Usually, I can come up with a subject for any given post. Sure, I may then go off on a ridiculous tangent that involves drunken college depravity, stories about how my kids have managed to almost kill themselves this week, and musings on what kind of tampons Kenny Loggins uses, but I eventually circle back and… Wait, what was I talking about again? Gahh, stupid… thinking thing… Make me not think the… thing… Dammit! Be thinker!
It’s been that kind of week for me, for whatever reason. I’ve started writing about any number of things, but can’t seem to get past the second paragraph before I…
So fuck having a point, I’m just going to ramble about whatever comes into my head. Buckle the fuck up, compadres, this shit is gonna get weird.
Foreigner – I don’t do a lot of advertising for Dogs on Drugs, and when I say I don’t do a lot, I mean I don’t do any. Beyond posting rambling, incoherent lunacy in the comment sections of a few unfortunate blogs, I don’t make any effort to drive traffic my way. I wouldn’t mind if I had more traffic, it’s just not what drives me to write (mainlining rubber cement is).
But occasionally, I will tell someone I know in real life about my site, and I find it difficult to explain what it is that I do here.
Friend: So… Dogs on Drugs. What’s that about? (starts sidling away from me)
Me: Well, it’s just me being nutty, basically. Like one time I pretended to write some ad copy for Corn Pops and said they were delicious and go well with bourbon. Another time I asked Janet from Three’s Company to thank me for giving her herpes on an autographed photo.
Friend: Uh-huh… (sidling faster)
Me: And one time I asked Foreigner to make me a Reuben, but they said no.
Friend: I see… (sidling at speeds up to 35 mph)
I had this conversation the other day, and when I thought about what I had just said, it struck me that I’m still pissed at Foreigner’s lead singer for being such a fucking cunt-musket and not accepting $20,000 to make me a sandwich. I mean, what the hell, asshole? I promised to give that money to sick children, you fuck. Would it have been so goddamn hard to make a fucking sandwich for charity?
What an asshat. You don’t act that dickishly without it being a habit, either. This is how I imagine Foreigner band practices go:
Mick Jones: Should we play Hot Blooded next?
Kelly Hansen: Hold on, I’m not done douching yet.
Thom Gimbel: Can you speak up? I can’t hear you over the howls of these kittens I’m blowtorching!
Chris Frazier: I am against gay marriage and don’t much care for Mexicans.
(In case you’re wondering, I had to look up every single one of those names because, really, who listens to Foreigner? Pederasts, and people who eat urinal cakes, that’s who.)
So, yeah, I guess I’m still tweaked over that whole thing.
You’re So Vain – I took the entire top off of my Jeep a couple of weeks ago because we are smack dab in the middle of our Ha-Ha Weather, which is what we call it when it is 80 and sunny every single day for a month or two straight and we can laugh at everyone in the country who’s getting walloped by a freak snowstorm when it really looked like Spring was right around the corner. (God is such a fucking wise-ass with that shit.)
Of course, in just a few weeks Ha-Ha Weather will devolve into I-Burnt-My-Nuts-To-A-Crisp-When-I-Sat-Down-In-My-Car Weather, but for now I’m enjoying the fuck out of living in Arizona, and the Jeep is wide open. It’s interesting driving in a Jeep with essentially nothing between you and the rest of the world. For one thing, you smell everything. This causes me to frown at my dashboard as if there’s a warning sign that will light up and inform me, “Engine Currently On Fire”, or “Brake Pads Fricasseed”.
Likewise, every sound convinces me that my engine has just slipped loose from its mounting and is about to make a break for it. I used to think this shit was funny when it happened to my dad. We’d be driving 1,900 straight hours to get to our vacation destination, when my dad would hear a slightly metallic “ping!” noise, and he would demand quiet so that he could frown at the engine while waiting for it to, I don’t know, do it again? Whistle Yankee Doodle Dandy? And my brothers and I would fight to stifle our giggles because a person trying to listen to the engine looks like they’re a few tacos short of a platter.
But now I do it all the time because without windows or a roof to screen out insignificant sounds, everything sounds like it fell off my engine, including my boys slapping the outside of the Jeep so they can see daddy flip out and make silly frowny faces at the car.
And that’s another thing: Without windows, you can see and reach parts of the car while driving that you couldn’t before. Did I screw on the gas cap? Well, lemme just take a look! Are the tires full? Hmmm, they look ok to me! And it’s not just the driver who has unprecedented access to the automobile, the passengers do as well.
I looked over at my daughter the other day as we were driving down the freeway, and ever so subtly she reached out and adjusted the side view mirror so that she could look at herself during the ride home.
“You know, that mirror is to help me avoid having this vehicle and all of its occupants turn into a twisted ball of flaming steel and children. Using the mirror to look at yourself should probably take back seat to that, don’t you think?”
She laughed at being caught, took another look at herself, then asked me, “So… Should I put it back the way it was?”
What kind of fucking question is that? “No, no, let’s endanger ourselves and everyone else on the road because you’d like to gaze adoringly at yourself in the mirror. Perhaps you’d like to drive with the hood up so as the reduce the wind that’s mussing up your hair?”
And my daughter is twelve. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that this level of self-involvement is going to get a lot worse before it gets better.
