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The time has come to take back our national pastime, baseball. The game that, as a boy in the mid 1890's, kept me up late at night.
Is there a God? Let's assume there is. If there is, He (or She) is pissed. Must be. Here's why. (Reason #1: Because we believe we deserve heaven just because we went to church once.)
Even though my ex was constantly in the mood for sex, I willfully abstained through her first four periods. Then we hit the bloody sheets.
To better understand how Lady Gaga concocts her erotic, unstable genre, we must perform an exercise in contemporary pop music production.
I enter an Asian massage spa parlor near me for sex and my mind is flooded with thoughts: How much does this cost? Do I get a handjob? Is it illegal?
What do you do if you just happen to find yourself in the middle of the Sahara Desert? Commercial airlines don't fly over the Sahara, as far as I know.
When I got pulled over this morning, I knew I was screwed. But what if I had a hand to play? Like the 'Get out of jail free card for traffic stops.'
It's that initial trust I give the Phillies front office, Aaron Sorkin, or a random woman with a nice smile. But don't going around giving it away willy-nilly.
Recently, a great man passed away. So many summer afternoons, we'd take his best stuff out and enjoy it at BBQs. RIP, Oscar Mayer. You will truly be missed.
<p><font size="3"><strong>1. Play Hide-and-Seek</strong></font></p> <p>This applies to "Ghosts in the Graveyard," four-square, and pretty much any other game you used to enjoy. If you're still engaging in these activities, odds are you're the only participant over the age of twelve, or you're drunk. </p>
The following are excerpts from the journals of Frank Malinowski, a men's room attendant from Queens, NY, who was replaced by a hand dryer.
When I returned home from the game show, I was ostracized by my peers - mocked, ridiculed, beaten. All because I failed to defeat Kirk Fogg.