And salty.

Though he was the size of a tater,
Mick's dick was a true multi-stater,
The minute he came to town,
All the girls gath'red round,
And his junk arrived ten minutes later.

Killing This Dead Meme Dead

There once was a pirate Somali
Who terrorized Bangkok to Bali
With his one unpatched eye
He still managed to cry
At the last 15 minutes of Wall-E

How to tell these two things apart:

If it's fun, it's Tetris.

If it's not fun, it's tetanus.

Once we've perfected time travel,

statements like "I haven't peed since Milwaukee" will totally lose their impact.

I probably should put a disclaimer on here somewhere.

The finest fellatrix on Earth
Costs every penny she's worth.
Through mouthwork and pinches
She'll add on three inches
(At the expense of two inches in girth).

Another, presumably NSFW.

There once was a hooker from Boston
With a twat a train could get lost in.
To trek lip to lip
Required a steam ship
Took three weeks and was fucking exhaustin'.

Lesser of Two

In line and patiently waitin'
For my civil participatin'
Hoping "less of the same"
Thus more of a shame
When Obama turns out to be Satan.

Fresh Meat

Flipper

Her deluxe vibrator, "Sir Jolts",
Was rated at ten thousand volts.
'Twas metallic, non-porous
and felt like a porpoise
with a cock that shot pink lighting bolts.

In the traditional style:

There once was a burly Sri Lankar,
Who crewed a Pacific oil tanker,
And at each port of call,
He'd impress one and all,
When he used his prick for an anchor.

It's because he's yellow.

Blessed are those who've retired,
In the bullshit they're no longer mired,
"Better that guy than me",
Said without sympathy,
Did I mention my friend just got fired?

Better With a Mop

There once was a goatmaiden, simple but pretty, who came to see the wizard under most distressing circumstances. She had made the four day walk to the castle in a little under seven days -- fine time for a one-footed dwarf -- and, per usual, pleaded for the wizard's assistance.

"Please, wise wizard," she genuflected, "please save our village from the marauding barbarians -- who murder and kidnap and lustfully force their large bodies upon us -- and also from temptation ..."

The wizard replied: "THIS I SHALL DO FOR YOU. FOR I AM THE GREAT GOZOOMBU!", his glowing, 60-foot disembodied head mugging heroically.

"Oh thank you!" pogo'd the goatmaiden, "I knew you would come to our aid!"

The wizard nodded.

"And please, wise wizard," she bowed, "please bring rain to our valley. The earth is but dust, our crops are withering away, and we haven't enough food for our people."

The wizard replied: "NO FEAT IS IMPOSSIBLE. FOR I AM THE GREAT GOZOOMBU!"

"Thank you thank you thank you!" she gushed, "all that has been said of you is true! You are a wise and benevolent wizard, a savior of our people!"

The wizard nodded.

The goatmaiden paused and, blushing, steadied herself for one last request.

"Wise wizard, I hesitate to even ask, but your powers seem boundless ..."

She drew a breath.

"Wise wizard, please find me a prince. My father is old and can no longer care for me, and my mother is beginning to wonder. For all our hardships, all that is missing from my life is the love of a brave and noble man."

The wizard replied: "NO."

" ... no?"

"NO. FOR I AM GARY THE JANITOR AND TOTALLY FUCKING WITH YOU!"

Bullshit Sampson

She asked me why I got into this business.

I told her "I want to make the world a better place. I think that the greatest impact can be had where the money is. With how people spend. With how companies earn."

I told her "because I'm a liar," and she didn't question it.

That's where she held the match.

Delectable, flexible Rose,
Only had nine of her toes,
She lost the last,
To a firecracker blast,
Along with the end of her nose.

clarity or condescension

He spoke at her with his loud, over-articulate voice -- one she presumed he also used with animals and plants, to whom English is not a native language.

_Night of the Zombie Cannibals!_

Wherein problems with the living dead pretty much take care of themselves.

Welcome to Tiki Time. Welcome to Tiki Time.

"Hi, I'm Debbie ... where y'all from?"

Debbie extended her hand ritualistically.

"I'm Stuart, from Honolulu."

"I'm Matthew, from St. Louis."

We shook.

Debbie was a veteran bartendress, somehow hardened into graciousness. Her handshake was a preemptive pact, and regularly committed its recipient to the long term intoxicated servitude of a tavern "regular". Downwind, these regulars took their time to size us up, waiting for our responses before totally committing to their assessments. They appeared to wish us away. Perhaps for their sake, perhaps for ours.

