All the stars to you, good sir.

Sweet hero cats > EVERYTHING.

Oh god. That makes me want to scurry for the exit, and I’m sitting at home right now!

I had to check to see if it came out on the 1st. Sadly, it didn’t.

I am not bad looking, and I would never, either.

I demand a refund. And I haven’t even hired either one!

His full head of hair is retreating in terror of his delusions, and her eyebags are packed for a permanent vacation from all that stunning beauty. I say we match these two up, preferably in a cage, and charge admission. It should be fascinating to watch.

Thankfully, I’ve never had a kitten that stupid.

She’s realized that being a Trophy Wife is where the money is.

Guffaw. I notice that the patient has no genitalia. Conveniently, the Bread Basket hides that suspicious absence.

Dear Goddess, he really IS elaborately stupid. Bless his little steroid-shrivelled heart.

Dittoes, and I’m 49.

His jeans don’t cover his underpants. That’s embarrassing.

Quel fromage...er, DOMMAGE.

You can’t look away because trainwrecks and basilisks are made of the same creepily compelling shit, and you’re having trouble figuring out which category this dude falls into?

This deserves all the stars. Why does it not have more?

Saw that. Good thing Proust is dead, is all I could think.

Oh hell, I get the feeling that he has never even given himself an orgasm. Which is quite the feat for such an onanist.

“I got these manly manboobs from lifting all these hardcover volumes of my vanity-published Deep Thoughts!”

I’m guessing he was rejected by some Ivy League uni or other, and that’s the crux of his whole argument.