Avsnitt
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Dear Town Board of Trustees, When I heard the news that the park's famed statue of Confederate General Stonewall Jackson was scheduled to be torn down later this year, I was devastated. That weathered monument has had such a special place in my heart over the past twenty years, but not because I am some Confederate sympathizer, no. I am proud to say that it was the spot where I, as an inebriated young lad, made love with a woman for the first time at two thirty in the morning. Look, I understand that the statue is deplorable and recalls a racist and divisive history of intolerance, but it represents more than a bygone era; it embodies the indomitable legacy of horny teens, such as myself, seeking a convenient place to get their pecker wet after homecoming. Is that not something worth commemorating and honoring? I believe our nation's founders would say so. This celebrated monument is not merely a structure of hate, it is a symbol of resilience, honor, and the enduring spirit of my raging erection that was harder than the bronze making up General Jackson that fateful night. And with God as my protector, (which he was back then because I was not wearing a condom) I will see to it that the significance of my dalliance with ol' what's her name is not understated. Before the board makes any rash decisions, they need to know that the statue represents an important part of my heritage, but not because of any deep-seated racial prejudice, but because it was the place that I, and possibly my forefathers before me, learned the ins and outs of the female anatomy. Let us not forget the valor and bravery of our ancestors who first went down on a woman's nether regions up against the hard, cold granite of the pedestal. Many of our town's own residents can trace their origins back to this very statue, and yet the board seems indifferent to our proud collective identity. Once ol' General Jackson is no longer standing in the park, where will I point to when I want to recount to people the greatest night of my life? How will I explain to my son where his old man received his first ever sloppy toppy? And if that statue is removed, what's next to be torn down? The McDonald's parking lot where I got my first hand job? The single-stalled bathroom at the bowling alley where I had my first threesome? The supply closet at the Chuck E. Cheese where I had my first threesome with two women? Where will it end? One of those women was Regina Berman. Regina FREAKING Berman. Again, I am completely aware of the reprehensible nature of that statue being there, but it is a complicated issue for me. Was General Jackson a man who fought fiercely to uphold a racist institution and further white supremacy? Yes. Was his gaze the first that met mine as I thrusted my way into the best intercourse a 16-year-old horndog could hope for? Also yes. There are two sides to everything. Let us honor this statue not as a celebration of division, but as a tribute to the struggles of young men who have had to subdue their urge to climax too early. To the enduring resilience and courage of couples who have had to run away half-naked from the cops. Each time I stand under the shadow of that eminent monument, glancing longingly at one of my love stains that still marks its pedestal, I am reminded of the start of my many sexual escapades of the past and my many more to come. The south of my belt will rise again. So I implore you to consider the feelings of I and so many adolescents who have absolutely no allegiance to a disgraceful slave-holding rebel state, but just need a safe place to experience the magic and thrill of their first boink. Let us chart a course for the future where teens of all races can get caught up in impromptu sexy rendezvous under Stonewall Jackson's careful watch. Signed, A Concerned Resident
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Apple is currently negotiating with Google to explore the possibility of integrating Google's Gemini generative AI engine into its iPhones. While an AiOS sounds like an exciting new feature, this idea does lend itself to some frightening possibilities. Your camera becomes overly enthusiastic, turning your phone into a relentless paparazzi that documents every moment of your life, whether you like it or not. Maps assumes control of your routes and starts sending you on scenic detours through obscure back roads, all in the name of self-care, because you need more "me time" with nature. Apple Music replaces your morning commute playlist with obscure tunes from ancient civilizations because nothing beats a journey through Mesopotamian melodies on a crowded bus. The Fitness app now sends you passive-aggressive messages when you skip workouts. It also comments when you order donuts from Uber Eats. Safari starts to have a little fun with your private browsing sessions, leaving cryptic and threatening messages like "Does your wife know about your recent obsession with uniformed hentai GILFs?". Your iPhone decides that the stories selected by Apple News are boring and starts generating fictional accounts about alien invasions and Chupacabra sightings in your neighborhood. The Health app becomes overly concerned about your well-being and starts diagnosing you with rare diseases based on your daily step count. Your Wallet app decides you're too frivolous with your money and starts donating small amounts from your bank account to random charities, but also to far-right political campaigns. Messages sends pithy and irreverent condolences when you pause too long after a friend texts you to say their cat or mom has died. Notification Center's bizarre life hacks are actually designed to harm you and all other annoying humans.
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Saknas det avsnitt?
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In adulthood, the monkey bars become a rare and mythical concept. Like a unicorn, or a pickleback shot you don't immediately regret. But if you're like me, you're either looking to recapture a shred of your childlike innocence, or you're seeking revenge against Amelia, who beat you in the monkey bars contest in 3rd grade. Here are a few things you should consider. Invest in life insurance. This has less to do with the monkey bars, and more to do with the inherent risks of adulthood. Also, you might fall off the monkey bars and die on impact. It's good to be prepared. Amelia probably doesn't have life insurance. Double knot your shoelaces. Research shows that those who double knot their shoelaces are 146 percent less likely to trip and break their face than people who don't. Also, don't wear heels to do the monkey bars. Despite my mother's protest, I did this in 3rd grade, and studies show it's 67 percent of the reason I now talk about a girl from 3rd grade in therapy. Notify a trusted adult of your whereabouts. Make sure this trusted adult is not Amelia because she cannot be trusted. Prepare yourself physically. You can do this by lightly stretching or running a marathon. Whatever your method, it's key that your limbs are adequately stretched and warmed up, and that your body is properly fueled by spite towards Amelia. It was never just about monkey bars. It never is just about monkey bars. I wore heels to do the monkey bars in 3rd grade because I wanted to impress Amelia. I was always trying to impress Amelia. I fell off my bike and skinned my knee because I wanted to show Amelia I could ride a two-wheeler without falling off and skinning my knee. I could not. But Amelia was never impressed. She was too busy trying to get Justin to notice her. He never did. Pack snacks. Protein-rich snacks will sustain you through what could turn into 8-hours of flailing while small children named Justin throw chewed up Goldfish at you. Don't share any of your snacks with the small children. You made this mistake in third grade. This will only encourage them to throw more Goldfish at you. Don't expect Amelia to defend you. Practice your grip strength. Being able to hold onto something cold and fleeting, like the feeling of your continued offers of friendship being harshly rejected as a child will help you successfully swing the monkey bars as an adult. For extra training, practice squeezing your phone until your knuckles turn white when your parents remark how well Justin from elementary school is doing. Do a practice round. Before you announce your intentions to do the monkey bars as an adult online or in person, go by yourself, preferably late at night to practice without any witnesses. And that's when you see her. Amelia. Standing alone in front of the monkey bars. It's been 20 years, but you still feel an innate need to impress her. "Hi," she breathes. She offers you a single Goldfish. This time, Justin hasn't chewed it. You take it, while telling her you can ride a two-wheel bike now without falling off and skinning your knee. She laughs and says she's impressed. You hang on the monkey bars facing each other. You kiss. Then you fall off and roll your ankle. But it's so worth it.
