I was unable to sleep a few nights ago, so instead of tossing and turning in bed, I went downstairs and watched Red Dragon. Red Dragon, for those of you who don’t know, is the prequel to Silence of the Lambs, and is in my opinion a better movie. It’s got everything you could ever want in a freaky movie: Full body tattoos, eating people/great works of art, and burning Philip Seymour Hoffman to death. (Take that, you pretentious three-named bastard! Daniel Day Lewis, you have been put on notice.) The movie is so freaky that by the time I’m done watching it, I pretty much assume that everyone I meet is a deranged serial killer except maybe my kids, and I have my doubts about them. Continue reading

Do you know anyone with a birthday or other special event coming up? A family member, a friend, or maybe a coworker? And are you looking for a gift that says, “This is the very least I could do, short of getting you nothing at all and celebrating your special day by ignoring it completely?” Well if so, then this is your lucky fucking day, because now you can buy this asshole the Potty Putter. Yes, the Potty Putter, brought to you by a couple of mental defectives who think that human beings are so stupid that they will fork over money to play golf while pinching a loaf.

Now before you furiously masturbate until you achieve full release, wait! There’s more! If you act now, not only will bankers close your account in disgust when they see how you waste your money, but you’ll also get a flyer in the mail for the UroClub. It’s perfect for those of you who have always dreamed of putting your cock in a 9-iron: Continue reading

You know how, from time to time you get that disoriented feeling upon waking? I used to get that a lot when I was younger, and for good reason: My love for spontaneous, drunken road trips made the questions, “Where am I?”, “Whose couch is this?”, “What state am I in?”, and, “Do I still have both of my kidneys?” logical and important questions to ask. Of course, as I got older and became the mature and responsible person I am today, early morning bafflement receded, rarely to be seen and usually only after traditional drinking holidays such as New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, or Friday. Continue reading

Do you want to look like a poodle? Are you out of shape? Have you suffered extensive brain damage? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then Poodlecise is for you!

I grew up on the banks of the Fox River in Illinois. I’ll mention that in passing, occasionally, and often it elicits a semi-awestruck comment, such as, “Wow! That must be nice, growing up on a river!” as if I spent all of my days lazily rafting downstream with runaway slaves, à la Tom Sawyer. Although it was an idyllic scene in many respects, it wasn’t really like that, unless you replace rafts with drunk men driving speedboats, and then, yes, it was pretty much exactly like that. Continue reading

The neighborhood I live in has a community pool. Nothing special, just a kidney shaped hole in the ground. There are no life guards, no slides, and with a maximum depth of five feet, no diving board. It’s basically a place where you can go when it’s 118° outside and you want to experience for yourself just how hot water can get when it sits in a scorching hot concrete tub all day. So on the weekends, I like to take the kids to the municipal pool, which is much cooler, has slides and other water-related things to play with, and is a beach-style pool, meaning that I have to keep a death-grip on my four year old most of the time instead of all of it. Continue reading

If you are anything like me, you’re hiding in a display tent in the Walmart sporting goods department, drinking beer and eating Funyuns by the metric ton. You’re also insanely excited about the upcoming birth of the Royal Baby which, according to the Huffington Post is “looming”. That doesn’t sound right, if you ask me. This is a baby who is destined to be born into obscene luxury, not the spawn of Satan. The Huffington Post needs to stop being so inappropriate OR I WILL HAVE THEM BEHEADED AND PLACE THEIR BLOODY NOGGINS ON A PIKE, I WILL! Continue reading

Ever heard of Frankie MacDonald? He’s a 28 year old autistic man who lives in Sydney, Nova Scotia. He’s got a thing for creating weather alert videos, which he posts on Youtube. Some of them are outright classics, such as Severe Earthquake Warning for California, Severe Onion Rings Warning for Southern Australia, and Severe Ping Pong Warning for Japan.

Now, as you can imagine, Frankie’s somewhat odd take on weather, along with his condition have resulted in some pretty unflattering comments, especially on Youtube, where the average IQ of a commenter is below that of a brain-dead moose. Frankie himself has said that he finds these comments “rude and disrespectful. Some of the people make fun of me on the Internet and it is not a nice thing to do. I have a good heart.”

And that’s what I like about the guy. He knows that people make fun of him, but he doesn’t let that hold him back. He goes out and does what he loves. Wouldn’t the world be a much better place if we all embraced our inner Frankie MacDonald and did the things we loved, regardless of what everyone else had to say?

About a month ago, I was bestowed with a great honor: I was added to the 2013 edition of the Worldwide Registry for Business Professionals. You probably remember it well. It’s all anyone was talking about, if by “anyone” you mean “me”. I wouldn’t shut up about it. We’d be in a meeting at work, and I’d rudely interrupt the proceedings because, hey, I’m in the 2013 edition of the Worldwide Registry for Business Professionals, and you assholes aren’t. I’d actually say that, and everyone in the room had no choice but to agree with me because logically, my position was unassailable. You know how people will say, “Shut the fuck up!” or “Get the fuck out of here!” in a good-natured manner? That was pretty much their reaction, although they did get awfully red in the face and spent a lot of time pointing towards the door. Continue reading

My seven year old son came home the other day with a book: The Hardy Boys – Trouble at the Arcade. I laughed at the title because it was obviously an attempt to breathe new life into an old franchise by making it “modern”, when in fact, arcades are virtually extinct, and by now the Hardy Boys are dead and rotting in the ground alongside that simpering twat, Nancy Drew. And good riddance, too, because they put a lot of pressure on kids, didn’t they? They solved so many fucking mysteries that you felt inadequate by comparison. The only mystery I knew of as a kid was why my art teacher’s office smelled like the bus driver’s Black Sabbath jacket, and it took me until high school before I figured that one out. One mystery solved in ten years. That paled in comparison to the fucking Hardy Boys, who probably solved a mystery or two before they got around to dealing with their morning wood. Thanks for the low self-esteem, assholes! Continue reading