Dr. Mike has his sources – he’s the Huggy Bear of the UNC criminology department!

That’s comedy gold, Jerry! Gold!!!

Dr. Mike uses the “tough hate” technique of teaching punk kids who fake sneeze on people a thing or two by writing bitchy anecdotes about ’em that they’ll never read. That’s the kinda maniless they ought bottle… Oh wait they do, it’s called “Bombay Sapphire”. Or maybe Leinie’s Berry Weiss…

That’s the kinda maniless they ought [to] bottle…

‘Round these parts, they call that stuff “PBR.”

Mojitos, mo’ problems.

As my neighbor’s two grandchildren were standing in the driveway – while gyrating their hips like a couple of prostitutes – I noticed they were both wearing cutoff “Daisy Dukeâ€? style short and halter top
=========
“Which immediately made me think about child molestation.”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about how exposed those girls were to danger.”
“I thought about it so hard I had to check out a website about child molestation.”
+++++++++++++++++++++

A slightly shorter version of his own words.

“It’s like when some guy called me an idiot, I said ‘It takes one to know one!'”

Some people never grow out of high school, but Dr. Mike never grew out of 5th grade. On the other thread, some were speculating if Dr. Mike was a pathological liar; all I can say is that if he is, he’s the most pathetic excuse for one I’ve ever seen. I mean, if you are making up stories about giving some guy the wrong address to make your life seem more exciting, you must have the lamest life in the world.

“And here’s where the little lie comes into play. Rather than giving the man my real home address, I gave him the address of a crack house I helped bust…”

Ahh, visions of Paul Reuben’s character in Reno 911!.

Giving the wrong address to the guy who wanted to beat him up probably occured to him days later, and he *wishes* he’d done that.

So Dr. Mike’s advice to Israel is to have them tell Hezbollah that they live in Tehran?

That’s the kinda maniless they ought bottle… Oh wait they do, it’s called “Bombay Sapphire�.

Please don’t make me think of Dr. Mike every time I drink a martini. That’s really not fair.

You know, that story about sending the guy from New York to a crack house… Is he insane, or is this some covert operation put on by a daring, suicidal liberal? Because there’s no way that’s a true story. Not even partially true. Well, maybe the part about getting an angry email. I mean, he even comes off cowardly in how he handled it. It’s just so…

Gah, where’s that martini?

“Please don’t make me think of Dr. Mike every time I drink a martini. That’s really not fair.”

Mary, it’s too late. Once you get past his choice of a title for that flaming pile of “column” (“Martin Luther Queen Jr.”??!!?? I mean HOW do you even think that’s remotely cool?), part of you has already died. You’ve steeped your big toe into that sordid universe of paranoia, snap judgements, dumb jock humor, sexual confusion and Lolita fetish that is Dr. Mike’s icky, sticky id.

Booze. It’s not just for breakfast anymore.