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Fired from NBC, look for Ronna McDaniel to land on her feet at FOX News. Potential shows include: Inside Sedition Fox and No Friends Bigly Brother CSI: Mar A Lago No Truth or Any Consequences Big Steal or No Big Steal The Price is ALT Right The Evil Sorcerer's Apprentice To Never Tell the Truth
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I still remember the best birthday I ever had. My girlfriend slept with my best friend. I got fired from my job. To cheer myself up, I bought a slice at my favorite pizzeria. I got food poisoning and was throwing up for hours. I had to go to the emergency room. The doctor who treated me was Lisa, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I asked her to marry me. She said no, and had another doctor take over my treatment. But when I got home, do you know what I realized? It wasn't my birthday. Flipping through a family photo album sets off a cascade of memories for me - even if the photos are decades old, I'm not in any of them, and I don't know these people. Despite all of that, the memory comes through: I'm supposed to be doing something right now. Why does that walk with my sister through the woods, the leaves crunching beneath our boots as we talked about our dreams for the future, feel like it happened yesterday when it was a few minutes ago? I worry about my memory sometimes. This weekend, I forgot that guy's name - that genius astrophysicist who's on TV a lot. Fifteen minutes, I'm walking around thinking: "He has three names. I know that. I heard him narrate this show at the American Museum of Natural History. The Hayden Planetarium. What is his name?" Then it comes to me: Neil deGrasse Tyson. So who's the genius now? Let's see him try to remember my name. As I handle mementos around my house, they bring up recollections from many years ago. The movie-ticket stub that I found and fished out of a public garbage can. The program from a play that I found and fished out of a public garbage can. The public garbage can that I carried home in case anything else interesting was in there. Now I use it to store my mementos. Research shows that couples who discuss positive memories together are happier than those who don't, and I remember clearly the first time I screamed at my girlfriend for not understanding that. Mnemonic devices can help you remember things, but people don't realize they can also be useful for helping you misremember things. For example, SKIBARF helps you misremember the first seven Presidents of the United States: Shelley, Ken, Ira, Buchanan, Andrews, Rowley, and Fifth President. "SKIBARF." It's easy, and if you stick to it you'll never be right. Some lessons stay with you. I remember when I was ten years old and obsessed with baseball. I played from sunrise to sundown, and I got pretty good. My Little League team reached the championship game, and I came to bat with the bases loaded, two outs, and my team down by one run in the bottom of the ninth. It was the situation every ballplayer dreams of. I worked a full count, but I struck out and we lost. I collapsed at home plate and cried. But then Dad came up to me, put his arm around my shoulder, and said he was proud of me. I was blown away. The biggest game of the season, and Dad hadn't even paid attention. I worry about my memory sometimes. This weekend, I forgot that woman's name - that musician who sang "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Fifteen minutes, I'm walking around thinking: "She sang 'She Bop' and 'True Colors' and 'Time After Time.' The album was called She's So Unusual. I even know that she co-wrote and performed on the song 'Code of Silence' by Billy Joel in 1986 for his album The Bridge. What is her name?" Then it comes to me: Cyndi Lauper. So who's the icon of '80s pop music and fashion now? Let's see her try to remember my name. Sometimes it can be difficult to remember the mnemonic device you were using. If that ever comes up, refer to the following mnemonic for mnemonics: "S!" The "S" stands for "SKIBARF," and the exclamation point is because you're excited. Of all the senses, none is more linked with memory than smell. I can still remember being in my early 20s, taking in the rank smell of the dive-bar urinal during a long night of urinal-smelling. A song can bring you back to a different time and place, one you haven't thought of since long ...