"Well what are y'all doing here anyway?" Debbie asked.

"Just seeing some of the country," Stuart offered, "Tulsa, Austin, Shreveport, Memphis ..."

We ordered our $2 drinks, the specialty of the house.

"I just looove Memphis," Debbie cooed, "me and my husband used to drive up there. We really loved it. But Shreveport will always be my home. I was raised here, you know. We moved down South for a while, then to Monroe. They think their shit don't stink out there in Monroe, but it does. Their shit stinks in Monroe."

Two TVs blared a much-hyped football game. A glitch in the satellite circuit delayed the signal from the first set to the second. The resultant echo doubled the crack of each hit, the blast of each whistle, and the color of each commentary. At the bar's peninsula, a character in a cowboy hat was more concerned with the lustful predilections of the dark-skinned running back who, he surmised, was more distracted than his white counterparts.

"... We moved back to Shreveport and my husband bought this bar," Debbie continued, "but he died ten years ago so now this feller here is my business partner," she said, motioning to a disinterested manlump. "So what'd you all see in town?"

"We just had Herbie K's," I smiled.

Debbie's nodded. "That place is the best. The owner was killed last year. Last year, wasn't it? Somebody tried to hold him up and I guess he got shot and was killed. What was his name? The owner of Herbie K's who got killed. Last year ..." she trailed off as a risky play called her attention back to the screen.

The bar was sparse, the result of just enough decoration to convince patrons that their drink was justifiable, part of a special occasion. Plastic palms dangled from corners, confused. Microphones threatened karaoke. A gaudy red analog clock perched atop the liquor shelf. It read "Welcome to Tiki Time". It had long since stopped ticking.

Debbie turned away from the TV and caught our eyes.

"Hi, I'm Debbie ... where y'all from?"

Debbie extended her hand ritualistically.

"I'm Stuart, from Honolulu."

"I'm Matthew, from St. Louis."

We shook.

Um, yum?

It wasn't the restarting

that pained him so much about a complete system reinstall,
it was the default torture of operating on an interface set to "RETARD BIG".

0 g

We hugged in the weightlessness of space,
where only our own forces pulled us together,
ever closer
until we broke through the membranes of our bodies,
and our souls embraced,
like amoebas in reverse.

Hot Coffee After Hibernation

It was hard to imagine, given the extended stretch of asphalt traveled, that six hours of driving could pass without notice. Previously, the silence between CDs would have announced each hourish block, but it seemed my iPod had yet again made consciousness unnecessary. Still, the stocky fields outside my window confirmed my location within the agrarian sealand of Illinois, if not an errant wormhole somewhere between Michigan and St. Louis (the sort a traveler may enter with less noticeable effect than the conclusion of the Downward Spiral album).

I awoke from the locomotive trance at the very limit of my tanks, one of which warned of its emptiness; the other, the opposite. The tiny illuminated pump triggered a momentarily forgotten fuel paranoia, and for the first time in hours I consciously navigated. (Steering felt labored and unnecessarily involved.) It was not without relief that I finally idled into a grime-coated gas station, certain that every combustive cacophony was actually that last sputterance of propulsive fume.

As my vehicle suckled the enemy of the state, I turned my attention to other social pressures. I cursed my haste. In my eagerness to avoid toting the red plastic icon of roadside shame I had managed to discover a locale of unique disrepair. The hose handle held its requisite stratus of viscous grease, of course (the stuff transferred almost immediately to French fries in transit); the station itself was a wonder of muck. It was a beautiful building, really, probably built in that hopeful postwar time when cars first became an accessible luxury and Eisenhower's pavers assured wide-eyed passage to hotspots like Dallas and Des Moines. It hoisted tentative bits of ornamental indulgence that sidestepped architectural modernism entirely. The bricks were (I guessed) coated in a multi-hued enamel. Their natural variations gave a deliberately patchwork appearance, with no pattern but conscious placement, as though our bricklayer had decided 1956 was the year to embrace his inner artist. The flat tar roof was crowned around its edges with a series of staggered swirls. These undulations peaked at a central summit which coiled upon itself in mirrored spirals, as if cast by a dual-nozzled soft serve concrete dispenser. This ordinarily remarkable extraordinariness was almost totally doused by time, as the building had wound itself in an ever darkening cocoon of soot and other atmospheric smegma. Normally, urban decay -- even to this extent -- held a bit of wabi-sabi charm, but as I considered my practical concerns with relief, the besplotched skunk palace proved an ineptly named and wholly undesirable comfort station.

