Wow. You shall have no Airing of Grievances.

My money is also on Beyonce. I have a feeling she's going to do well.

Well, despite the fact that A.J., a la Pete Rose, placed bets on the outcomes of comments — for example, he once wagered five grand that EMS would finally post a funny one, and, needless to say, his bookie is still hunting him down — the soon-to-be Dauleriomeritus certainly merits a DHOF spot.

On the other hand, Champaign Jake just doesn't have the same cachet.

Suddenly it dawns on me that I am unsure of the provenance of the sour cream.

Yeah, but then again, I ate bean-and-cheese nachos directly off her crotch, so I'm really not very hungry.

Well, 10.5 women does seem an impossible figure, but keep in mind that for six straight years, Paul McCartney slept with .75 woman.

A bar? Are you crazy? C'mon, you're all comin' to my house!

+1

Well, she's also a big fan of yours truly, not to mention a fat-ass, so it should come as no surprise that she referred to you as "sloppy seconds."

You'll pay for this!

I had a fan problem once, when I stuck my dick in one just to see what would happen.

Pictured: the gloryholes at Jack's Joke Shop, South Attleboro, Massachusetts.

In an odd reversal of the stock induction speech, this is our way of thanking one of the little people.

Wow, The Forty-Six Days of Christmas really starts with a doozy.

A writer not in "good standing:" Charles Krauthammer.

Not to mention his horse, Rocinante With Rice And Beans.

To see a quixotic grab at quiches, on the other hand, tune into Oliver Miller's new Food Network show, The Man of La Muncha.

How dare you!

[Fuck, I'd respond by insulting EMS, but he won't reply for hours, as he is currently rooting around for underwear in the back of a Goodwill truck.]