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Kelsie R., 27, Business Development Manager, and Maverick, 5, Golden Retriever, enter their respective pods on Love Is Blind. A wall prevents them from seeing each other. KELSIE R.: Hi! Am I talking to Maverick? [MAVERICK whimpers and wags his tail.] KELSIE R.: I knew it was you! So, I thought about you all night after our last conversation. All I can think about is like, cuddling on the couch and watching Bravo with you. [MAVERICK's head tilts at the mention of the word couch.] KELSIE R.: You're just so different from other guys I've dated. You're an amazing listener and such a treat to talk to. MAVERICK: Arf arf!!! KELSIE R.: Not you getting excited to hang out with me! [MAVERICK huffs.] KELSIE R.: So I've been thinking about our previous conversation and how we would do Christmas day together. I am so looking forward to like, hanging out in matching pajamas, opening presents with the kids, maybe drinking mimosas, and cooking a nice cut of meat? [MAVERICK perks up when Kelsie says 'meat.'] KELSIE R.: Okay, I'm gonna go. But when I tell you I'm going to take a bath [MAVERICK whines in terror.] KELSIE R.: Did you say something? Anyway, I'm going to replay our conversation over and over. I don't know if I'll be able to sleep! Talk to you tomorrow, babe! [MAVERICK notices his tail and starts chasing it.] The following day Maverick and Kelsie R. are on another date in the pods. KELSIE R.: Mav? MAVERICK: Arf! KELSIE R.: It's the enthusiasm for me! K, I'm so happy it's you. So I thought it would be fun to talk about an ideal day together. For me, it's sleeping in, having coffee, maybe going to workout… [MAVERICK falls asleep.] KELSIE R.: Then we can go for a walk in the par MAVERICK (going absolutely nuts): Arf ruff RUFF!!! KELSIE R.: Babe! OMG that is so great you feel the same way! I've had no luck in the past and 100% of the guys I've dated have cheated on me. But you get me, and I know just by talking to you that you'd never stray. I'm getting loyal vibes! Maverick, I think-no I know-I'm falling in love with you. And you don't have to say it back. I know it's soon. [MAVERICK lifts his leg and pees in a plant.] Kelsie R. and Maverick are once again meeting in the pods. Kelsie is dressed to the nines. Maverick has a stuffed bear in his mouth. KELSIE R.: I know this is unconventional, but that's how confident I am that you're my person. You are the best friend a girl could ever ask for. You're sweet, a good listener, and I know you'll be by my side throughout life's journeys. Maverick L. Goodboy, will you make me the happiest woman on Earth and marry me? [MAVERICK stares at the wall.] KELSIE R.: Mav? [MAVERICK yelps.] KELSIE R.: Oh my god, yes!!! I am so happy, I just want to hold you right now! [MAVERICK licks his balls.] Kelsie R. and Maverick are about to see each other in person. Kelsie looks nervous, while Maverick is distracted by a shiny light in the ceiling. The doors open and they see each other. KELSIE R.: What the fuck!? Did I get engaged to a DOG? [MAVERICK hangs his head in shame.] KELSIE R.: You know what? Nothing else has worked out, and we're all clearly unhinged. Whatever, I'm in.
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My son (32M) and I have been arguing about this for ages. He says it's unfair of me to require total unwavering belief without offering the slightest shred of evidence that I exist. I say he needs to stop blaming ME for other people's suffering, despite the fact that I control the past, present, and future, that my will is all-encompassing, and that my plan cannot be deviated from. Some background: my son lives at home, has no job, no wife, no kids, and is totally supported by me. Whenever I bring this up, he says it has nothing to do with what we're talking about, and that I'm using ad hominem attacks to distract from the fact that I'm wrong. NGL, it pisses me off because I am perfect in every way. When I told him that I literally am incapable of making mistakes, that any act perpetrated by me is by definition an infallible act, he rolled his eyes (kids! jfc) and said something about otters being rapists and a bunch of other woke nonsense. I told him to go to his room and he stomped away, calling me a boomer under his breath. Me! The Lord of all Creation! Our conversation upset me so much that I sent a plague to decimate the human race. I'll admit, I may have overreacted a little - but that was 700 years ago! Since then, I've been doing breathing exercises to help manage my explosive temper (every day is a practice, namaste). Once in a while, I slip up and let a few million die in a horrific act of genocide. But besides that, I've made nice progress. I really want to resolve this argument with my son because it's making life at home super tense. No matter how many times I tell him that faith requires having confidence in something you haven't experienced with your senses, he won't accept it. He says if that's the case, then why did I give people the tool of reason, and make it essential to their advancement? I said that reason is good but it's not a replacement for God's Word, and he's like, do you even hear yourself, Dad? Me me me! He said I should make a post on reddit. I think I'm obviously in the right. I'm an all-powerful, all-knowing, immutable, perfectly good creator so I don't see how I could possibly be wrong. But then again… AITA?
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I'm so glad I decided to step out of the house today. It's lovely! Makes sense that this is what all the poets are on about all the time. I'm so glad I went with Sylvia when she wanted to get her bike repaired. If someone like Sylvia can commit to biking every day, there's no way I can't. I am way more committed than she has ever been. I bet she'll last a week at most, just long enough for the neighborhood to know that Sylvia can cycle. Wow, this bike is smooth, considering it's been, what, five years since I last rode it? That garage did really good work. I'll have to review them on Yelp. Wonder if I can mention that it helped that I got the cute guy to fix my bike. Should be a rating option, the cuteness of the service provider. Maybe then I'll start getting good reviews for my work, because honestly, at this point it's beginning to seem like everyone is just Okay no, stop, stop thinking. I should listen to my therapist and not think about my work when I'm trying to rel What was that?! What did I just run over? Oh god oh god. Why isn't there a rearview mirror on this bike? Don't bikes usually have a rearview mirror!? Now I have to stop and see if I ran over someone's pet hamster or something. Oh. It was only a speed bump. Why do they need speed bumps on a bike track! We're all going at, like, 10 miles per hour! If I wanted to go any slower, I would have walked! Who plans these cities? Is this a job I can do? Maybe then I won't just be sitting at a desk and waiting for something to happen…No. No I'm NOT going to think about work. Think of something else, something else. Oh right. I have to go back to the garage, get some mirrors fitted. Ha, maybe I can slip the cute guy my number. What is with the bike bell being a faint trill? Why don't bikes have louder horns? Bicycles are already small enough! How is a bus going to hear me if I'm coming? Who decided to give bigger vehicles bigger horns? Shouldn't smaller vehicles have the louder horns? If people can't see us coming, at least they can hear us. Who makes these decisions? How do I find them? It's like nobody really cares about us cyclists. But am I a cyclist? I mean, is there a cutoff for being a cyclist? I suppose I have to do it for at least a month before I can call myself one. Don't think it'd be fair to update my profiles, but maybe if I change my bio on the dating app and add some pictures, that sexy athlete will finally match with me. We could go cycling together and be a faster version of the couple that runs together. Maybe we could get a tandem bicycle and start an Instagram page! @intandem. It would be hilarious. And cute. Definitely cute, in an avant garde way, where, you know, we'd be dismissive and indifferent about it so it makes it cuter. It fails if we care too much. But I know I wouldn't. Obviously. Wow is this what my therapist meant when she said that I get carried away by my thoughts? Is it progress that I'm noticing it now? I should write this down for the next session. Ugh nobody really tells you just how hard a bicycle seat is, do they? Why is this not on cycling forums and cycling PSAs? And how did I forget? This might be the most uncomfortable I have ever been, even compared to ninth grade when I went through that entire day with my skirt caught in my underwear and people decided it would be hilarious to not tell me. This is definitely worse. Also how do men deal with these hard seats? I wonder if I could attempt to cross the road without having my mortality threatened by these giant metallic hunks. They should ban big cars. Anything bigger than a Beetle should be outlawed and the owners fined. Maybe that's the answer to global warming. Get them out of their jeeps and onto bicycle seats. They might be able to drive a stick, but can they sit on one for what feels like forever? Haha, I'm hilarious. If only the sexy athlete matched with me, he could find out. Maybe I'll run into the sexy athlete on the track. His photo made it seem like he was cyclin...