A geyser of civility and masochism required me to soldier on, toward funk's gaping maw. And since I drew my motivation from the same source that flung me into an unfamiliar dentist's chair -- tooth objecting, hammered by the immediacy of throbbing pain -- I decided to employ a similar method of discomfort management. I had read in a magazine years back about self-induced trances. The author, smithing as though she were the first to introduce the concept, expounded on the virtues of a light trance for dealing with disquieting situations. The sidebar described the process of self-induction as visiting a "happy place".

Mine was an island untouched by dentistry.

It was just before sunset in the South Pacific, and in the warm evening nature began to assert its mastery of gradients. I cast a long shadow as I walked parallel to the water, in that borderland breached by only the most ambitious and frothy waves. I followed a meandering, invisible line of ideal surface density and two dogfighting gulls followed me.

I could regulate my comfort with the slightest deviation toward sea or sand. There was an subtle art to it, I found, absorbing the tiniest of stimuli through the otherwise calloused barrier of my sole. It reminded me of finding that perfect blanket coverage on a brisk autumn night; how an inch more or less of exposed skin modified my core temperature perceptibly. And the act of such focused regulation was itself a Zen exercise. To pay that much attention to the minutia of the physical body had a delightfully counterintuitive result: elevation to an isolated, ethereal plane. I was in a warm, comfortable place, my feet told me, where I was finally free to release the pent up pressures of fear, regret, and self doubt.

I stopped for a moment and pressed my hands palm-down into the surf. The water baptized my wrists with a shock of cleansing, exhilarating refreshment. As I hunkered over the waves, a seaweed-laden overachiever deposited its snotty biomass around my bare foot and ankle. For a moment the greenish batwingy fibers wrapped in lock-step, then tumbled into flight, end over end, flung by my less-than-graceful kick.

The clump slapped against -- then slipped off -- the service station's restroom doorknob, leaving the tarnished brass bulb to glisten with an unidentifiable moisture (pray condensation). I paused. Above the knob was mounted a long-forgotten bathroom cleaning schedule, a relic of once meticulous attention, like so many blogs enthusiastically created and woefully left to decay.

I stopped dating women who were like me

when I realized that I couldn't take care of myself.

Wheel in the Sky

Dear Heavenly Father,

We struggle to understand the mystery that is you. We struggle to avoid temptation. And you've made your instructions clear:

"Thou shalt have no other gods before me."
"Thou shalt not make wrongful use of the name of thy God."
"Thou shalt remember the Sabbath and keep it holy."

So why, Almighty Redeemer, must you close St. Peter's gates when you open the doors to the St. Peters Expo Center for the GODS OF MUD RALLY THIS SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAAAAAAAY!!!!

Is it in you?

"Oh, I didn't know you were using the NuvaRing," she blurted, suddenly remembering her own string of bad experiences with every other contraceptive known to womankind, "did you experience any side effects?"

"Oh, none at all!" June replied without hesitation. "Well ...

"... the thing about the NuvaRing is that you put it up inside yourself. It's a flexible little plastic ring like this big and you leave it up in your business for weeks at a time while it does its thing. You can't really even notice when it's in, which I guess is the point, but I used to get really paranoid that it wasn't up there or I pushed it out while making a poop or something. So I'd poke around a little bit with my finger every now and then to make sure it was there. One time I couldn't find it. Bear in mind that you keep this thing in for like three weeks, so if it wasn't in there I would have been unsafe the whole time. Before I started to freak out -- which, who was I kidding, I was already doing -- I took a deep breath, and tried to hunt for it again. Aggressively. Still nothing. So I ran across the hall to my neighbor, Amy, who thank god was also my best girlfriend and told her the situation. I knew that before I really freaked out -- which, like I said, I was already doing -- I needed to be absolutely sure that it wasn't just tucked up in a corner somewhere. So I looked Amy dead in the eyes and I was like 'you're my best friend, right?' and she said 'yes' and I was like 'you love me and you'd do anything for me, right?' and she much less enthusiastically said 'yes' and I was like 'OK, I need you to check if it's way up there somewhere.' Because you know the angles, right? It's just easier for someone else to get way up there. She understood, too, so I gave her a latex glove from my nursing class and dropped my pants and threw my leg up on the edge of the tub and said 'do it' and Amy did a quick swoop and stood up and looked at me with this beautifully sympathetic face and shook her head.

