I hate discovering things that make it seem like I’ve turned into a total pussy. For my birthday, my wife got me the Steve Jobs biography, but instead of getting me the Kindle version, she got me the actual hardcover book. Holy shit is that thing fucking heavy! How the hell did anyone read these things without their wrists snapping under the load? Yes, my wrists hurt when reading a hardcover book now, because I am a pussy. And old. I’m an old pussy. I fucking hate that. Ever reach for a beer and strain a muscle in your neck? It makes you feel like a large, musclebound dude is about to come over and kick sand in your face. Continue reading

Ummm, why isn’t this guy running for President?

When my daughter was little, Hannah Montana was all the rage. She and her cousins all wanted to be Hannah Montana, and not just for Halloween. They had tramp costumes that they’d wear everywhere, makeup applied with a trowel, and you’d find pink tubes of glittery lip gloss with hearts and rainbows on them all over the fucking place. That was bad enough, but what was worse, they all started acting and talking like that horse-faced slut. When Hannah Montana hurled insults at Billy-Ray Cyrus, that was tolerable because that fucknut inflicted Achey-Breaky Heart on us, so fuck him. But when my daughter used the same line against me, the Disney channels were instantly blocked and remained so for the next six years. Continue reading

For those of you not familiar with it, yes, this really is a book, and it is awesome.

And then, somehow, the audiobook version got even awesomer.

My daughter has been a terrible tattle-tale almost as long as she’s been able to talk. She’ll run up to me breathlessly and inform me that her brother, six years younger than her, just spit at the cat, or threw his piggy bank down the stairs, or some other relatively harmless thing that he did, often because his sister told him to. My reaction is always the same: “Thanks for the heads up on that, narc!” Continue reading

I, like many, many other Americans (and quite a few non-Americans too, I’d imagine) am sick and fucking tired of the random collection of morons, hypocrites, and self-righteous maniacs that run for the office of President of the United States every four years. What the fuck, is this the best we can come up with? I estimate that I know, at least in passing, about 150 people. Of those people, I can easily think of at least 5 that are smart, driven, have good leadership and communication skills, and probably don’t fuck underaged, undocumented migrant workers in their spare time. I’d feel relatively confident that they’d do at least a decent job if they were suddenly appointed President, and one or two would probably be very good at it. Continue reading

I grew up in Illinois, about 45 miles northwest of Chicago. It was a wonderful place to grow up: We had fields and forests to explore, ponds and rivers to throw rocks in, trees to climb, hills to roll down, and the weather was glorious. Fall was brisk, with the scent of burning leaves in the air. Spring was a time of hope, promise, and wonder, as kids would venture outside in shorts when the thermometer hit a balmy 50 degrees. Summer… Well, summer was an endless golden haze, a dreamland. Winter in Chicago, on the other hand, can fucking blow me. Continue reading

I’m writing this on Wednesday, it will appear on Friday, and my excuse for the second mail-it-in post in a row is that I was too loaded on Thursday to post anything insightful. So instead… this:

(Note: Safe to watch at work, but use headphones.)

Today’s my birthday, so I’m taking the day off. Don’t worry, I’m leaving you in very, very capable hands.

As my family and I get ready to spend 4 days and 3 nights out of town, I am reminded that once you have kids life as you know it is completely over. Done. Finito. For instance, when you were young did you ever take an impromptu road trip? How did you pack for that? Yeah, you jammed some clothes into a backpack and just took off. And that’s if you even bothered to do that. I’ve known people who would leave the country on a lark, and the only thing they took care to bring with them was a pack of smokes. That makes sense, actually, since a fresh set of underwear won’t get you far in Mexican prison, but a pack of smokes will keep others from forcibly removing the pair you have on. Continue reading