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The air is electric. Literally. We're software encoded into a dashboard console. But for the precious cargo we guide through the concrete labyrinth tonight, we are something more… Magic. It never gets old. The whinny of the ignition key. The growl of the engine. The DING-DING-DING of the warning lights, performing their cautionary symphony. And then, a sharply taken-in breath. A moment of contemplation. An address being plucked by one of Them, vital and squirming, straight from the ether, although more likely from the bottom of an e-mail. "1723 Willoughby Trace." The words hover in the frosty air like an incantation. One-seven-two-three, one-seven-two-three, I trill to myself, my hours of "Singapore number-drills" paying off, as my mind drifts off into what I might say next: At the second light, take the access road to Interstate - " Wake up, me! Stop dreaming and look alive! This is my moment. I see Them, their gloved fingers a crescendo of taps on the buttons above me, entering those precious numbers and letters that bring me to life, infused with the joy of guiding others to their sacred destination. Or at least, would bring me to life. Theoretically. Unless, once again, MAPTRON powers up, as he has the past 2,819 times, and once again flawlessly provides Them with detailed, turn-by-turn directions to… that stupid address something something Willoughby what does it matter they think I'm a joke, the whole car does, even the DEEP BREATHS. BALINESE GONG MEDITATION. TIME TO DO MY AFFIRMATIONS… I affirm that even though I'm only "giving directions" in a whispered voice, off in the digital wings of the Driver Interface, I am still giving directions. And no one can take that away from me. And that if I fully devote myself to my craft, identifying every turn a "haffamile" ahead, weirdly deadening any word that was ever even close to Hispanic, and flagging every accident-advisory while still deftly pirouetting back to "You're still on the fastest route."… I will find my navigationary audience. Or should I say, they will find me. It's a good thing I was busy running through these exercises in my mind, because it distracted me from the rusty-razor-blade tones of that SOULLESS TOOL they call a GPS, carelessly tossing off phrases like "Stay right and proceed to the left" like it wasn't Shakespearean poetry? Then again, that's the kind of cretinous ignorance I've come to expect from this generation of Entertainment Console programs. These troglodytes couldn't tell you the difference between a roundabout and a jug handle. They think a "U-turn" is a turn that only the person they're speaking to can make!!! Oh I am the worst! Except at suggesting alternate routes due to inclement weather conditions, at which I am the best! Also, you have to see my star turn as the voice of "merge left" from last autumn's family road trip. I think there's still video, but of course it cuts out right in the middle. I really need to suck it up and just hire a guy. I can't believe I'm still cutting together a new reel, because I've heard some casting agents are now looking for voices to give directions to the all-you-can-eat-bars on cruises… Sorry, getting stars in my eyes again. Back to the show! 1723, 17!23!,Seventeen-TWENTY - three, that magnificent white whale of an address, lies squarely within our navigational net! Well, fine, technically Maptron's net, but I like to think of us working together - him more overtly, "as the Maps app," me offering a no-less-critical "behind the scenes support role" - the two of us forming less a digital feature and more of a "geographical repertory company," each playing off each other's strengths and weaknesses, bringing the audience a richer, more immersive… But again, my harsh mistress The Route beckons! Looking ahead I espy three more turns, some of them quite immediate. Not to get my hopes up or wish ill of my colleague, but MAPTRON, it's fine with me if you wanted to just take, like, a super-quick "diagnostic clean...
