You know how in horror flicks the protagonist will walk into, say, a dark and deserted castle with his vacuous dimwit of a barely dressed blonde girlfriend, and then he’ll pause and say, “It’s quiet in here… Too quiet” and then out come the flying blades of death, reducing everyone to a quivering hunks of meat? Well, you don’t really appreciate that line until you have kids. Kids ALWAYS make noise. Even when they’re sleeping. “I can’t sleep!” “I had an accident!” “I need water!” “Daddy, let me out of the attic!” And when my daughter actually decides to get her annual five minutes of sleep, she snores louder than a fucking leaf blower. So when your spouse turns to you and says, “It’s quiet in here… Too quiet” your child is doing one thing, and one thing only: Fucking your shit up. Continue reading

I usually think up ideas for a post during during the day. I’m pretty busy as a rule, but I always make time for a walk or two, and failing that I’ve got the commute home to try to come up with something. And almost always, some oddball thing will pop into my head, such as the last diary entry of Amelia Earhart (“I met a wonderfully friendly man today. Talked to him for hours. And when I told him that long flights are awfully dull, he gave me a couple of capsules of something called LSD. He said they would alleviate boredom without question. I can’t wait to try them on my flight to Howland Island tonight!”) I’ll flesh out a couple of things in my head, and then when I get home I’ll just mash on the keyboard, make a couple of random threats to local weathermen, and mix in about 80% dick jokes because, honestly, I don’t really have time for organized thought. Continue reading

I’m a little pissed that the producers of How It’s Made haven’t come calling yet. If you are one of the four people in the known universe who haven’t seen How It’s Made, it’s a show that goes behind the scenes and shows the viewer the inside story of how some of our favorite products are made, such as anal beads. It’s fascinating. And even though featuring the process by which I come up with immature jokes utilizing terms such as “fuck-tard” and “ass-spelunker” could literally increase their ratings by up to as many as ten people, they haven’t come knocking. Those unmitigated fuckers. Continue reading

My kids are fucking killing me. I got a frantic text from my wife asking me to call home because my daughter had just called her ten times in a row while she was in an important meeting. So I called home and asked what was so important. “I wanted to know if mommy was on the way home.” This is not the first time that this has happened. And what’s worse, I get that shit from my mom. A frantic message left on my voice mail: “Greg, it’s mom. I need you to call me as soon as possible. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.” And I call her back and the emergency is that (swear to God, this actually happened) she needed to know my daughter fucking sock size.

So I’m dealing with that horse-shit, and my five year old son has been kicked out of his kindergarten class again for general goof-offiness, my wife is attending a play for a niece of ours, and my three year old is hitting the peak of his word-explosion phase, and a typical soundbite from him is “Daddy-I-make-noise-play-wth-Mark-at-day-care-Ooh!-I-want-that-I-want-that-I-like-fire-truck-Daddy-do-you-like-fire-truck-you-do-like-fire-truck?-Ok-I-want-snack-I-want-snack-I-WANT-SNACK-I-WANT-IT-I-WANT-IT-WAAAAAAAHHHHH!” And I’ve got to figure out dinner with no food in the house and get them all to bed.

I’m not whining because I never deal with this shit. My wife and I split it up pretty evenly. It’s just one of those days and … FUCK AM I WIPED!

So no original content for you today. You got a problem with that? Take it up with my fucking kids. I suggest you speak with my three year old.

But all is not lost, however. I give you, “How To Spot Lip-Synching” or “Philip Kirkorov Is A Big Fucking Pussy”

We all have ground rules in our lives, things that we use as a handy moral compass for our daily activities. That way when we do something horrible like install a wireless webcam in the Victoria’s Secret dressing room, we can say to ourselves, “Well, that wasn’t my best moment, but at least I didn’t beat my kids today!” Then you can post the resulting footage on secretjigglefest.com with a somewhat clear conscious. (I’ll let you know when that site is up, by the way.) But while many of our ground rules may differ, there is one rule that should be iron-clad and applied across the board: If you’re hosting a party and a tranny wants you to pay her $700 to put things in your butt, you should probably pass on that. Continue reading

You see the person pictured down below? This is Vesta Vayne, and she’s an internet friend of mine. An internet friend is someone you meet online, usually on a blog or in a series of comment posts, that you communicate with on a semi-regular basis, forming a bond over common experiences and similar outlook. That is, you do this until you realize that the person you thought you were getting to know is actually a disgusting 60 year old sex offender from Baltimore who has been jerking it to every single one of your emails. That, my friends, is the magic of the internet. Continue reading

I estimate that I spend roughly 200 hours a year either traveling to or from work. That may seem like a lot to some people, while for others that seems like nothing. I grew up in Chicago, and when people in Phoenix complain about traffic I want to punch them in the spleen. Phoenix traffic delays are trivial while Chicago traffic delays are epic, lifelong disasters. For instance, in Chicago you’ll be driving down the highway on your way to work when you’ll notice a very large orange sign that reads, “To serve you better, the Illinois Department of Transportation announces infrastructure improvements to the Dan Ryan expressway. Traffic delays expected from January, 2012 through March, 2921.” And just like that, your life is ruined. What they should really put on the sign is, “We’re tearing the fuck out of this road, you won’t be able to get anywhere in less than a day for the remainder of your life and since this is taxpayer funded, YOU paid for it. BUWAHAHAHAHAHA! What an asshole! Fuck you! Sincerely, IDOT.” Continue reading

Chances are you don’t follow my Twitter feed (over there to the right). Almost no one does, which is really too bad because every time someone follows me, $47,000 gets donated to ScreamyWheelz! a Meals on Wheels charity for crack babies with AIDS. Way to not think about the crack babies with AIDS, you monsters! But if you do follow me on Twitter, you may have noticed today that I posted a link to a story so serious that the entire state of Iowa sat up and took notice: Sex With Animals Can Lead To Penis Cancer. Continue reading

My wife and I recently received a note from our son’s kindergarten teacher stating that after a careful review of his journal, he was being sent to the principal’s office for what I can only assume was a crash course on Nobel Prize acceptance speech etiquette. I mean, I was kind of in a hurry and didn’t take too much time to read the email because mostly those emails are of the “your son spent all of today’s ‘carpet time’ trying to make the other students laugh” variety. And beside being puzzled as to where he’d get that kind of behavior from, that shit gets repetitive and old really quick, so I admit I kind of skimmed the contents. Continue reading

I love this video because it demonstrates a core, basic rule about guys: Guys are pyros. I’ve tried to explain to my wife how our sons, five and three, will grow up fanning the flames of a smoldering mattress, detonating a bottle full of lighter fluid with a roman candle, or (as I once did when I was fifteen) pouring three liters of gas down a sewer and blowing a manhole cover through an inch of cement, 40 feet into the air. (No shit. It shook dishes off of the shelves of the nearest house. Its awesomeness was in direct proportion to the speed with which I fled the area.) My wife says, “Well, we’ll have to keep an eye on them.” Wrong. It’s going to happen. What’s scary is I may be there with them, since I don’t believe I’ve fully outgrown my fascination with fire, as anyone who has asked me to light the grill can attest. Continue reading