Seriously, if this isn’t an argument for forced sterilization of Star Wars fans, I don’t know what is.

I got my hair cut today, something that always leaves me with mixed feelings. I was cursed with fine and very straight hair, which means that the only way it looks good is to keep it short. I’m ok with this now, but when I was growing up I desperately wanted to have hair like Robert Plant or Jimmy Page because look how much pussy those guys got! They were… So. Fucking. Cool. But even when I got to the age when my parents let me grow my hair (in other words, the age when I stopped listening to them), my hair would not fucking cooperate and instead of looking like Robert Plant, I wound up looking like the offspring of Axl Rose and Gollum after having gotten out of a pool. It was not a good look for me. Continue reading

I want to live on a farm in Vermont. Well, not an actual farm. I grew up in the Midwest, so I understand the dreamy, romanticized vision most people have in their heads when they think of farm life. Farms are nothing like that. Farms are hot, smelly places where backbreaking labor does nothing to guarantee success. And even if, against all odds, harvest time has come and everything has gone right, with no drought, or flood, or pestilence, or fire, or anything else crazy getting in the way, and you find yourself with an actual crop to sell, some motherfucking asshole from the city will pipe up and complain that eighty-nine cents is way too much money for an ear of corn that you’ve worked from dawn till dusk for an entire season to produce, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting in the county jail, charged with Murder by Combine. Continue reading

Do you ever find yourself thinking about really strange things? Have you ever been lost in thought during a meeting at the office and then snapped to, realizing that the things that you were thinking were so off the wall that had your coworkers any inkling of what was going on in your head, they’d have you fucking keel-hauled on general principle? Yeah, that’s me. I think of weird shit all of the time, such as what Pac-Man’s sex life must be like. Continue reading

Is it Monday? It’s Monday, isn’t it? Fuck. Ok, Greg, think fast… C’mon, think! You need to post something! Shit! Ummm… Airline food? No, no, no, don’t be an idiot. That shit was played out in the 80’s. Oh, man… Fuck it. Fuck it! Ok, here’s some Japan for you to chew on:

Are you tired of exercises that require a lot of effort? Does the thought of walking further than the refrigerator cause you to break out in a cold sweat? Do you dream of being able to drive your car to the bathroom? Well, then, have I got some exciting news for you! Yoga allows you to get fit and sculpt that disgusting flab into a tight, ripped body in no time! You don’t have to sweat, you don’t have to work hard, hell, you don’t even need to be sober! In fact, Yoga is a discipline that rewards casual mescaline use! Behold:

Yesterday, I made a reference to the fact that the Japanese phone number for 911 is 119. I would like to point out that even though this number is literally backwards, it in no way should be construed as evidence that Japanese culture in general is backwards or fucked up. That evidence is provided by Japanese TV, which at any given moment can veer from traditional game show format into a graphic depiction of men getting kicked in the balls while scantily clad women eat sushi off of each others breasts. God, how I love Japanese TV.

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Regular, long time visitors to this site may recall a momentary fascination with Japanese WTF band BabyMetal. They were even considered (along with Mini-Kiss, Nudist Priest, and Fat Benetar) as an act for the first annual Dogs on Drugs liver-stomping party and AA recruitment drive. But if I have learned one thing during my brief stay on this planet (and I haven’t), it’s that people give you sidelong looks when you’re a grown man trying to hire thirteen year old girls in any capacity, let alone one in which they must fly across the globe to shake their asses on stage for a room full of howling drunks. It just doesn’t look right. Continue reading

It has been brought to my attention that the London Olympic Games 2012 gargle donkey balls. Alert reader Angus pointed me to the London 2012 web site’s terms & conditions, which clearly state that no one is to link to their site using language that is “derogatory or otherwise objectionable”. This means, one would suppose, that the complete dumbfucks running the show at the 2012 London Olympics believe that they have the right to supersede my right to free speech. Well, fuck you, 2012 London Olympics, you can cram it with fish and chips. Fuck, balls, ass-ramming pigfuckers. Continue reading

Zooey Daschanel has been making cameo appearances in my life all too often lately. Everywhere I go, I either see Zooey on a TV show, in a commercial, on a magazine cover, or even being prominently mentioned and discussed in the websites that I visit. The other night I walked through the living room and glanced at the TV: Zooey was on a panel of judges for some moronic television show. (I’m surprised that they have any contestants. The day Zooey Deschanel sits in judgement of me is the day I sit down and eat the barrel of a handgun for lunch.) But the real problem is that once you notice the ubiquity of a certain person, the less able you are to ignore it. I see Zooey Deschanel everywhere. Continue reading