I assume the shirt also excludes the tree and the goddamn raccoon, right? No? I see. That makes sense — the cooties risk is much lower with a tree.
This is an actual email I had to send to my gym. I don’t want to be driven back into the grasping arms of New York Sports Club or, god forbid, Crunch, but I will if it means I get to lift weights without having to stare at porn.
I travel a lot. I get stared at a lot because I am tall, and, oh yeah, fat. I’ve been stared at in a variety of foreign countries on several different continents.
Once, in Vietnam, I attracted an entire class of high school students who lined up to have their photos taken with me one at a time.
We all know, by now, that you should never read the comments.
Apparently, we can’t read the internet at all anymore, because this is an actual, non-satire, not-in-the-comments thing I just read. (Warning: will probably cause instant head explosion):
I was in a North Carolina Rite-Aid yesterday, purchasing some products of a womanly nature. While walking down an aisle, I saw this.
Luckily, I wasn’t drinking anything at the time, or I would have done a spit-take all over the shelves and Rite-Aid probably would have made me buy the product. Although I suppose I could have brought it home and set it on fire to keep anyone else from using it.
I was recently giving a presentation to colleagues, during which I noted that one of my dogs once stole a piece of fried chicken from a sleeping homeless man.
At the time, we had a long talk with him about homelessness and poverty, and how many people are a single paycheck or medical emergency away from sleeping on a park bench and having their fried chicken stolen by a dog who eats food made of humanely-raised, Montessori-educated lambs twice a day. He spent several seconds reflecting on what he’d done before wandering off to urinate on a prize-winning rose bush.
My craw is unusually full this week. Do they make craw extenders?
I bet SkyMall sells them. Hand-hammered copper or prismatic titanium; your choice, only $119.99! Never suffer the discomfort of a bloated craw again!
I just found out that Richie Sambora is no longer in Bon Jovi.
(I know, it happened several days ago. I’m not good at keeping up.)
I guess this it what it’s like to feel your childhood shrivel up and die.
If I find out that Little Steven had a fall-out with Bruce, I’m moving to Canada.
Hi there! I hope you got home safely last night. By which I mean, “I hope someone sidled up to you as you walked down the street, high on friendship and Thai food, then grabbed your genitalia, followed you down the street, and lurked outside your building.” This glorious nightcap to an otherwise lovely day shouldn’t be available only to women, am I right? Let’s spread the love!
Actually, I don’t hope that at all, because unlike you, I’m not an asshole.
I could write a post about the nonsense in Texas, but Amy already wrote this one. Why re-invent the wheel? You should go read it.
Originally posted on The Oeditrix:
This morning I woke up after a surreal night with a lot on my mind. One phrase in particular was ringing in my ears: “Don’t be naive, Amy.”
Back when I quit writing for CultureMap Austin over a nasty, misogynist editorial masquerading as a news story by the Dallas staff, the business manager (then–he’s since been fired) called me up on the phone to “discuss” my decision.
What he really wanted was to cajole or shame me into reversing my position–if not publicly, at least in a private phone call. He talked in circles, but having survived grad school, I am not easily confused even by smart people talking in circles, much less idiots. While some of the details of the call have become fuzzy in my mind, one stands out. After he had failed to make his arguments look…
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