It's hard to believe that PIC is turning 10 years old. Partially because that's an eternity in the comedy-website world (remember when was fresh and relevant?), but mostly because it seems like it's been much, much longer than that. I have clear memories of being a 5-year-old, sitting in my Underoos, reading that first Nate Degraaf column and munching on a big bowl of Golden Grahams. I chuckled with delight and sugary milk as I read his ribald, witty observations on beer, blowjobs, and entering your 30's gracefully.

To paraphrase a movie I saw part of once: "That's what I like about Nate, man: I get older, he was really old a long time ago."

Convoluted sentence structure, cheap joke, meta analysis? You know that that means—it's my yearly pilgrimmage to PIC to write a meandering post, promise to write more in the coming months, and then recede into the distance with the grace and aplomb of Brett Favre.

But as a Paul Frank once told my cousin while offering her a bump of cocaine cut with Tylenol PM and pixie sticks, you only turn 10 once! And like their eventual romance and messy breakup, Points in Case all started in a bathroom stall. It only seemed right that I list some of my fonder memories:

Court and Amir placing third in Yahoo's 2003 contest to find the best instant messagers in the country, narrowly missing out on the top prize of a no-expenses paid trip to meet NBC's Chris Hansen.

The legions of random guys who professed their devout admiration for Simonne and Ali based on nothing more than a 1 x 1 photo that was barely clearer than scrambled cable porn. And probably served the same purpose for them.

Mike Faerber pre-empting the Zach Galifinakis craze by a good two years. And growing out the thick chin-nuzzle that would let him put the "bear" in "Faerber."

Justin Rebello writing ten little questions about black people that proved once and for all that writing poorly worded comments on comedy articles knows no race. Like Jessica Alba, or Christopher Reeves (the latter joke was a pun on his not being able to run because he was in a wheelchair. Not being sure whether this was still relevant, I did a quick Google search only to find that he died like 6 years ago. Upon consideration, it still seemed like it fit).

Quotes upon quotes. Have you ever wondered what texts from last night would be like if it were interesting and wasn't just girls trying to outslut themselves and the guys who love them? Me neither.

Nick Gaudio pinballing between writing tawdry, sophomoric, puerile odes to his penis, and beautiful rendered, poetic, lucid odes to his penis.

Meeting Paul Frank. It's not an act.

Meeting KC, and being pleasantly surprised that his reliance on his walker is really pretty minimal. He's almost entirely self-sufficient, and only wheezed a little bit when me and some of the neighborhood chums played keep-away with his Life Alert bracelet.

David Nelson beating me at internet scrabble. He's the real deal; I had one of my best games ever (3 bingoes, I think), and he still beat me fairly easily. It almost makes up for the fact that his Facebook quotes his girlfriend as incessently as if she were the quick-talking bastard offspring of Dorothy Parker and Oscar Wilde.

I have the fondest memories, of course, of the other writers. From those who were writing from the beginning, to those that started when I did, to those with articles on the front page right now, you guys are what makes this website more than a collection of differently shaped boxed turreted by ads for websites I will never visit.

Except Brent Stone. Who the fuck is that guy?

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