Dissociate Fugue

(Note: This is a little something from the archives. I am frightfully busy at the moment, but I hate to let this blog hang. Instead I will throw out some old, yet still fantastically hilarious material. Enjoy, rinse, repeat!) As I jumped in the car for a late night run for baby formula and bourbon, I flipped on the radio to find that it was on my wife's favorite station. The DJ greeted me with "here's the latest from Toby Keith called 'Get My Drink On'". Wow, that man is a modern day Mark Twain. I therefore have compiled a list of song titles I fully expect to be included on his next release. 1. Cousin' Fuckin' 2. Blinded By Your Love (And Moonshine) 3. Let's Pretend You Said Yes 4. Mamma Got Her GED 5. I Eat Squirrel! 6. I'm So American I Shit Eagles 7. Do You Still Have My Boot In Your Ass? (I Need It Back) 8. Drivin' My Truck (All Fucked Up) 9. I'm So Country That I'm Borderline Retarded. Apparently he is also starting a c...

Guest Blog by Phil “Cage Fighter” Whiley (Since I have not been able to keep the strenuous pace of writing something every once in a while, I have passed off the blog duties to one of my casual acquaintances, at least until the penicillin does its job. It is kind of bittersweet, like the time you pimped out your sister to that Amish family. They sure can bake!) I really gotta tell ya, it has been a while since I set a hobo on fire. I mean, with gas prices at what they are, it is almost cheaper to try to find one already doused in some flammable liquid. Nope, I’m a saving that up for a special occasion. Really, once you get them aflame, whatever they have been drowning their miserable little lives in keeps them burning for about an hour or two. Sometimes I’ll throw in a kitten, but just because I like the smell. That’s not really what I wanted to write about here, but last weekend just got me thinking about it. I really wanted to talk about something that is near to my heart righ...

As part of the plea bargain, this letter is to serve as a heartfelt apology to anyone who may have been offended by my conduct during one fateful day this past week. There are several incidents that I would like to touch on in this letter, in no particular order. For those of you who were present or who have children who attend the Laughing Kangaroo Day-Care, I hope you understand that my actions on September 22nd were meant to be seen as entertaining and fun, not horrific and "an affront to God" as it has so been called. First of all, my song about the paraplegic hooker was meant to be seen as a parable which dealt with the challenges we all face as human beings and, more specifically, as pimps of paraplegic hookers. I fully intended this to be a learning experience for the kids and, in hindsight, the choreography was poorly thought out and lacked reverence to the topic. It was also my understanding that children enjoyed sing-alongs and that asking them to "stay on the ...

I am more of a man than I once was… I admit that I was a testosterone filled monkey man before but now I have the wisdom of the ages to add to my repertoire. Why? I have shopped at Crate & Barrel. It's true. I know that some of you are jealous, others curious, still others…incontinent, but there is a certain glow that attaches itself to your aura the minute you walk into that store. If it isn't something to be bragged about, I don't know what is (and it is possible that I truly don't know what is.) In all honesty, the only reason to go there, for me, is because it makes my wife so ridiculously happy. Home furnishings and storage solutions are her crack. Sometimes, to get her in the mood, I scatter copies of the latest Container Store flyers around like so much obvious porn. Thanks to my wife's organizational fetish, I can convince her to purchase most things simply by making some correlation with storage. See this ridiculously priced writing desk? You can...

There comes a time in every man's life when he realizes his own mortality. There also comes a time, almost in the same exact instance of the former, that a man has some sort of nonsensical nostalgia for a cherished item or brand from his childhood. This happened to me recently. "Jim" I said to myself, because I know myself pretty well, I dispense with formalities."Jim" I say again…twice actually, "you are starting to get to the age where you not a young kid anymore". "Hey everybody, look at the old senile guy talking to himself" I hear from across the street. I should go back inside. At that same moment of realization it dawned on me; I needed some Fruit Stripe gum. For the record, no one actually needs Fruit Stripe gum, unless you are racked with some serious affliction which requires that you consume a stick of chewing gum with a mean time flavor duration of three nanoseconds every two minutes until the entire pack is gone. It is the polar ...