Two raver cats, post medication, post surgery.
I want you young children to look at this. When I was a young lad in short pants, this is what a toy store looked like. No electronics, no video games, no DVD’s, CD’s, or Blu-Ray discs. It was dolls, board games, and homeless guys dressed as Santa ready to molest your ass the very second mom and dad took their eyes off of you.
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 don’t know about you, but I’m just an ordinary guy. I don’t much cotton to weirdness and shenanigans. So when it comes time for me to relax, I just kick back, have a beer or two, and pelvic-thrust a skateboard across a stage of stone-cold lunatics.
In Phoenix, you spend a huge chunk of the year wearing as little clothing as possible because it’s a mind-scorching 116 degrees out. If this sounds like a benefit to you, than you haven’t seen what raging obesity looks like in hot pants. Not a pretty sight. But everyone pretty much gets a pass because your wardrobe is limited to shorts, t-shirts, and (if you’ve been hitting the sauce) roller-disco outfits. Continue reading
We called the police on a neighbor’s 16 year old kid this morning because he apparently decided that 9:00 AM on a Sunday is a wonderful time to load up on angel dust. Seriously, the dude was shirtless in the driveway (because that’s how you get the police to come. Ever seen Cops?) barking like a fucking dog and performing a move I can only describe as “hyper-clapping”. He also looked like he was shitting on the side of a truck at one point. 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
One of the benefits of living in Arizona is this otherworldly yahoo mentality that rears its head from time to time. The fact that the yahoo mentality is often mine is beside the point. What can I say, sometimes going into the desert to fire off a seven foot potato cannon while drinking beer is just what the doctor ordered, assuming that doctor is drunk and huffing ether of course. But a drunk doctor huffing ether would barely crack the weirdness meter down here, not with kids doing beer bongs with their assholes. Continue reading
For those of you who follow this blog and have somehow managed to avoid forcible incarceration in a room with rubber walls, it will come as no surprise to you that I am asking bands to make me sandwiches. That’s normal and expected behavior for me, and unless I am subject to forcible incarceration myself it will probably continue. One day I’m petitioning Congress to declare February 16th National Avocado In Your Pants Day, and the next day I’m asking all blind people to wear sombreros. That’s just how it goes. Sunrise, sunset. Continue reading
Hello, I’d like a moment of your time to discuss your job performance if that’s possible. I know, I know, it must seem that everyone wants to discuss your job performance sometimes. But that’s kind of why I want to discuss it with you. I understand that you’re working a job that you’re not all that crazy about, and you’re only doing it because you knocked up your ex-girlfriend and the judge said that you have to give her money or he’ll put you in jail so you can learn what it’s like to be the mommy for a change. I get that. But if you ever want to improve your situation in life, you need to hear this: A brain damaged chimpanzee on mescaline would do a better job than you’re doing right now, even if I were to smash its kneecaps with a sledge hammer. You suck donkey balls, dude. Continue reading