaic explanation: Socks coming out of the dryer cling to larger articles of clothing, car keys get pushed or fall behind larger objects, and the television remote becomes wedged between couch cushions, or if you happen to live in Milwaukee, rolls of fat. Even if it might take a while to locate these missing items, you don’t exactly need Sherlock Holmes to figure out why they disappeared in the first place. But from time to time some things go missing for which there is no rational explanation. For instance, I had a case of beer in my fridge last Friday, and I woke up at noon the next day, they were gone. I asked my neighbors if they might know where they had gone, but they were mad at me for some unknown reason, or maybe they were just preoccupied trying to paint over the giant “Led Zeppelin Rules!” someone had spray painted on the side of their house in 15 foot letters. The point I’m trying to make is that my neighbors need to lighten the fuck up. If I find any of those beers, maybe I’ll offer them a couple. Continue reading

It used to be that when you had a medical issue that needed immediate attention, you headed down to your local Urgent Care facility where they placed you in the Patient Aging Area, and you were left there for five or six hours. This was done so that, on the off chance that you didn’t have anything wrong with you in the first place, prolonged exposure to your fellow patients would ensure that by the time you got to see a doctor, you at least had something wrong with you, and you weren’t wasting the doctor’s valuable time. The doctor would then tell you that there was “something going around”, give you some antibiotics, and send you home, tremendously relieved that you weren’t terribly sick unless, of course, you went to Urgent Care with an arrow sticking out of your neck, in which case they maybe gave you some Tylenol with Codeine to keep you happy enough not to sue. Continue reading

Remember the raver cats? This is their pal, the raver dog. Dog’s on drugs, indeed.

Actually, no, I’m not. I just didn’t want to waste a perfectly good pun. The fact of the matter is that my back has been acting up recently, and none of the miraculous technology that has been brought to bear in this amazing age of medical miracles has been applied to the back. I can’t get a back transplant, I can’t grow a new back from stem cells, fuck, I can’t even buy a back on the black market, which is total bullshit if you ask me. If I can afford to have a homeless Laotian man kidnapped and harvested for his back so that I may resume sitting with a complete disregard for posture, then why shouldn’t I be able to? Fucking human rights laws. What a crock of shit. Continue reading

No post today (or yesterday, for that matter). My back has decided to be a complete fucking asshole, something that it does from time to time. It hurts like a motherfucker, and it’s hard to crack jokes when every three seconds you’re dropping to the floor in agony. I know, I’ve tried. I was at the office today in a very important meeting, and I was all, “So the prostitute looks up at the Pope and says…” when all of a sudden: WHAMMO! A coworker sucker-punches me. And also my back hurt some more.

So in lieu of my trademarked Kenny Loggins/felching based humor, here’s an important public service announcement from the American Medical Association, which has apparently gotten into the medical marijuana again.

If there is a single word that springs to mind when one looks at this website, that word is “professional”. I’m led to this conclusion by the steady stream of emails I receive from people who would like to help my business meet its potential. Before I read these emails, I was under the impression that Dogs on Drugs was nothing more than a large collection of dick jokes and semi-slanderous statements about Angela Lansbury (who has a penis, by the way). But as it turns out, I was wrong. It is actually a business venture that has the potential to produce large amounts of revenue, although to be truthful, I’m still unclear how one goes from slandering Angela Lansbury (serial killer) to rolling in dough. Blackmail, perhaps? Continue reading

Quite some time ago, I received an email from an admiring reader in the UK. At least, I think he’s an admiring reader. He didn’t include the standard, non-admirer terms that usually tip me off, such as “illliterate dumbfuck”, “escaped zoo chimp with a spellchecker”, and “tragic waste of the human spirit”. He also failed to threaten to report me to the “internet police”, and so I’m only able to draw the conclusion that he’s an admirer, or failing that, at least he doesn’t want to set my teeth on fire. Continue reading

Yesterday’s post about the incidence of pubic lice aboard the USS Enterprise got me to thinking about classic television shows, and whenever that happens, my thoughts turn to the Brady Bunch. Of course it doesn’t take much to get me on a Brady Bunch roll, as anyone who was with me this weekend can attest. All I can say to that is look, I’m sorry I ruined your grandmother’s funeral, but in my defense she looked an awful lot like Alice, and all I did was ask her to make me a sandwich. And put a mop in her casket. And then take her out of there to reenact a couple of classic scenes. The point is, stop being such a gigantic baby about it, and come bail me out! Continue reading

Mankind is, by its very nature, inquisitive. From the time we descended from the trees, we have asked ourselves the big questions: Who are we? What are those strange lights in the sky? When are they going to invent beer? As mankind began to understand and manipulate its environment, we discovered that each answer we found led to new, and more fundamental questions: What is the sun made out of? What is this force that moves the Earth around it? And seriously, can someone invent beer already? My wife is fucking nagging me to buy her a new loom, and I could really go for a cold one. Now, of course, with the benefit of modern technology, we are able to answer more questions than we have at any time in our past, and still we find that there are more to be answered, such as whether or not they still have crabs onboard the USS Enterprise. Continue reading

I was reminded today about a story from when I was 23 years old; a story involving Girl Scouts. Now, if story involving a 23 year old me and Girl Scouts makes you uneasy, I’d like to point out that I didn’t do or say anything that would have required the police to get involved. I was standing next to that guy. Big difference. Continue reading