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I fill out my ballot based on a system I invented years ago that has nothing to do with any kind of informed opinion of anything. I am awesome like that.
Moms think they know everything, just because they pushed a creature out from between their thighs and stamped a name on it.
The extent of my sex ed at private school was this: "You have this dangly thing between your legs. You pee out of it. Girls don't have that dangly thing. Sex feels good."
I find that getting other people to do stuff for me is vastly more rewarding than doing it myself. And because they need to show off, men are easy targets to do crap for you.
Every day there is another unnecessary product recall that could have been wholly avoided with the simple addition of just a modicum of common sense.
My biggest fear of fat camp was not getting a lunch, an occurrence that I had to witness daily at the Jillian Michaels' Center for Kids Who Eat Too Damn Much.
If you have oil, the US will come in and take it in the name of God and Country because we're patriots. And that's not the kind of reality I want to face, so I watch football.
We, as a species that made up hours and days to provide ourselves with some sense of order in an overcooked burger of a universe, want to believe that things change. But they don't.
Fortunately, we now know what cues women are unconsciously driven by, as well as some of the situations that are more conducive to the release of your inner Bonaduce.
It's always been a dream of mine to have a real Irishman say, "What's the crack-a-jay?" to me. And today it finally happened... by the bar bathroom urinal.
Sarah "Nailin'" Palin scooched up to me and dropped this line: "Hey. Are you gay?" And from that point on, the pornstar/Republican lookalike only got weirder with alcohol.
I grew up liking St. Paddy's because it meant lots of green candy and corned beef. Now I like it because of the whiskey specials and green stickers my mom mails me.