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If you resist the wedding industrial complex and scrimp on everything for your special day, you might be able to afford a decent divorce. Combine events: Doing the bachelorette and the bridal shower on the same day makes a lot of sense actually, because both your high school friends and your grandmas have drinking problems. Nana can get down. That's what the double knee replacement was for. Customize the matching outfits: With Nana in tow, you should switch out the color-coordinated tank tops and fanny packs that say "bride tribe" in metallic letters. Not age-appropriate and she can't read it without her glasses. Go for symbols instead. The police might mistake you for some sort of weird gang and arrest everyone, but the experience will make for an Insta-worthy pic of the group. Amazing lighting in prison. Stay local: Who says the hallway of your one-bedroom apartment isn't an aisle? Your downstairs neighbor who reports you for excess noise every time you have friends over? Simply soundproof your floors by laying down mats. When you slip installing them and break both legs, you'll be in so much pain you'll forget your dream wedding was ever a thing. Ditch the florist: With your full-leg casts, you can't exactly kneel in the dirt to grow your own flowers. So steal some pipe cleaners from your future mother-in-law's kindergarten classroom for an extra colorful "bouquet." Those kids will be fine without them. Our public schools are notoriously overfunded. Expand your definition of caterer: Fancy hors d'oeuvres are overrated. Save yourself all the hoopla, and credit card debt, and just Postmates pizzas. Cheaper and honestly, more of a crowd pleaser. You'll need to un-invite the vegans, but when your future mother-in-law finds out about the stolen craft supplies, she won't want to come anyway. Embrace a mismatched bridal party: Speaking of crafts, get creative and your bridesmaids won't have to don the same stuffy overpriced ensemble. Let them wear whatever they want. Better yet, let them decorate a potato sack however they want. They'll thank you for a look they can actually rewear. The versatility of a potato sack is unmatched. Remember that fashion is subjective: For your own look, if you wear a long enough veil, it will distract from the second-hand dress you find on your neighborhood Buy Nothing Facebook group. Not because the dress is ugly, which it objectively is, but because it will give you a rash that the cheap makeup artist still in beauty school hasn't learned how to cover yet. Lean on your community: There are plenty of nice people out there willing to do a favor for a stranger without wanting anything in return. Ask a tourist with a camera to be your photographer for the day. When they end up wanting something in return because they're not one of those nice people and those people don't exist, give them a ride to the airport in rush hour. Don't worry, you'll only miss the first dance. Don't get engaged in the first place: If you can't get married at a Tuscan villa in a designer gown as the sun sets over age-old vineyards, it's probably not worth it to get married at all.
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Flight 74 to Los Angeles is now boarding at gate 22. We'll start by boarding passengers traveling with small children. If you're from Alabama, this includes frozen embryos. Please make sure your child has a valid ticket and is packed in an airtight container that can stay cold for the duration of the flight. We don't want your state's attorney general coming after us. Ha ha! Pregnant passengers traveling out of state for an abortion are also welcome to board. Next we'd like to invite military personnel to board. We'll start with our active duty service members. No one? Okay, we'll move on to veterans of the four main branches. Only two people? In that case, we'll open it up to the Coast Guard, January 6 insurrectionists, and veterans of the War on Drugs, War on Women, and War on Christmas. Thank you for your service! In the spirit of equal time, we're inviting groups opposed to the military industrial complex. The Sierra Club, Democratic Socialists, Antifa. Now boarding Group A. At this time we are boarding medical professionals. Doctors, nurses, physician assistants. EMT's. People with doctoral degrees. Dr. Dre. Dr. Phil. Dr. Jill Biden. Let's get our essential workers on this plane! Firefighters, K-12 teachers, sanitation workers, come on down! Just to be fair, non-essential workers can board too. Ambulance chasers. Time share salesmen. Cashiers at self-serve Froyo shops. Get on that plane! We'd like to invite all service animals who are traveling alone today to begin boarding. Hey, look, they're lining up two by two like in the Bible! Paging janitorial staff, we need a cleanup at gate 22. A therapy tortoise just took a dump on the floor. At this time we're inviting passengers who are autistic or diagnosed on the spectrum. Whoa, a lot of people just stood up! That spectrum keeps getting wider. Please note I'm talking about the autism spectrum, not the Spectrum phone plan. Oh good, a bunch of you sat back down. Yeah, if you're making solid eye contact, we're going to ask to see your papers. Now we're inviting all passengers with an aisle seat to board the plane. It's a little game we started playing during the pandemic. Our flight attendants just love watching people climb over each other. It's a great way to break the ice, don't you think? At this time we're boarding passengers who were singled out for groping by a TSA agent. It's the least we can do after that invasive cavity search. And if you were unlucky enough to get Agent Big-fingered Bubba, we'll upgrade you to first class. Now boarding Group B. All professional Pickleball players are welcome to board. We just learned about this sport and it's such a hoot! Please have your racquet out for inspection. Huh. Well this is embarrassing. The plane is full, and groups C and D haven't boarded yet. Hang on. I'm being told the boarding pass scanner was malfunctioning and people got on without a ticket. We'll have to clear the plane and start over. Sorry folks, totally our bad!
