Who gives a shit about National Bubble Bath Day? We surely don't. National Take Your Grand Kid Out to Lunch Day? Fuck that, and your grand kid, too. For the really fun days, the ones that nobody else has the imagination to celebrate, visit . . . The Book of Daze℠.
Your Daily Ganjascope
A half-century's worth of smoking pot has led us to conclude that horoscopes are more fun and more accurate when you're stoned...and they're even better when the person who wrote them was stoned, too. If you're looking to turn over a new leaf, visit Ganjascopes
The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a 250-pound lesbian Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive or if you dare misuse penultimate. Visit The Grammar Prick.
An Open Letter to the Rolling Stones Sep 10, 2011 - 3:36
Dear Mick, Keith, Charlie, and the New Guy,
I have learned recently that you geezers might be touring next year. Please don't. In the name of all that's wrinkled, wizened, and way past its prime—namely you sorry git—take a minute to stop and think about what you're doing. You look like shite; you sound like shite. Indeed, I don't think Brian Jones looks any worse than you wankers do these days.
You'll appear a right bunch of twats if you proceed with this sad, ego-driven scheme. To be honest you've looked like a right bunch of twats for the last two decades at least. You haven't really been the same since Mick Taylor left the band. He was not only the best-looking member of the group but also your best player, and you go and replace him with a worm who has gotten further on less talent than any "musician" save Ringo Starr.
The first time I saw you guys perform was in the fall of 1969 at the Olympia theater in Detroit. In those days a person could drive by a venue, see a sign proclaiming "Rolling Stones Tonight," and get a decent ticket. Those were also the days when you guys were considered dangerous, a quality that no rock band should lack. You were the guys who pissed on petrol station walls, got busted for drugs, fucked each other's girlfriends, made a film called Cocksucker Blues, and struck fear and terror into the hearts of parents.
Nowadays parents, most of whom clock in at 15 stone or better, take their kids (and even their fucking grandkids) to see you. That must be mortifying. Once you prowled the stage, commanding an ocean of ripe young breasts that were yours for the asking. Now you look out over—if you can bear to look—a bunch a Lane Bryant types whose chins are where their tits used to be and whose tits reach their navels. I don't envy you that sight. Oh sure, many of those walking heaps of cellulite might still be yours for the asking, but not even you sorry lot of sheep shaggers would ask. Would you?
After that fine night in Detroit, I saw you guys in 1972, 1975, 1981, 1989, and once or twice in the '90s. That's when I snuffed out my one-hitter. The crowds kept getting frumpier; you guys kept getting frumpier; and then the inevitable occurred: you morphed into a Rolling Stones tribute band—and not a very good one at that. Only your most delusional fans, like your butt boy, Jann Wenner, could get it up for the kazillionth rendition of "Satisfaction."
So do yourselves a favor. Stay the fuck home. It can't be any fun lugging those hyperbaric chambers and defibrillators around the world. Jesus! Your carbon footprint must be the size of fucking Missouri. The Earth will thank you; I'll certainly thank you. Besides, as you once sang— when you could still touch your toes without popping a hemorrhoid—"Who wants yesterday's papers?"
Our editor in briefs holds forth on why he doesn't want to be called a white person; the evil that is Mick Jagger; and more!"
West Chester, PA, is home to a public-embarrassment Jackass has-been; a virtue-signalling, marching-band ex-normal school; and the goddamn QVC shopping headquarters. That should be good for a mean-spirited, condescending local news story from time to time.
The Pug Bus Quiz Challenge
No rhetorical questions allowed. No penalties for guessing wrong. Find out just how much you do know about Schrödinger’s cat and other neat shit."
Postcards the Book
The book that inspired a website was written by someone who was actually raised by pugs. Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.