I don't have much faith in the defense without Jerod Mayo. Although watching Brandon Browner rack up multiple penalties per quarter in pass coverage has been pretty entertaining.

The Pats have been extra-fun to watch this year.

I would like to know, without casting any aspersions at all, where you copied this from. (I'm assuming it's from a source of your own, but no judgment if you got it from elsewhere.)

Just the thought of David Letterman being young is staggering to ponder.

I'm not sure what's funny about that. Who wants to mess with a pimp?

Be careful shooting at mirrored aircraft.

I'd like to hear what types of "official functions" Albert Burneko might describe as "gravid."

I would read an entire series of these. On Gawker Media. This is outstanding.

Under the Personal Conduct Policy, a deferred adjudication of the kind entered in Montgomery County establishes a basis for imposing discipline.

Yes, the wavelength where direct expression and sarcasm aren't baffling phenomena hopelessly entwined with the ineffable mysteries of existence — but instead are just another set of signs to be decoded, in a way that any moderately bright high-school sophomore can probably manage.

So it becomes quite difficult to interpret what these points actually ARE, because he's making a straightforward point in one line and then saying something sarcastically in the next,

But I haven't fisted a sheep in, like, three weeks now. That Little League World Series was really compelling.

You lying Cretan.

Oh, like you wouldn't jump at the first opportunity to bro it up with Hipster Jon Stewart if he sat down next to you.

They secretly can't wait for Janeane Garofalo to take over. NOW THAT KID LOOKS TOUGH!

Then wouldn't this post be put in the category of "not leading to anything" as well?

I can barely tell the difference between a Bills tailgate and a 1970s Manchester coal-plant union protest.

Our backyard, which was full of pine trees, had been decorated by VCR tape. All night I watched that tape blow in the wind, fascinated by what my mother would say when she came home from work. I remember waking up that night to the sound of her crying.

We willingly fuck up our Thanksgivings—giving up one of the few days off we get a year to spend with family—watching our team drown the fun out of a great sport like some batshit postpartum mom.

I am now 30 years old. The prime of my life is gone. I work, I'm married, I'm thinking about having kids.