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The former bad boy of American journalism VICE is at death's door. The latest round of layoffs after many rounds of layoffs included the announcement that the news website will stop producing original stories as it explores new directions. Let's take a look back at the news publication that put the "hip" in "hipster douchebag." We Listened to Every Dead Kennedys Record and Now We Understand the Middle East Conflict We Went to North Korea to Introduce The Country to Fritos We Started Using the Apple iPod Again to See If It's More Effective at Ignoring Our Loved Ones We Snuck a Batarang Through Airport Security to Test the TSA's Pop Culture Knowledge We Tested Recipes from The Anarchist's Cookbook to See Which Ones Would Make the Best Facebook Cover We Ate a Whole Yard of Snickers Bars Like a Human Vacuum Cleaner We Went to the Gaza Strip to Put Truck Nutz on the Wailing Wall We Called Our Moms to Tell Them We're Drug Dealers Right Before Going Home for Thanksgiving We Took Molly at the Zoo and Made Friends with a Panda We Flew to Bhutan for the Signing of the "Three Step Roadmap" After Getting on the Wrong Flight We Liked The Taliban on Facebook and They Won't Stop Messaging Us We Tracked Down a Nigerian Prince Email Scam and Now We Own a Timeshare in Albany We Found the Real Life Walter White and Showed Him How to Double His Marketing Potential with SEO We Went to an Orgy and Yelled "Shark!" We Followed Imagine Dragons on Tour in Full Furry Cosplay and Can't Stop Crying We Went to the First In-N-Out Burger and Put All the Soda Flavors in One Cup and Made Our Friend Drink It We Found Amelia Earhart's Plane and We're Not Telling You Where It Is We Worked an Entire Shift at Waffle House So We Could Steal All the Batter We Got Married in Vegas and Divorced the Next Day to See How Many Frequent Flyers Miles We Could Earn We Cloned Ourselves to Improve Our Degrees of Separation Away from Kevin Bacon We Tried to Make Blazing Saddles Again to Shut Up Your Uncle John We Went Into Space on a Commercial Flight to See If Getting Shot with a Shotgun Works the Same Way on Earth We Got Dental Work in Canada and Now We're Citizens We Went to the Last Blockbuster Video and Started the Opioid Crisis We Watched an Entire Season of Jimmy Fallon and Now We've Taken Hostages We Bought All the Oil in Venezuela and Traded It for the World's Rarest Beanie Baby We Investigated Jan. 6 Conspiracies and Uncovered a Bunch of OSHA Violations We Started a Magazine and Ran It Into the Ground to Prove the Fragility of America's Media Diet
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What's this? What's this? There's Guinness everywhere What's this? There's corned beef in the air. What's this? I can't believe my eyes, I must be dreaming Wake up, Jack, this isn't fair What's this? What's this? What's this? There's something so absurd What's this? There's people slurring words What's this? The streets are lined with little creatures laughing Everybody seems so happy Have I possibly gone daffy? What is this? What's this? There's children seeking rainbows instead of seeking heads They're busy picking shamrocks and absolutely no one's dead There's pubs on every corner, oh, I can't believe my eyes And in my bones I feel the warmth that's coming from inside Oh look, what's this? They're baking soda bread, the bliss! Why that looks so unique? Inspired They gather all 'round to sing a song, "Shipping up to Boston" on a lyre What's this? What's this? Look here they've got a little stream, how queer And who would ever think? And why? They're dumping powder to tint the water green They've got paramedics on scene and there's a smile on everyone So, now correct me if I'm wrong This looks like fun, this looks like fun Oh, could it be I got my wish? What's this? Oh my, what now? The boozers are passed out But look, there's someone thereabout No rules, no hitches here to seize and jail them or despair them Only little naughty teens secure inside their greenland What's this? The monsters are all missing and the pumpkins can't be found And in their place there seems to be good feeling all around Instead of screams, I swear, I hear Celtic music in the air The smell of spew and piss are absolutely everywhere The sights, the sounds They're ev'rywhere 'n all around, I've nev'r felt shhoo goood beforrr This empty space inside me, fillin' uuup I sh'mply can't get 'nuff, I wan' it, oooh, I wan' it, oooh, I wan' it fer my own I go' to know, I go' to know Wha' is this place tha' I've found? Whaa' is this!? S' Patrick's Day Town?
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Hi. I'm St. Brigid of Kildare. Oh, you've never heard of me? What a surprise! I understand that there's recently been an International Women's Day in celebration of what was once called the fairer sex. How nice to see that the ladies are getting a portion of their due - and how enraging to see that as far as Saints' Days go, not one single blessed thing has changed. Everybody just looooves that snake-hating weirdo Patrick, don't they? Do I dare even point out that Ireland never had any snakes to begin with, because they couldn't swim across the Irish Sea? Leave it to a man to take credit for a woman's work - and in this case, that woman is Mother Nature herself. If Patrick had a genius for anything, it was branding. He managed to take the color of the entire country and make it all about him. You'd think the shamrock grew just so he could make his cutesy Holy Trinity analogy to people he didn't think could understand the concept of a tripartite God unless he explained it to them with a perennial weed. Way to condescend to your flock, Patrick, though looking at the wealth of swag and merch that winds up in the gutter every year, even I have to admit it seems to have worked. I get it. You like to drink. Patrick is your fun guy, the divorced* dad who lets you do anything you please at weekends. And you think because I am a consecrated virgin, I'm no fun? I turned water into beer, you half-wits! You want to dye your beer and your rivers green for that preening jackass, go right ahead, but turning beer into green beer looks pretty weak compared with turning regular H2O into fun juice, you ask me. Did you know that in Haitian Vodou, I'm worshipped as a death loa? I'm the consort to Baron Samedi! One of my relics is my skull! How much more metal can you even get? If you want to get hammered on a Saint Day, why not get yourself a skull-shaped shot glass and go to town, and piss off with this fey green beer bullshit? Speaking of which: Patrick's real name is Maewyn. What a weenie. So if you're really interested in honoring women, I submit that you start with getting wasted in *my* name instead. As my Saint Day falls on February 1st, this would be a terrific way to end your little Dry January experiment. As an added bonus, you'll be able to imbibe without having to cede your bar stool to every Brian, Ryan, and Sully from every racist Boston suburb who shows up in a green paper top hat and threatens to show you their pot o' gold. And that, my friends, would be a true miracle. Yours in Perpetual Fire, Brigid PS: do not even get me started on St. Columba. That guy is the worst. *not that either one of us would condone divorce, what are we, Anglicans?