"So then I freaked out for real and went back to my apartment and started to cry and instinctively called my mom. She listened to the whole story of the ring and how you wear it inside you and can't always feel it so it's tough to know whether it's in or out. She could hear how upset I was and was saying 'it's OK honey' the whole time, even though I knew she was a little disappointed with me. And I told her how I had lost it and then I really lost it and she tried to calm me down and asked if I was absolutely sure it wasn't in there somewhere. I told her I was sure, and that Amy had even helped me check. And ... silence.

"I got a phone call from my father an hour or so later and he told me that my mother was devastated that her daughter was a lesbian, and that she couldn't talk to me, and she was in the process of taking down all of the pictures around the house with me in them. I told him that I was not a lesbian, a fact that didn't seem to matter to him. But this huge shitstorm erupted, and my mom basically disowned me, and the whole time I was the fighting with my father and brother for not standing up for me, but they both said that my mom was acting totally crazy and wouldn't listen to either of them. Only my grandmother, who was and is of course my hero, stood up for me. And not in that sweet little grandmother way of 'dear, now maybe you should just talk to your daughter and give her a chance to explain' but more like 'you're acting crazy! you and your brothers did awful things and I still love you all no matter what!' But it didn't make a difference. Even when Christmas came around months later I was pleading with my father to help me make things right, but he said he couldn't, and so instead of spending Christmas with my family as I had done every year for twenty-six years I spent it with my adoptive family (you know those people who are your friend's parents or whoever and you end up practically becoming part of their family?), which probably saved my life, and I haven't spoken with my mother or father since.

... so I take that back: Yes, I experienced some side effects."

Specials

"I don't know about you, Kyle, but I think this place had WAY better drink specials when Tuesday was '50% Discounted Beer & Drinks' night."

Waders.

"This is NOT a Minnesota conversation! This is a TROUT conversation!"

Also regarding laundry:

It was no misogynistic mystery why gender roles had evolved to protect Hank from laundering. He was clumsy and oafish; a woman's garments were stringy and sheer. Transferring them from washer to dryer had all the potential of juggling honey.

He came to appreciate the subtleties of apartment living

when he came to recognize neighbors by lint.

"'Grandpa's dead!'"

, "just like I wanted to say!"

Don't go to sleep angry.

Chuck won their argument with his usual technique: pretending to think deeply for about twenty seconds until she dozed off.

On at eight:

"Dog Eat Dog" on Channel 55
"Dogfights" on Channel 56
"Dog Whisperer" on Channel 57
"It's Me or the Dog" on Channel 58

Burnt Out

"I think Burning Man has jumped the shark," he said, catching a sad glimpse of his grandmother's psychedelic airbrushed tits.

Professor Schwan's Gastrofantasmapromenautomaton

In small-town USA, a new wind stirs. Signs have appeared all around this simple village; portents of an approaching phenomenon. Wheatpasted on barns and five-and-dimes are announcements of an inbound traveler, one Professor Schwan, and his "AMAZING!" "STUPENDOUS!" "MUST-BE-SEEN-TO-BE-BELIEVED (AND MAYBE NOT EVEN THEN)!!!" mystery: the Gastrofantasmapromenautomaton.

Rumors flow and excitement builds throughout the shire until one day, lumbering down the main thoroughfare, is the Professor himself. He manages to cut a handsome figure in his slightly disheveled, lace-trimmed three piece suit, bow tie, and velvet top hat. He kicks up dirt with a showy canter. Behind him is a massive mechanical beast: an ornate, mysterious trolley like the luxury rail cars of old. Pipes and vents of every description belch odors both pungent and delicious. Brass and woodwork is splayed in the organic swirls of pastry decorations.

As curious onlookers approach, the silver-haired Professor barks his call to one and all. To the residents of this fine hamlet he offers all of the wonders the eyes, nose, and stomach can behold: the Gastrofantasmapromenautomaton! In this horseless locomotive, he waxes, is more than just the kitchen of the future, more than just the finest victuals ever devoured, more than the speed of the space age and the power of the atomic age. At the core of the Gastrofantasmapromenautomaton is the greatest culinary motherbrain ever assembled of circuits and vacuum tubes ...

