It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Lists of Things

A partial list of things your ungrateful friend might want.

As I was walking home from the gym this afternoon, a pair of woman walking just ahead was having an animated, angry conversation. Quoth woman-on-the-left:

“I got her the fucking golf balls; I don’t know what else she wants.”

Which led me to wonder: what more does she want? Some ideas:

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., To Hell In a Handbasket

Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees, possibly because your giant racist head is blocking the view of the forest.

Americans, demand better of your media.

Here is an actual thing that an actual person said on television today, in reference to the Charlie Hebdo attack:

Bream wondered how police would be able to identify “bad guys” if they had ski masks and couldn’t “even know what color,” what “the tone of their skin was?”

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Jesus H. Christ

Western religion, as explained by my dog.

(Please note that the dog is significantly cuter than he is smart. Although he cannot actually read, write, or speak, we believe he is Jewish. Yes, we anthropomorphize the dog to a problematic degree. We are in our mid-late thirties and childless. Shut up.)

Translated from the Dog by my husband.

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Eats

The holidays are upon us, and that means it’s time to drink Trinidad Especials with abandon. They’re an easy to make, festive drink that taste like liquified Santa, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll start drinking them, too.

(Also on the menu: the delicious but decidedly less festive sounding Maccabee Fizz. Gotta respect the tribe, yo.)

The Spirit of Christmas

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Stuck in My Craw!

If sentient bullets have gone rogue, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Welcome to a new intermittent King of States! series, “Things That Are Stuck in My Craw.”*

First, the Setup!
A cop pulls the trigger of his gun. The bullet that exits hits a 12-year-old boy, who later dies of his injuries. A police report helpfully explains that “bullets were fired.”

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Effed-Up Shit, To Hell In a Handbasket, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

“We have to love each other. You hear me? It’s up to us.”

My friend-who-I don’t-keep-in-touch-with-as-much-as-I-should Charmaine Chua posted this story on Facebook earlier today. I read it, threw up in my mouth a little, read it again, and threw up a little more.

I asked her if I could share it. At the risk of causing you to throw up in your mouth as well, here it is.

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Building teh Interwebz

Blogs are Dead; Long Live the Blogs.

Lately, I feel like I’ve read a lot of tweets and, ironically, blog posts, about how blogging is dead. Like newspapers, I suppose; we all know how hard it is to find one of those now. Although I’ll gladly take a blog or a copy of the Sunday New York Times over a future where plutocrat robot overlords beam 140-word communications directly into my brain from the wifi-enabled microchip that’s implanted in my wrist. (I assume that or the Sunday Times are the only two options, yes?)

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