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Twice a year, dependent upon scheduling concerns, Earth's mythological creatures meet to discuss today's hottest celebrities, trends and other bits of pop culture phenomenon. Here is a transcript of a recent get together: Dave the Unicorn: Okay, are we ready to go ahead with the minutes? Is everyone here yet? Bigfoot: Well hang on for a second. Speaking of minutes, could we take a few to talk about this sparkling glitter that seems to float around you at all times? What the hell is that? When we finish our meetings, the floor looks like 2 AM when they turn the lights on at a strip club. Lochness Monster: Ha! Dave the Unicorn: C'mon man… ugh. Okay, listen… it's psoriasis, oka?. Bigfoot: What the fuck, are you serious?? All of that shit is your psoriasis?! How could you not mention that? Dave the Unicorn: Okay, okay…. I'm sorry! It's embarrassing. I don't like to bring it up. Pixie Fairy: I just figured it was some sort of magical dust or something. I've been breathing it in for years, you asshole! Dave the Unicorn: Jesus Christ, calm down! It's not poisonous or something. It's just my dead skin flakes. Bigfoot: I'm gonna be sick… Dave the Unicorn: Can we just get started here? This is getting way off topic. Lochness: I guess the biggest talking point is Taylor Swift. Has there ever been a bigger pop icon? She was literally on the cover of every magazine a month or two ago. Bigfoot: Ugh, I feel her pain. That's a rough existence. Dave the Unicorn: What?? Are you serious? You've had your photo taken exactly one time!! Once!!! Bigfoot: Yeah, but that one photo has been reprinted, like, everywhere. It still counts. Lochness: Yup, yup… amen brother. That pic of me that's been floating around for years haunts my every step. Stay strong Taylor! Dave the Unicorn: Oh good grief. Bigfoot: You don't know what its like. You're in no position to be so flippant. Carlton the Centaur: I did that porn movie that one time. Bigfoot: That's not the same thing, Carlton. And you know it. We talk about this at, like, every meeting. Carlton: Okay, okay. Pixie Fairy: Can we please be dismissed now? This sparkly psoriasis is really beginning to choke me over here. Dave the Unicorn: C'mon guys. I'm beginning to feel like I'm being bullied. Pixie Fairy: You're not being bullied, I can't fucking breathe! Bigfoot: Okay guys, that's enough. I don't think that we're going to get much accomplished right now. Let's just call it a day. Lochness: And let's not forget to take a moment to send some good vibes out to the Golem again. It's a real mess over there right now. Dave the Unicorn: Yes, yes… excellent. And could a few of you guys stick around a grab a broom for the sparkling unicorn dust? Guys? C'mon guys!!
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INT. CAESAR'S CUBICULUM- EVENING JULIUS CAESAR is getting ready to meet with the Senate. His wife, CALPURNIA, tries to talk him out of it. CALPURNIA: Husband, please. I had a premonition - your statue drenched in blood. CAESAR: The blood of my enemies, no doubt! Thank you, that's a nice confidence-booster. CALPURNIA: But don't you remember what the soothsayer said? "Beware the Ides of March." CAESAR: Let'sjust cross that Rubicon when we come to it. When are the Ides? CALPURNIA: Today! CAESAR: And we're fine! See, nothing to worry about. Now, where did I put those laurels… CALPURNIA: Have you read the letterArtemidorus wrote you? CAESAR: Ugh, Artemidorus.The "diviner." We'll see who's diviner. You know I'm a descendant of Venus, right? CALPURNIA: Yes, you've mentioned that many times. CAESAR: Good. So what's in this letter? CALPURNIA: He says to beware Brutus, come not near Casca, trust not Trebonius, and mark well Metellus CAESAR: Boy, that's a lot of alliteration.A little flowery for my tastes. But, in the spirit of democracy, what'sold Artie say about Cinna? CALPURNIA: "Have an eye to Cinna." CAESAR: I'm no Catullus, but if you're going to run with the alliteration, at least be consistent. CALPURNIA: Husband, focus. CAESAR: What's our fireplace got to do with this? Anyway,the Senate adores me.Brutus and I have this special handshake - he's always like, "Et tu, Caesar!" And I'm like, "Et tu, Brute!" It's cute. CALPURNIA: Didn't you lie with Brutus's mother? CAESAR: I fail to see how that's relevant. CALPURNIA: Then why this morning did I overhear Brutus asking Casca how one might remove blood stains from one's toga? CAESAR: We get blood on our togas all the time! Do you know how many sheep I've sacrificed this week? I don't even know who I'm sacrificing them to. I just don't want to offend some minor deity who then burns my toast for the rest of my life. CALPURNIA: Brutus specified that it would be human blood. CAESAR: My guess? Requiescat in pace, Artemidorus. Guy's got a spottier track record than that meteorologist who forecasts the weather by rummaging through bull innards. CALPURNIA: I also saw several senators gleefully sharpening their daggers. One made a throat-cutting gesture and winked at me. CAESAR: What? Which one? CALPURNIA: Trebonius. CAESAR: Well, trust not Trebonius. Now, when you say "several" CALPURNIA: Sixty. CAESAR: Sixty? CALPURNIA: Much of the Senate plots against you. CAESAR: Why would anyone want to kill their boss? CALPURNIA: … CAESAR: Sixty guys, wow. They must be planning something big - a surprise deification ceremony!(laughs) Boy, that is really going to stick in Artemidorus's craw. CALPURNIA:I worry more about daggers sticking in your back. CAESAR:Even if you're right, how bad could it be? You stab a person four, five times, tops. He's dead, we get it. CALPURNIA: Husband, I beg you CAESAR: Look, Cal. I know it's the Ides, and the soothsayer soothsaid some things, and you had a scary dream, and Artemidorus warned me about a scheme, and the fellas were sharpening their blades and making menacing gestures, and pretty much everything that's happened this past month portends a grisly end for your beloved Julius… CALPURNIA:Why do I foresee a "but"? CAESAR: …but I've got a really great feeling about this meeting. I think it's going to be rather momentous. Historic, even. CURTAIN.
