Damn, Little House on the Prairie went to some real dark places…mime rape, women tossing babies out of burning windows, Albert's heroin addiction. That shit would never get past the censors these days.

A bitter ex just sent me a gloating text message about this (along the lines of, "Aw, poor Lou Reed! Why don't you play his song again and think about all the things you did to me you CHEATING LYING ASSHOLE!), as our go-to jukebox song was always "Vicious". I can't help but think that this would make Reed smile.

That's like saying you got burned out on The Who (or, if I may shift down a gear or two for slower readers, The Beatles) back when they were producing LPs— one has nothing to do with the other, and the argument makes no sense. And being "into" those awful albums from Vai & Satriani just kills any respect I had left…

No accounting for taste I suppose, but I do appreciate you taking the trouble to try to rationalize your opinions. There is no shame in enjoying "Hungry Like The Wolf" without irony, in spite of what the PBR-drinking guys with the 1870's-era beards might tell you. It's a tight pop song with a killer hook. The fact…

(Rips shirt off, grabs pool cue) Let's go Tek! Think you're smart, huh college boy? Let's see how smart you are now!

I'd say I want to be reincarnated as a bicycle seat, but I already say it so often that the words have lost all meaning.

Another shitty (of sorts) way to go? Cholera. Look up the term "Rice Water" and pray you never experience it.

A group of us did a fantastic rendition of TLC's "Waterfalls". It was made even more fantastic by me drunkenly shouting "OK, you're black, DO THE RAP PART!" then shoving the microphone at our African-American friend. Good sport about that, she was.

She puts the "Butt" in Benjamin Button.

Call it what you want, I choose to call it: "Boogidah-boogidah-boogidah-boogidah…BOOGIDAH-boogidah-boogida-boogidah".

Actually, the thing that terrifies me the most is the thought of vomiting up Kraken Black Spiced Rum. The thought of that sickeningly-sweet black goo mixed with Coke & stomach acids is far more terrifying than any zombie.

I'd say it was yet another rape of a fond childhood memory by studio thinktanks bereft of fresh ideas, but being huddled in front of the TV at 6AM Sunday morning trying to drown out the sound of my dad throwing up a case of Budweiser is not a fond childhood memory. That goes for you too, Tennessee Tuxedo.

I understand. The picture brings to mind those "click-clack-click-clack" things that people have on their office desks. I hesitate to call them the "swinging balls" in this context.

I was called for jury duty one time, and out of boredom, I took a stack of the satisfaction surveys they offered regarding my experience while on jury duty, and filled them out using my best Ignatius J. Reilly voice: "The personal hygiene of the personnel in this courthouse is nothing short of repulsive. The bailiffs…

Surveys and performance reviews (PR) are two of the biggest jokes played on the labor force. Ironically, they're even bigger jokes on management. Managers (at least, those who want to get ahead) will give even a grossly underperforming employee at least a few "Exceeds Expectations" on their PR. Otherwise, top…

As Elegant Victorian Lady proves, you can't improve on perfection. It'd be like me trying to write like a Golden Agouti Gerbil: "Golden Agouti Gerbils are cool because they eat bugs & stuff. If you ever have a pet Golden Agouti Gerbil, make sure to clean its cage regularly, and give it plenty of stuff to chew on".

There is some genuineness to Slayer's lyrics, especially compared with the bands that REALLY made me laugh back then, like SOD or Bailoff-era Exodus: "Get in our way, we're going to take your life! Kick in your face, and rape & murder your wife!" That man was a poet.

Morrissey: The pioneer of the Snooki Pouf.

Good scene, but I loved the part in The Grudge where the chick is haunted by the ghosts her entire way home from work, then dives under the covers of her nice safe bed to hide, and the ghost woman comes out of the bed to grab her. (And yeah, I saw the Japanese version first, but I liked the American version better. …

The Last American Virgin made me terrified of participating in HS gym class, what with the homoerotic penis-measuring contests in the locker room. Jerry Sanduski might have very well been an anonymous financier of that film.