Note to self: Buy Vacuum Bags – Since I’ve moved into the new house, I allow my dog, Mojo, to sleep indoors. He absolutely LOVES this, and every night when I go to bed to read, he comes over and rests his head on my chest. It’s nauseatingly cute. He is so obviously saying, “Thank you for letting me sleep in here, master! I love you! Good night!” So of course, I don’t really have any other choice than to scratch behind his ears, tell him he’s a good boy, and so forth before he curls up at the foot of my bed.
The other night we were going through the bed time routine, and he got a little close to me and I wound up pulling my face back from him looking like fucking Santa Claus: White fur everywhere. Mojo is losing his winter coat in a major fucking way. Who invented this shit, and where does he live so I can burn his fucking house down?
Seriously, I’m not a neat-freak by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve found myself having to vacuum the whole house every few days because if I don’t, it becomes dog fur tumbleweed central in here. And this even though I brush Mojo daily. I don’t know why dogs can’t be more like snakes. Just fucking molt, already. I could pick up the old coat, toss it in the trash and be done with it.
Seriously, enough with the fucking Chicago already! – Once again, the powers that be at my office building have decided to reduce headcount by playing “lite rock” so egregiously bad that people are choking on their own vomit and dying. The other day I once again heard fucking Chicago, this time If You Leave Me Now.
Here’s Peter Cetera’s entire argument in this song:
- Leaving now will take away the biggest part of him
- Leaving now will also take away the very heart of him
- Baby please don’t go
- “Just got to have you by my side”
Here, offered as a counter-point, is the reasoning the woman in question is using in deciding to leave:
- My boyfriend is Peter Cetera
I think enough time has passed now, we can just let the band Chicago fade into obscurity. I mean, it’s not like you’re hearing a lot of Scott Joplin or John Phillips Souza on the radio, is it? Of course not. People used to listen to that, and we have moved the fuck on. It is time that we did the same with Chicago and Creamy Peter.
(Creamy Peter is the fucking hilariously spot-on nickname Heather has given to Peter Cetera, and I love it so much that if Peter Cetera were to shuffle off this mortal coil tomorrow, I would sandblast his name off of his headstone and replace it with Creamy Peter, felonies be damned.)
Cheesefest Volume One – Last Saturday night, I hosted the first ever Dogs on Drugs Cheesefest in which an All Star team of miscreants and reprobates viciously ripped apart the horrible programming that I served up. Hilarity ruled the night as evidenced by such witty quotes as, “Why are we watching this?”, “Whose idea was it to watch this?”, and “Let’s stop watching this.” Because the shows were, seriously, pretty fucking god-awful. They included:
- Fantasy Island
- Welcome Back Kotter
- Different Strokes (or as it was rechristened, Different Storks, haha)
- Three’s Company
- Mork & Mindy
We had originally planned to just watch Fantasy Island, since we would surely have committed suicide by the end of the episode, but we found that we were having so much fun that the evening stretched on for almost four hours.
What did we learn from this experience? I’m glad you asked.
- We learned that everyone wore their pants and shorts alarmingly high in the 70’s. Like, really fucking high. You had to practically unzip your pants to drink a beer.
- We also learned that entertainment-wise, we were oddly attracted to shows containing midgets and gingers, which everyone agreed would make an unbelievably hilarious name for a rock band. “Ladies and gentleman… Midgets & Gingers!”
- And oh, God, did we learn that Arthur Carlson is a sick-fuck. While I was trolling for a suitable episode of Different Storks, we played a clip I’d found of the episode where Gordon Jump molests Arnold. Well, not Gordon Jump. I mean, I’m pretty sure he was playing a role. Anyway, that episode was WAY more graphic than I remembered, and I felt less pure as a human being after having seen it. I expect to feel that way after watching Different Storks, to tell you the truth, just not that much. Ugh.
We also learned that we need to do Cheesefest again, and possibly make it a regular thing. The only problem is that while we may have been able to handle two more people in that chat room (*cough* Vesta! *cough* Rev! *cough*), that would have been the limit. The side-splitting comments were flying so quickly, that if you didn’t pay attention, you might miss out on an all time zinger such as:
Nice shorts, queef
I could use everyone’s help in figuring out how to expand Cheesefest, because it seems unfair to limit it to a handful of people. So if anyone has any ideas on how to include more people without the dialogue become a tidal wave of dick jokes, I’m all ears. More chat rooms, maybe?
Also, getting everyone to start a video at the same time isn’t too hard, but bandwidth issues popped up from time to time, forcing some people to have to skip parts of a given show in order to catch up. (Given the quality of the shows, this was probably a blessing in disguise.) If anyone knows of any group-browsing sites or software so that we can keep everyone in synch, I’d love to hear about it.
Hear Ye! Hear Ye! – I was in court today, and no, not for anything drug, alcohol, or punching Peter Cetera in the vagina-related. They projected The Rules on a wall, and I was surprised at what was judged to be the most important rule. At the top of the list were two words: “No hats!”
We’d all gone through metal detectors on our way in, so I’m unsure what kind of threat hats were, but they took that shit seriously. A few minutes after things got under way, a courthouse guard walked in who looked exactly like fucking Machete:
The one guy (Hispanic) who still had a hat on was sitting next to me, and he took it off really fucking quickly. After the guard had left, I said to the guy, “Machete don’t fuck around, ese!”
He looked at me and shook his head. “What the fuck? What am I gonna do with a goddamn hat?”
Oddjob, show him, would you?
Now if we could only get Oddjob, Foreigner, and Peter Cetera in a room together, we’d be all set.