Today’s mind-melting video of ultimate oddity comes to us courtesy of long time friend Squatch, with whom I was traveling one fine day when he had an acid-induced laughter attack in the men’s room of an Illinois rest area which sent fellow travelers scurrying off, throwing nervous glances over their shoulders while Squatch and I high-tailed it the fuck out of there, because acid + driving = hilarious fun for everyone. Clearly. Earlier in the trip, I had dared Squatch to wedge a dollar bill between his ass cheeks and present said dollar bill to the toll booth operator we were about to be confronted with. I think he might have done it too, except just then Octopus’s Garden came on, and we got very, very distracted by it. Ever notice how much that song sucks unless you’re on drugs? And then it’s totally awesome? Well, we noticed it. That was a weird day. We went from seeing Robert Plant in concert, to drinking a bunch of high school students into oblivion, to hassling first a couple of softball players, then a couple of priests, and wound up the day driving a couple hundred miles because… Well, if we didn’t drive right then, on acid, we’d have to drive much later, not on acid. Look, it made sense at the time.

Which is more than you can say for this clip. Crispy-fried Jesus in a bucket, what in the fucking fuck was that?

I have some of my best ideas in the shower, ideas such as, “Hey, I bet if I inject some adrenaline into this hooker’s heart, I won’t have to go out to buy another bag of lime!” and “I’m on my 14th beer. I better call in sick to work.” Something about the combination of water and soap seems to energize my mind, although to be fair it could also have something to do with the 14 beers. Continue reading

My daughter came home with a case of strep throat last week, which of course meant that she soon passed it on to her brother, and then me. This is because children are Keds-wearing bags of contagion. Syria missed a real opportunity: They didn’t have to attack anyone with sarin. They could’ve just sent my kids in there and within a week the war would’ve been called on account of sore throats. Continue reading

I was at work today, calmly minding my own business when an alert on my news feed interrupted me in the rudest way possible: “Hall & Oates nominated for Rock and Roll Hall of Fame”. What a kick in the fucking teeth. I mean, why don’t you just break all the bad news at once, why don’t you? “Planet Doomed: Last Days of Earth to Feature Million Degree Temperatures, Glee Marathon”. Fuck. Continue reading

One day in the distant future, my grandchildren will ask me, “Grandpa, where were you when you heard the news?” And I will, of course, ignore them because I will be too busy watching three-way insertion porn on Fox. Yes, that’s the future of Fox. Don’t act surprised. (But because it is Fox, it will be conservative insertion porn, with no migrant workers or welfare mothers involved.) Continue reading

I usually don’t post on Friday, but today I’m making an exception. Because I’ve got a backlog of videos, and posting them requires hardly any effort at all. (This is opposed to the normal collection of dick jokes and slander that passes as a post in these parts, which requires a little effort.)

Our first video is a music video by Mark Gormley, who is either auditioning to be a musician or a child molester. Dude, you need to update the look. And the background. And the song. And the lyrics. Don’t give up the day job, is what I’m saying. The folks at Foot Locker would probably miss you.

Ouch. Let’s move on, shall we? More videos after the jump. Continue reading

And you people think I’m fucked up. This cartoon was produced in the 20’s. As in the 1920’s. And it proves my long standing theory that cartoonists are sick, dirty, perverted heroin addicts that animate smut for dope money. On the plus side, this cartoon taught me that women hide alarm clocks in their personal zone, which could come in handy wakeup-call-wise.

(Note: The sound is 100% a-ok (it’s just piano music), so if you’re watching it at work, you don’t need headphones. But if anyone catches you watching this, you will become a richly deserving social pariah.)

If, despite all the therapy and post-traumatic stress medication, you still remember a post that I wrote in January, you’ll no doubt remember that I pronounced Olathe, Kansas the murder capital of the United States. This shocking fact is 100% true and well documented, which is doubly surprising considering the fact that I made it up. Still, that wasn’t going to prevent me from trying to make a buck or two, and so I offered the Olathe Bureau of Tourism a deal: Pay me a lot of money, and I’ll stop fucking up your tourism by saying things like, “7 out of every 10 hotel beds in Olathe, Kansas are infested with HIV-positive bedbugs.” Continue reading

I only wrote one post last week, a fact that I attribute to truly heroic cocktail intake a strange sense of ennui. The word “ennui” for those of you who don’t know, is French for… Oh, who fucking cares? We didn’t pull the snail-eaters’ asses out of the fire in World War II so we could speak French, for fuck’s sake. No, we did it because our GI’s in the European Theater were brave, and selfless souls who were also God-awful hungry for the poon. France just happened to be there, and a lack of razors or even basic hygiene was not going to deter our brave lads: They slept with the French women anyway. Continue reading

This is my favorite time of year in Arizona. We’ve got 7 months of absolutely gorgeous weather in front of us and as an avid hiker, I use this opportunity to the fullest: I find the tallest mountains to climb, the most isolated trails to follow, and generally become one with nature until such time as it becomes necessary to stab nature in the fucking eyes. Continue reading