I went to a science fair this evening. I haven’t been to a science fair since I was in 8th grade, and let me tell you something: They haven’t changed a bit. How America retains its ranking as the top destination for technological and scientific advancement is beyond me, because as far as I can tell, our budding scientists-to-be only perform experiments involving static electricity, vinegar and baking soda, or rock candy formation. Oh, and Coke and Mentos. I saw four separate entries dealing with Coke and Mentos, each of which had a hypothesis along the lines of, “My hypothesis is that adding Coke to Mentos in my brother Tyler’s room will be hilarious.” Continue reading

A couple of weeks ago I decided that I’d use the word “orgy” at least once in every meeting I’m invited to at the office. “Orgy” is an excellent word in that it has enough legitimate meaning to justify its occasional use, but when you use it, every single person in the room mentally pictures the Orgy Guy – A hairy chested, mustachioed man who shows up at the front door wearing nothing but a kimono and an expectant leer. It’s wonderfully off-putting, and every time I do it, I surreptitiously scan the room to see if anyone is lost in a fond remembrance because you never know when that kind of information might come in handy. Hard work may be the surest way to the top, but extortion is a hell of a lot faster. Continue reading

A coworker asked me this morning if I had seen the Grammy’s last night. The answer, of course, was no. I had better things to do, like shave my balls with a cheese grater. Why the fuck would I watch the Grammy’s? If I wanted to watch a group of sub-literates perform a mass reach-around in public, I’d go to the monkey house at the fucking zoo. “Well, Led Zeppelin won the Grammy for best rock album.” And what do you know? They did. Continue reading

I’m super-hella-busy* right now, so instead of spending the next 45 minutes rehashing a bunch of tired old dick-jokes, I’ll take this time instead to introduce our new sponsor, Funeraria Lopez.

Are you Hispanic? Are you looking for a coffin to store your spare hot chicks? Or are you perhaps looking to ruin future Christmases with a funeral so freaky and upsetting that your children will pray for Santa to pass them by this year? Then you need to call Funeraria Lopez right fucking NOW, muchacho! They actually don’t have phone service, but if you see a lion with a camcorder he’ll tell you where to go.

*Yes, I used the “word” hella. This is because I am “hip to the jive”, “22-skiddoo”, and am planning on doing the Charleston later with my dog. I am so with it, it fucking hurts.

Are you talented? Do you long to express your inner self via the visual medium of oil-based paint? Have you been consuming PCP in 50 gallons drums for the last 10 years? If you answered yes to any of those questions, you’re going to want to run right out and buy a copy of Painting with Kim Beom. Learn how to paint and cause your neighbors to move away! Act now, and we’ll throw in a copy of Staring At Coworkers Until They Cry with Kim Beom.

(Disclaimer: Kim Beom is not a licensed therapist, board certified psychologist, or a carbon-based life form. Do not make direct eye contact with Kim Beom.)

If you’re anything like me, you’re high on oven cleaner positively vibrating with excitement over the upcoming Winter Olympics, hosted in Sochi, Russia. Personally, I find the Summer Olympics terminally boring. It’s mostly people running, swimming, or jumping and if I wanted to see that, I’d go hang out near the Mexican border. But the Winter Olympics are a different matter. They’ve got an event called the Biathlon which sounds like it would involve some steamy FMF three-way porn, but impossibly becomes even better when you discover it’s a bunch of people on skis with rifles. Now if only they’d introduce handguns to figure skating, the Winter Olympics would be the best thing ever. Continue reading

“Dammit, none of the applicants we’ve interviewed so far are qualified for this job! Why can’t we find someone with some serious screwdriver skills who’s willing to reach the climax position?”

“Hang on, we’ve got one more interview.”

One of the things that I miss most about being in college (other than sleeping until the crack of dusk and swapping body fluids with complete strangers) is drinking games. I love drinking games; love everything about them. They’re fun, they get you drunk, and they slap a smiley-face on what is essentially an extremely stupid endeavor. “What’s that? You want to binge on a toxic substance that will damage our livers, impair our judgement, and greatly increase the odds of developing a long term, debilitating chemical dependency? Count me in! Hey! We can make a game out of it!” I find this very amusing. I’m not sure why, but something about extreme idiocy appeals to me. I love the idea that our species is capable of exploring the stars, unraveling the inner workings of the atom, and decoding the genetic code that defines us all, yet we still have to go out of our way to tell the best and brightest of each generation that drinking whiskey until you vomit blood is a bad idea. Continue reading

Dear Domino’s “Am I in a tunnel?” guy,

Go fuck yourself. Painfully, repeatedly, and with a Tabasco chaser. I am so sick and fucking tired of your horrible, wooden acting, I can’t even begin to describe it. Actually, I can begin to describe it: If I had, in my control, a nuclear arsenal capable of wiping all sentient life off of the surface of this planet, I would be sorely tempted to use it just to eliminate the stain on the human race that you have caused with your shitty acting. The only reason that I would not use it immediately would be for fear that a stray TV signal would leak out into the cosmos and millions of light years later would wind up psychologically maiming an innocent species of intelligent life. And so I would hold off on nuking the planet until I could perfect the technology to end the entire universe. That’s how shitty you are. Continue reading

I had a different post planned for tonight, but as usual my plans were overtaken by events in the real world, or as I like to call it Stupid Meat-Reality. My sons both had homework to do, and while that was going on I found out that my daughter had sprained her ankle playing basketball which meant that I also had to play the role of full-time nurse. My daughter has always known how to milk a situation for all it is worth, and now that she’s a teenager she’s somehow gotten better at it, so in no time I found myself having to read things for her because apparently spraining your ankle makes reading impossible. Continue reading