A Funeral Director’s Guide on How Best to Die
When you die, it won’t likely be a bunch of vultures or a serial killer who see you last. It will be me, your friendly neighborhood mortician.
When you die, it won’t likely be a bunch of vultures or a serial killer who see you last. It will be me, your friendly neighborhood mortician.
Suddenly, I recall a woman—lovely, virile—a gal very active for her age. Did we meet in a bookstore? Or was it an antique shop?
Skylark Diner sucks you in like a black hole and you can't even see the Texas-size soup dumplings over at Xiao Lone Star Bao.
Sip a Mai Tai every time you fantasize about escaping to a beach somewhere where the alt-right will never find you.
After the kids are asleep and your partner has put the Kindle aside, remark on the lack of sexual activity between the two of you. Your partner yawns.
When she says she'll study “lesbian themes in Dickinson,” raise your eyebrows to remind her “your brother studied computer science and has a 401K.”
“What’s the deal with @Massasoit contradicting himself everytime he mentions me in a tweet or talks to the press?”
Can I just say that this is hands down (speaking of hands, I’ve got two of ‘em) my favorite Thanksgiving to date?
Give a TED talk to my family titled "The Evolution of My Personal Blogs," except every time I would usually say “blog” I have to say “blerg.”
I mean what kind of shitty time traveler would quantum leap wearing a “Wherever I May Roam” T-shirt from the most kick-ass thrash metal concert ever?
Super Male Vitality: We went to a gas station and bought every dick pill that we could. Then we crushed them up and put them into a vial.
If the pound plummets to junk status, Great Britain will return to the barter system. Price will be decided according to value in livestock.