6 Reasons Santa Claus is Now Called Jeff Bezos
All I need is for Bezos to read my kids a bedtime story and I will be up for the 2018 award for disconnected dad of the year.
All I need is for Bezos to read my kids a bedtime story and I will be up for the 2018 award for disconnected dad of the year.
I didn’t know that a first date at a restaurant was inferior to slipping on ice in your heels and falling into the arms of your high school ex.
You’re probably taking a hard look at yourself, reeling with guilt at the thought of all the poor, innocent, mother mosquitos you’ve smooshed.
When you die, it won’t likely be a bunch of vultures or a serial killer who see you last. It will be me, your friendly neighborhood mortician.
Suddenly, I recall a woman—lovely, virile—a gal very active for her age. Did we meet in a bookstore? Or was it an antique shop?
Skylark Diner sucks you in like a black hole and you can't even see the Texas-size soup dumplings over at Xiao Lone Star Bao.
Sip a Mai Tai every time you fantasize about escaping to a beach somewhere where the alt-right will never find you.
After the kids are asleep and your partner has put the Kindle aside, remark on the lack of sexual activity between the two of you. Your partner yawns.
When she says she'll study “lesbian themes in Dickinson,” raise your eyebrows to remind her “your brother studied computer science and has a 401K.”
“What’s the deal with @Massasoit contradicting himself everytime he mentions me in a tweet or talks to the press?”
Can I just say that this is hands down (speaking of hands, I’ve got two of ‘em) my favorite Thanksgiving to date?
Give a TED talk to my family titled "The Evolution of My Personal Blogs," except every time I would usually say “blog” I have to say “blerg.”