The first rule of Amtrak's "Quiet Car Chopped All-Stars: Fight Club" is: Kindly shut the fuck up about everything. Enjoy bare-knuckle chef combat.
My makeup pouch is my jetpack and I'm here to reduce the puffy circles of my Oscar, Emmy, Genie and Drama Desk Award nominated client. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost track of him.
I don’t need my dead body being jabbed into on a cutting board by doctors. I'd rather help the humanities with their flow of corpses.
I'm not saying that these steps will permanently get rid of YOUR own live-in activist, but for the good of America, shouldn't you at least try?
Going for that peak-psycho ugly-cry in a public place surrounded by crazy sports fans probably isn't going to score you any "girlfriend points."
Whether it's a Hunger Games DVD, or your grandma into a crowd-surfing situation, there are much better things you can toss out at a reception than a bouquet.
Why do you cry? Because your eyes are still constantly producing tears after that one guy you met as a freshman in college.
I've configured my playlist according to wordplay generated from wildly-named music artists, creating one continuous musical mash-up matrix. Just add more vodka.
I twist nicknames into erotica. I randomly default to German. I'm a quirky invisible playmate. I graduated college with a major AND a minor. I rule your iPhone.
It's not because your hair is so bad in the morning that dainty bunnies have tried to mate with it. Thankfully, it's everything else wrong with you.
Language is organic and needs to grow, but mostly it's vaguely sexual. Here is a glimpse into some meaning-morphing that you will use in everyday speech and print.
Remember me? I don't want to brag, but you checked out my OkCupid profile every day for months before finally messaging me with "wink…wink… what’s your bra size."