For the same reason there are slowdowns in the lanes OPPOSITE the accident scene.

Every year at CPAC time there's something on the internet about this phenom and every year the hypocrisy makes me grind ('scuse the pun) my teeth.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a starlet in possession of a good face and figure must be in want of good sense.

Gardening. My eyebrows. With tweezers.

Ms. Ryan, when you write things like "A Gathering of the Juggalos for Rick Santorum superfans," I fall in love with you all over again.

I just remember my hand flapping around a lot as if it had a (dorky embarrassing) life of its own.

No kidding. Arms, too - it's just adorkable with two extra inches of wrist protruding from sleeves.

Seconded! Or thirded. Or whatever.

Also: intense, saturated, cheesey colors. Like being large cancels out subtlety.

I made most of my clothes in H.S. I stopped wearing dresses that weren't homemade because, for instance, I have an extra 3" in my waist length. I was just looking at a very tailored, severe coat the other day and thought "Dayyum! I oughta get back to sewing!"

Her breasts look like frosting in a pastry bag. Frosting that is maybe a little melty so the bag is floppy and needs to back in the fridge for a while until it's the right consistency to pipe onto cupcakes.

Oh, if we neglect a load of darks, sometimes just for an afternoon, forget it - it smells so bad it needs to be re-washed.

I keep the door open on the washing machine open as often as I can. The tight seal on the door makes the mildew thing almost inevitable, I think; I noticed it big time on a house we rented for a few summer weeks.

Climb aboard the brigade du jour to sell product! Fifty years ago it was aprons, now it's "empowerment."

Our dog is 14, and has been getting these regularly for about 18 months. This particular vet has a reputation for "upselling" all kinds of tests and stuff ... they recommended an X-ray and I declined. Now I'm feeling guilty. She doesn't seem to be in any pain, though.

Well said!

Feeble fist-bump. Our dog is on the mend from a UTI (she is 14 and gets them more and more often) and the carpeting has moon piles of Borax everywhere she had an accident. I was thinking of improvising a diaper next time she gets one. What we do is hoard the antibiotics at the end of a course, so the vet yells at…

I keep hoping we'll evolve as a species. Probably about 40,000 years too soon for that hope, though.

This made me have sad fantasies that, like Linda Hamilton in Terminator II, the old woman had been secretly getting buff and would return to kick his fucking ass right down the polished floor and inject him with poisonous substances.

If the measure of a civilization is how it treats its weakest members, the U.S. is failing. Miserably, and on all counts.