One by one the townspeople are led aboard the trolley. Inside they bear witness to the Professor's claims: it is a mechanized masterpiece of which Mr. Wonka would be proud. Machines of alien appearance chop and cook and mash and peel and boil and bake foodstuffs of every description. In automated symphony and before their very eyes, metal hands knead dough, roll a crust, assemble cherry filling, and bake a pie to Rockwellian golden-brown. A dozen other down-home staples are similarly and artfully prepared, all at the Professor's theatric pull of oversized levers. With each new meal the onlookers' eyes and stomachs grow. With every forkful, they are further convinced of the Professor's magic.

But one resident remains dubious. Ethel, the unofficial matriarch, has mastered her culinary craft through the toil of her eighty-some years. Her biscuits are known in three counties. Her sweet potato pie is blue ribbon. She naturally finds such automation preposterous, and wears her distaste in a suspicious squint.

The Professor politely accepts the praise of his happily stuffed guests and focuses his attention on his lone unsatisfied customer. To her, he admits that the machine's motherbrain, the Deep Blue of deep fry, is a parlor trick.

"You see, my dear", confides the Professor, "these recipes are the real magic. I have traveled to every corner of this fine land, and visited a great many towns such as yours. In each town, I've met a remarkable woman such as yourself -- proud, skilled, a master of her craft. And each woman, in realizing the twilight of her life, was eager to share with me her greatest accomplishment -- her secret family recipe."

"Now, I knew I hadn't the skill to recreate their delicacies myself, so I used the skills I do have to build the Gastrofantasmapromenautomaton to make them for me. So really, that was Mrs. Kelley's cherry pie you had. And Mrs. Lundgren's pot roast. And what about Mrs. Albert's corn casserole? Delicious, don't you think? And though Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Lundgren and Mrs. Albert are no longer with us, bless their souls, fine people in towns just like yours can still enjoy their master works, for ever and ever. All thanks to their generous hearts and my wondrous machine."

With a twist of his mustache, the Professor leans in to whisper.

"So, my dear Ethel, tell me about this sweet potato pie I've heard so much about?"

Yahweh Phones In the Plagues

• Laundry turns pink.


• IFC French Film Showcase.


• "That bitch" gives your buddy Mike "goddamn crabs".


• Yard particularly squirrelly.


• Bartender down at Minky's won't let you get up to take a piss until you've agreed that, yes, it's possible that a sheep could have ADD.


• Mosquito bite itches in spite of fingernail "X".


• Some asshole on rooftop patio drops cigarette into your mojito.


• Just one locust, except trapped between your bedroom window and screen for like, ever.


• Sunset.


• That sitcom pilot that you thought showed promise? Promptly canceled.

Decisions.

Drunk #1: "What'll it be? Sleep or White Castle Crave Case?"

Drunk #2: "Dude, I don't have anything to do for SEVEN DAYS."

just to clarify

"When I saw my beautiful new home I almost began to cry.

(Tears of joy, of course, not tears of sadness)"

in the making

It was Friday night, and he didn't have any real responsibilities, yet Steve found himself wishing Ben would stick to the schedule. It felt kind of unappreciative, somehow, to fuss over time that was free time; like winning a lifetime supply of cookies and demanding milk. This, of course, was silly: most of Steve's time was free and most of the time he drank beer.

Like Steve, Ben didn't have a job. Unlike Steve, Ben was the Gretzky of the bubble hockey world. After getting trounced in a best-of-eleven-dammit the week previous, Steve had demanded a rematch. Ben had graciously accepted.

"Eight o'clock next Friday, you silly little bitch!"

While there were no clocks at The Cherry Bar, it was surely later than eight o'clock. Steve had already commiserated with two cans of PBR: Ben was at least twenty six minutes late.

Steve felt guilty for caring what time it was, given his copious amounts of it. During the day, he suffocated under the weight of time. He found himself engaging in whatever mindless activity ushered time to pass most quickly, racing toward whichever non-event would next distract him. He relaced his Addidas. He reorganized his CDs. He felt disturbed by the march of minutes and seconds, which blasted him with constant and punctuated recurrence. He promised to himself to not think of units of time for at least the next six hours.

