Kool-Aid probably felt like a total prick when he busted through that hut wall in Jonestown.

You know how kids whose parents smoke rarely grow up to become smokers?

Statistically speaking, my kids will probably never say "fuck."

If you were actually thinking outside of the box, you'd stop using that goddamn phrase.

Upon divorce, you should get a platypus, Richard Simmons workout DVD, John Tesh CD and a note that says: "It’ll get even weirder than this.”

As I sit at this softball practice full of ten-year-olds, all I can think is: Michael Jackson would want to be here so much more than me.

Eating microwaved corn dogs while watching the Food Network. Later I'll make love to Kathy Bates at the Playboy Mansion.

I will only poke one of my friends on Facebook upon hearing of their death. And then just to make sure they're not playing possum.

Me: "Do I hear Radiohead?"
Kid One: "Yup."
Me: "What are you watching?"
Kid One: "Twilight."
Me: "..."
Kid One: "Dad, why are you crying?"

According to the New York Times, @guykawasaki is occasionally manned by two people who are not Guy Kawasaki.

That's right. Ghostdouches.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting me to give a shit.

In an apartment for first time in years. What do I yell at pesky neighbor kids when I shake my fist? "Get off our communal landscaping sod"?

It's midnight. Fresh bag of blue tortillas. Bowl of homemade queso. The iPod just shuffled "Let's Get It On."

There are no coincidences.

Having avoided her for at least a year, it appears that sometime during my absence Rachel Ray prepared and ate another Rachel Ray.

FUTURE PARENTS: Listen to people who have kids. Notice how they never mention the thrill of violin recitals? There's a reason for that.

Twelve-year-old boys would pay $4.99 at Spencer's Gifts for a small aerosol can of how my dogs smell.

Pro Tip: When emailing a potential employer about the shitty economy's negative affect on your job status, delete "Sent from my iPhone."

Woman in fur coat. On cell phone. In snowy median. Standing beside damaged Mercedes CLS. Vanity plate: DSRV IT.

Oh. Fuck. Yes.

Actually, I don't get strip clubs. If I wanted to touch silicon and leather that I wasn't taking home, I'd pay a cover to the BMW showroom.

Journalists are now quoting MySpace pages.

Edward R. Murrow just rolled over in his grave to say: "Good night. Good luck. And fuck you."

Most Violent Cities: Detroit, Memphis, Miami. With Motown and Stax, I don't get the anger. But Gloria Estefan? I'd cut a motherfucker, too.