Big Gulp Weevil
Enchilada Vole
Fatty McFat Fat
Which one of these seems like the better choice?
Option A: You have a great job, a great relationship, are happy and healthy, get to travel the world, and look adorable in hats. Also, you have really fantastic hair. You cherish all the wonderful things about your lucky, privileged existence. Oh, and you are fat. Like, fat fat.
And the microphone smells like a beer.
Tonight, we saw Billy Joel perform — his 20th sold-out show in a row — at Madison Square Garden. Itzhak fricking Perlman came out to play on several songs, and rocked the shit out of the fiddle bits in “Downeaster Alexa,” and possibly the beautifully plaintive tone he pulls out of his instrument made me tear up a little.
Is this an actual product for sale on Amazon, or just an example of seven words that should never go together?
Hilarious Naughty Stripper Poll Dancer Garden Gnome
(Answer: ugh.)
Yes, yes, *so* hilarious.
“When it was time to write, and he took his pen in his hand, he never thought of consequences; he thought of style. I wonder why I ever bothered with sex, he thought; there’s nothing in this breathing world so gratifying as an artfully placed semicolon.”
– Hilary Mantel, A Place of Greater Safety
As though I didn’t already love Hilary Mantel.
I’m working at my new afternoon coffee shop working spot, which makes a mean iced latte. But I think I’m gonna take a break in a while and go to the beach for a bit, then maybe have an ice cream cone while I take the dog for a walk along the lake. Because I can do that, because the ocean beach is four blocks away and the lake is in my backyard. I LIVE ON VACATION.
I literally have no idea how things ended up like this; truly, there is hope for anyone.
When good things happen to bad people.
FYI, this is an actual thing that is possible:
“One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, ‘this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid’… She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.”
I just thought you’d want to know. Explore the horror: “The Itch,” by Dr. Atul Gawande, in the New Yorker.
Got a second, racist white dudes?
Of course you don’t; not for me. But just in case…
I recognize that white dudes generally do not feel a need to protect me, avenge my honor, or care if I’m sexually assaulted at all; after all, I’m a hairy-legged, unabashed feminist. Shrieking harridans are not high on the damsel-in-distress-o-meter.
I love this post. I love this post so much that I’d like to print a jillion copies, laminate them, and fly overhead in a biplane, dropping them as leaflets over the land. And then everyone can come over to my house and we’ll eat tacos and have a consciousness-raising session. TL;DR: Come back, Twisty/Jill. We miss you.
More like “50 Shades of Gray For Me to Poop On,” amirite?
I used to write a food blog. It wasn’t too shabby, if I do say so myself, which I do say, right now.
At the time, I got a lot of PR pitches from people looking for publicity for their clients’ new cookbooks, cooking shows, or food products. And although I haven’t published anything new on that blog since January 2013, I continue to get pitches. Many pitches. A plethora of pitches.