By now the band was setting up, and the guy in the ponytail made that a real and present threat. He wore a leather vest almost indistinguishable from the tan, shaved chest he borrowed from that overcompensating guy in the Bowflex commercial. He professionally ignored the two established women idolizing him from the foot of the stage. They loved it. He nearly cudgeled the skankier one with a monitor. She conceivably orgasmed. But for as much as this mating ritual amused any onlookers, one figured at this pace they'd be two verses into "Gimme Three Steps" by the end of beer four. Steve started taking smaller sips.

The bartender (and single T-shirt owner) offered one of those "need anything?" glances. It came off cold but well practiced. Steve made a gesture he'd seen on a celebrity blackjack show that he thought meant "no thanks" but, thirty seconds later, discovered meant "hit me". This did not have the time-accelerating effect that he for a moment anticipated.

Steve wondered if bubble hockey could be considered a hobby. Two pretty girls twirled away at the machine now. They had managed to seduce a third out of her quarters. They giggled a lot and spun their wingers into diminutive nausea. The trio had already been noisy and lovely when Steve arrived, probably driven to false haste by the feeling of freedom that comes at that Friday happy hour. Steve promised to himself to start referring to it as a "happy event".

The redhead giggled the most. To her, every sloppy slapshot was amusing. She at one point accidentally scored on her own goal, an event which elicited such a cascade of laughter so as to distract a sour regular from his Pride fight. The burly partron threw his fifty pound beard over his shoulder (an effort which would account for his neck), and a dirty look followed. A flick of beer froth splorted onto the hockey bubble. Steve considered wiping it off with his shirt, but quickly remembered the situation of his laundry.

It was a chivalrous thought, at least.

Note to self:

Run screaming.

On Gilmore Girls,

two days after his by-pass surgery, Richard is on the road to recovery, and Rory returns to Yale, where she finds that Richard's economics class is now being taught by an attractive young TA, Tucker Culbertson, who flusters Rory with his charm. While Lorelai tries to distract herself from the issues in her marriage, she and Sookie focus on planning a funeral for one of Michel's beloved dogs. Finally, Christopher returns ready to talk, and he and Lorelai discuss the main problem that has haunted their marriage – Lorelai's feelings for Luke. On Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, after a young girl is found dead in the apartment of a vacationing couple with no children, Stabler and Benson soon learn that there have been a number of high school students having floating parties, going from house to house and getting drunk. Unfortunately, charging any of the teens with murder proves problematic, but the detectives get a break when they learn that one of the teen's mothers had been providing the alcohol as well as sleeping with one of the students. On Beauty and the Geek, one of the women is in tears when she must work the Dewey Decimal System. On Grey's Anatomy, Callie and George make a big decision. A successor to Chief Webber is named. A man named Jeff Pope arrives. He is looking for his wife and newborn child. Cristina and Burke's wedding day has arrived and so have the interns first-year exam results.

... and lots of other things I learned because of her period.

Abraham Lincoln Has Been Drinking Tequila

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Woooooo!"

Broadcasting "Live w/ Regis & Kelly" in the assembly room

, wherein the system of trial-by-jury proves its reliability by making its participants, in the moments before employ, even more stupid.

"Is that the Arch?"

, she asked, pointing to the 630 foot arch.

Broken HTML Incites Seven Million One-Second Panic Attacks:

"What's the opposite of Chinese?"

Confounding, spontaneous, random query posed by my presumably lucid grandmother.

a recovering

if n_s < n_p then j

where s = intimate acts shared per month
and p = her previous sexual partners
and j = my jealousy

It's probably more nutritious.

Energetic child at Target: " ... and here's what our dogs eat!"

Exhausted father: "No, no ... the dogs eat that dog food right there."

Child: "No, daddy, they eat balls of kitty litter!"

"Why clean your teeth?"

(snapped by abe > noah > Ben Daniels during a recent trip to China.)

"We're gonna make it to the ice cream store!"

, said one struggling jogger to the other.

"Raccoons are eating my ass."

Excuse offered by my smarmy former landlord for grossly delinquent return of security deposit.

Greatest Hoaxers

In what continues to distract from meritorious scientific argument regarding the theory of anthropogenic global warming, experts from both sides of the debate are regularly outed as shills for biased industrial or political concerns. In 2006, IPCC panelists intent on downplaying the impact of global warming were connected to monies from fossil fuel companies. Now, two scientists predicting the gravest consequences of our warming world have likewise been found of dubious predilection.