I don't know, but the Jesus sure looks like Jonathan Frakes.

I'd say the brainiest part is figuring out how to not drop the package into the pool or on the roof.

Since they closed down a bunch of post offices and reduced the hours of remaining ones, certified mail has become something of a practical joke: It's a great way to fuck with someone by forcing him/her to spend a two-hour lunch break standing in line.

"And now, if you’ll allow me a moment of sincerity"

I don't really know whether I should upvote or downvote this.

Hey Vinnie, I have-a no job.

Jesus, that Slate write-up. So much wasted intellectual effort on a Twitter feed.

Santana Row as an architectural parable for the shrinking middle class in America… I like it.

Whatever age an adolescent character is supposed to be, add ten years to get the age of the actor playing the character.

Like a middle-aged white guy heading off market instability by transferring his investments to mutual funds.
(yes, yes you are)

"And the fact that they still have all of their fingers!"

Even if it's of the Hieronymus Bosch-variety.

I think a PG-13 apocalypse would be the worst to go through: You'd have to endure a Transformers level of carnage, but you couldn't swear and there wouldn't be any nudity.

So…. yeah…. Manos….

Big McLargehuge!

Drainage, Eli. Drainage. Drained dry. I'm so sorry.

Describing a coastal town as "west of Sacramento" doesn't make much sense. It's like describing a town on the Atlantic coast as being "east of Cleveland."

"Everything is worth what the purchaser is willing to pay for it," according to Publilius.

They should play atop the Farallones as the sun goes down. That would be epic.

Sweet, Shoreline Amphitheater. That's the best one can hope for when forced to attend (shudder) an arena venue when living in the Bay Area—even if it rains.