Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl.
Category: Blinded Trials
I get a little bit meta this week. Also, cannibalism.
I think I may be a little bit in love with Emma Stone.
For crying out loud, Ace of Base had how many hits? Where is the justice, universe?!?
No, no. Please, alter this beloved foodstuff beyond recognition. I was only eating it for the flavor, after all.
Thank you, random stranger, for giving me something to ponder as I count down the miles on my way back home.
“Are you sure you don’t want to check it? Here, I’ve taken it out of my wallet already. Why don’t you just glance at it?”
“The Simple Life”? Nay, loving her was far too complicated.
Zesty lemon cookie buttons.
So it turns out that I have a perfectly good reason that I won’t be able to make Leaguefest this year. Or, more accurately, I have two of them.
Fred Phelps is dead.
Her name was “L’Wren Scott,” not “Mick Jagger’s girlfriend.”
Why show up at a party when everyone knows you weren’t invited?
You’re welcome to all the peaches you can eat, man. But please shut up about it.
More than a week in the woods.
Another year, another Oscars. Discuss.
At last the big night is finally upon us. Just like last year, I offered a set of predictions totally blind and without the benefit (such as it is) of having seen any of...
I probably couldn’t have afforded a Bellini, even if I’d thought to order one