I've moved!

You can find my new blog (same great flavor, snazzy new layout) at www.dirtyhooker.org. It's a work in progress.

BE AFRAID! -- no, not really

At a friend's house the other day, I learned that children in a school in New Jersey aren't allowed to carry backpacks from class to class anymore, presumably because they're hauling weapons of mass destruction to history class. I know I would.

When I was in high school, I had a bag that could hold about 4,000 pounds of crap. I carried all my morning books in that bag so I wouldn't have to trudge back and forth to my locker. I could fit small freshmen in that bag.

Maybe that's why schools started outlawing backpacks. Good job, me.

What the hell are people so afraid of, and why do they create crap rules that don't keep us any safer?

Cracked explores the problem with its usual brand of ferocious investigative journalism. I always suspected that Amber Alerts and the sex-offender registry were worthless, at best.

Diddling kids sucks, but if it's going to happen, odds are it's going to be creepy Uncle Todd, who REALLY likes giving horsey rides, rather than that dorky loner three blocks down who got nailed once for public urination.

Hell, if anyone had seen me peeing in Mom's backyard, I could be a sex offender now.

Gravity rules

You know what's sad? A little boy falling out of a helium balloon and going splat against the Colorado landscape. You know what's not sad? A helium balloon taking off by itself while a little boy hides in an attic.

Move along, people! There's nothing to see here!

I'm a cold-hearted bastard, though. When Devon told me there was a boy trapped in a balloon and they didn't know how to get him down, my response was, "Pop it."

I was sure I had a maternal instinct laying around here somewhere.

I'm going to be rich!

And by rich, I mean breathtakingly poor.

Today, I discovered that the ads on my site have earned me 0.06 cents.

Whoever you pity clickers are, thank you. All I ask is that when I'm a hobo, please don't let Devon kill me.

Foul ball

My sister and I took Dad to the urologist today for a blood test to see how well his cancer meds are working, and I discovered the rich fantasy life my Dad has. He told his doctor all about the parties with girls, and how he drinks beer all day when he's not eating cake.

The dude does eat a ton of cake, but I'm pretty sure the rest was bullshit.

Dad may need to get shots that will chemically castrate him. Our conversation, for your entertainment:

Dad: Am I getting a flu shot?
Me: No, Dad, a shot in the balls.
Dad: What?
Me: Oh, come on, it's been ages since anyone's touched your balls.

Yeah, I went there.

Crafts for size queens

I don't normally plug products, but this is So. Fucking. Awesome that I had to give it a shout-out.

I mean, I wouldn't buy one, because I don't live in a dorm, but this makes me wish I did so I could decorate my room with giant condom wrappers. But then, if I did live in a dorm, I probably wouldn't have 50 bucks to spend on a pillow. For 50 bucks, this pillow would have to make me pizza and proofread my papers and rub my feet. And the pizza would have to have mushrooms.

I am a sensitive asshole

I was really stoked about the 48 roles of toilet paper in my closet that I bought off of Amazon. Their Subscribe and Save system lets me have ridiculous amounts of toilet paper delivered to my apartment every six months, no shipping costs. I even used a gift certificate, so I spent $17 on 48 rolls of toilet paper.

When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about becoming an astronaut, but this was way cooler than the promise of space flight.

Until Devon seriously harshed on my wow. Seems it wasn't enough to get the 2-ply: He forgot to mention that he wanted quilted toilet paper, because he's a sensitive asshole, too. So our conversation went something like this:

Devon: Next time, can you get the quilted kind? It's way cooler than this lame-ass excuse for toilet paper you painstakingly researched and blew a gift certificate on.
Me: But it's recyclable. It's good for the environment.
Devon: I want the cushy kind or I will make heads roll.
Me: Think of your children! And your children's children!
Devon: Cushy! Cushy!
Me: Why do you hate children?

OK, so maybe that's an exaggeration. But he does want the quilted stuff, so now I have 48 rolls of toilet paper only I can use. Maybe I'll TP a neighbor's house this Halloween.