Presenting the astrological world's first Ganjascope, a timeless foretelling that reveals your past, present, and future at once. We take the logical out of astrological
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Join the Pug Bus in its crusade to have December 30 declared National Penultimate Day. Our goal is to rescue penultimate from the puss-warted clutches of abusers of the language. What's more, we can give that snooty "Auld Lang Syne" business a well-deserved kick in the shorts. For the ultimate—and the penultimate—news about our glorious campaign, click here.
The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a powdery-smelling, dried-up, old-biddy Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive.
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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.
Some photos cannot be shopped. They are perfect just the way god made them. Such perfection does not happen by accident, and wise, indeed, is the man who says "you can't photoshop this.""
The Fuck It List
Ten Things You Should Fllip the Bird to Before You Die
3. Seat Belts
4. FOX News
5. Paying for Music and Movies
6. Your Bucket List
7. Pissing Indoors
9. Stupid-ass Old Fart Hats
10. Going to Bed Early
Trigger warning! The content of this website may cause raging panic attacks in hypersensitive snowflakes who suffer from androphobia, galactophobia, emetophobia, corprophobia, claustrophobia, fear of taints, and other psycho-sexual maladies too numerous to mention.
The Kids Are All Right Aug 11, 2019 - 8:51
I have nothing against children. Indeed, I think qualified persons should own a few. Children are often cute, sometimes amusing, and if we're lucky, they grow into human beings instead of liberals. What does fry my old-straight-white-dude ass, however, is the effect that kids have on the people who create them--or who go out and adopt a trendy baby of color, which is, I suspect, a way for some white folk to signal they're not entirely comfortable with being white.
Witness my former next-door neighbor, who adopted a child of color several years ago. Witness also the high-pitched wail I heard coming from this Radiohead-loving neighbor's Facebook page following the Historic Election of 2016.
"How will I look my child in the eye when he grows up, and explain this election to him?" my neighbor wailed, rending his (own) Hillary 2016 pajamas for effect. "I am so beyond ashamed of my country right now."
Holy fucking shit, Skippy! You're were in danger of coming off like a weak-ass, sorry excuse for a man there: the sort that Bill Maher had in mind when he said too many liberal men sound as if they've given their balls to their wives to keep in their purses. (You also sounded like, and it pains me to write this, old sport, the kind of diversity-mongering father who would take his kid to a story-telling session hosted by a drag queen.)
Gimme me a Donald Trump fucking break, will ya?
Here's what you do, daddy dearest, in anticipation of that tragic and fateful day when your young man asks why everybody still hates on that Blonde Man who used to be president. First, grow a pair, or reclaim the pair that's been jangling around in your wife's purse these last few years. Then tell little Ababajoni (not his non-Christian name) that we can't always get what we want; the early bird doesn't always get the worm; and the race isn't always to the swiftest or to the dyke who got the most popular votes. (And on the off chance that you understand the difference yourself, explain that we live in a constitutional republic, not a goddamn democracy.)
Whatever you do, pops, don't feed the poor kid the same non-GMO gruel you must have gargled with somewhere along the line. Don't tell him that Barry-H was undone by white people who didn't like him because he's half black. Don't give him trigger warnings before you read him bedtime stories. And if he ever comes to you and tells you that he feels like a woman trapped in a man's body, kick his ass nine ways to Sunday and send him to his room.
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The Pug Bus Blogs On
Although he no longer self-identifies with the basket of deplorables, our editor in briefs is still considered a basket case—and deplorable—in many precincts. He is determined to outlive that twat Mick Jagger, and he believes, to paraphrase Phish, "You've got one life, blog on!"