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You can’t go back in time to kill Hitler, but you can go back to start your watercolor hobby earlier so you’d be at a more intermediate level now.
Now, I should say that I don’t speak Spanish, but I do speak un poquito Spanish. Is that bueno with everyone?
Every time I’ve been to a dinner party with our president, he sits next to my problematic uncle, and they talk practically in unison.
When I go to work people assume, just because I drive an ice cream truck, that I must really love ice cream, or that I sell ice cream.
These two American staples have a lot in common: trials, tribulation, love, even amputation. How many will you get right?
My music isn't something you stomach for the sake of increased brain function. Save that for the cod liver oil.
The farmer at the pumpkin patch is threatening to stop selling me any more pumpkins because he thinks what I’m doing is “fucked up.”
A slew of multiple-choice questions that are, at best, only tangentially related to your actual performance or knowledge in a professional capacity.
Is it so terrible that I want transparency? And the permanent ability to login to his Twitter whenever I'm feeling a little fucking insane?
By the time the bus came, I'd assigned everyone in line a "Lost" archetype; I was Kate because I was sexy and had a backpack.
Climbing out of my grave, I savor the autumn air before dusting off my outfit: an oversized cardigan, plaid scarf, Uggs, and Lululemon leggings.
Some of my other ubiquitous work is "Call Your Mom" and "Single-Line, Semi-Erect Penis and Balls, With Hair Sprigs."