Stages of Grief About The Election in Aerobics Classes
Let’s put on some hip-hop and do leg lifts like it’s 2002! Feel the burn. Not #feelthebern. Because really, are the Bernie Bros happy now?
Let’s put on some hip-hop and do leg lifts like it’s 2002! Feel the burn. Not #feelthebern. Because really, are the Bernie Bros happy now?
Can I please just host this disco sex party in peace, without the dread of a Grindr message like, "Is there a face to go with your torso?"
For six years I've preached the dangers of sins of the flesh, during which time the devil lured me into oiled-up twinks, otters, and glitter-daddies.
Adam was friendly, smart, and best of all, my first gay roommate. I couldn't wait to paint our nails, make out drunk, and go shopping together.
Prepare to drink an entire gallon of gas, run around a race track 50 times screaming "KA-CHOW!" and resist transforming into a car.
Once dressed, I sit at my desk and say a quick prayer to Dionysus. Then I take hold of the mighty pen and let his spirit take hold of my body.
Specific sweater styles that tell him you're open to the idea of talking about maybe taking it up the butt, maybe. But probably.
Other men see my pee on that white plastic horseshoe and know I'm in charge. That I'm an Alpha, and they are the weaker members of my species.
While I can't speak for aliens as a whole, Craxtavore, Conqueror of Worlds, is a total dick. I can't believe Mom doesn't see through his façade.
I've had it. The picture of me in your "cool" MeUndies boxer briefs that you just sent to eleven different women really pushed me over the edge.
Rejecting the opportunity to Google duck penises all night on the internet just to have sex with someone is a slap in the face to Bill Gates.
I'm glad to know it's WOMEN who are responsible for the sexual harassment reform movement, and not the flagging appeal of my aging ass.