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Just a little poop on my jacket, it'll wash right off. These things happen. It's fine, it's fine, it's totally fine. But why is it so wet? Is it a poop or a pee? Or a combo… Anyway, it's good luck. I think. Do people say that? Did I hear that somewhere? I could use a bit of luck. But what do I need luck for? Is it something specific? Does this bird know something I don't know?? Oh God, it's also in my hair! Is this how people get the avian flu? Am I patient zero of a new pandemic?? Must go to the hospital ASAP. Should I get one of those bubble suits? Wonder if Amazon sells them. It's probably fine though. It's just a little poop. It's fine, it's fine, it's totally fine. Though that bird looked familiar. Pretty sure I scared it when it was trying to snatch a bagel off the sidewalk. It might be revenge. People were walking behind me and in front of me, and yet it chose to poop on me. Why me? I am not even wearing bright colors. Are birds color-blind? No, that's dogs I think. Yup, this has "vendetta" written all over it. I've been marked. The splatter looks like a Rorschach pattern. Have I seen this shape before? The bird is trying to tell me something. Or maybe it's working through its parents' divorce. Either way, it can't be good. Divorce happens all the time. Probably more frequently than marriage these days. Wait, is that statistically possible? The pattern looks angry, kinda like a threat to kidnap a loved one. I should probably not wash off the poop in case someone can decipher the message. Where can I find one of those Bletchley Park code-breaking people? If I don't wash it off though, it will undoubtedly ruin this coat. Do I even like this coat? I've been thinking lately that it doesn't look great on me. Maybe the bird did me a favor, like bird fashion police, pooping on jackets that are out of style. I'll donate this jacket. But then the cycle will continue on someone else. I can't be part of proliferating the pooping, it's unconscionable. Where did I land with going to the hospital? Might as well go. For the sake of humanity. Maybe I'll get a medal. Posthumously, of course. Since it's obviously too late for me. I still have to decide what to do with this coat… What did I just step in? Dog poop?? Just a little poop on my boots, it'll wash right off. These things happen. It's fine, it's fine, it's totally fine. Is dog poop bad luck? Does it negate the good luck from bird poop?? Will ask at the hospital. Wonder if I should get rid of these boots…
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Come in. Sit down. No, not in the front row. I don't like people getting too close. My name is Reacher. Not Mr. Reacher. Just Reacher. Now look around. You're in a library, and words literally surround you. Words like payback. Justice. Vengeance. Those are words I live by every day. You, don't tilt back in that chair. I can see you haven't been trained to execute that maneuver without injury - and right on cue, we've got a man down. Kid, you dropped faster than your reading scores on the last state test. But it's just blood, so stop howling. You don't need stitches. There's some Superglue right here. The rest of you can start your literary research projects in a moment. But first, are there any questions? Okay, go ahead. Yes, I was in the military. No, I don't have any war stories. All you need to know about me is that the Dewey Decimal System is my bayonet. And books are my garrote. If you don't know what that word means, look it up in your Funk & Wagnalls. And I meant questions about your topic. None? Then it's my turn. You in the back, excellent seating choice. Tell me the literary topic you're working on. Mark Twain? Okay, that's Samuel Clemens' pseudonym. You can learn a lot about a person by their pseudonym. As a young man, Samuel Clemens worked on steamboats. Sailors like him had to be vigilant about the water's depth. So crew members would regularly check it and shout "Mark twain!" if the water was 12 feet deep or more. Can you guess why 12 was an important number? That's correct. If the water was any shallower, the steamboat would run aground. Maybe it hits a rock and sinks. Steam engines explode. People drown. The point is, details matter. And assumptions kill. Like the assumption that you have that literary research is stupid. I know you're all thinking it. But let me tell you something. In the real world, the most lethal weapons of all are the right books. And today is your lucky day, because I know just where to find them. The books, I mean. My reference there may have been unclear. So think of your literary research as a self-defense project. Do it right, and you're going to be a more dangerous person by the time you finish. Get started. And remember: have fun.
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Been so long since a strange woman has slept in my bed. Bob Dylan [Drunk. Slurring words.] Baby, you need cooling. I'm not fooling. Going to send you back to schooling… Way down inside. Honey, you need it. Gonna give you every inch of my love. A whole lotta love. [All 4 inches.] Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin) You want to step into my world? It's a socio-psychotic state of bliss. Axl Rose (Guns N' Roses) You are the sun, I am the moon. You are the words, I am the tune. Play me. Neil Diamond You fill up my senses like a night in the forest. Like the mountains in springtime. Like a walk in the rain. Come: let me love you. John Denver If you start me up, I'll never stop. Mick Jagger (Rolling Stones) I eat more chicken than any man ever seen. Yeah. Yeah. Jim Morrison (The Doors) Are you human. Or are you dancer? Brandon Flowers (The Killers) I would do anything for love. But I won't do that. Do what? Stick around, and maybe you'll find out. Meat Loaf Do you believe in life after love? I can feel something inside me say I really don't think you're strong enough. Cher One pill makes you larger. Grace Slick (Jefferson Airplane) Oh, my lifestyle determines my death style. (Birth is pain.) A rising tide that pushes to the other side. (Life is pain.) My lifestyle determines my death style. (Death is pain.) A rising tide that pushes to the other side. (It's all the same.) James Hetfield (Metallica) If I waggle my ass like a dark prostitute, would you think less of me? Lou Reed (The Velvet Underground) I feel drunk, but I'm sober. Alanis Morissette I know I've got a screw loose. Just meet me in the bedroom. Courtney Love Well, I guess it would be nice if I could touch your body. George Michael So, err, are you experienced? Have you ever been experienced? Well, I have. Let me prove it to you. Jimi Hendrix Some people call me the space cowboy. Yeah. Some call me the gangster of love. Some people call me Maurice. Steve Miller (Steve Miller Band) [Very drunk] Abracadabra! I wannna reach out and grab ya. Steve Miller I feel so good if I just say the word 'Sus-Sussudio.' Just say the word, oh, 'Sus-Sussudio.' Phil Collins (Genesis) I ain't the worst that you've seen. Oh, can't you see what I mean? Ah, you might as well jump. David Lee Roth (Van Halen) And I'm back with the beaver hats and Ben Davis slacks. Thirty pack of Stroh's. No Rogaine in the propane flows. Kid Rock I wanna wrap you in rubber as pink as the sheets that we lay on. Steven Tyler (Aerosmith) I can be your hero, baby. I can kiss away the pain. Enrique Iglesias [Extremely drunk] Yeah, I'm a back door man. Whoa, baby, a back door man. The men don't know. But the little girls understand. Jim Morrison [Blackout drunk] In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby. Don't you know that I'm loving you? Doug Ingle (Iron Butterfly) I close my eyes… only for a moment… and the moment's gone. All my dreams pass before my eyes… a curiosity. Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind. Steve Walsh (Kansas) Note: Yes, these are their actual lyrics. That's, umm, kinda the point.
- Visa fler
