And for “dessert”: 30-seconds of passionate grunting followed by loud snoring.

So... 1,542-words (8,912-characters) to say:

Want to scare the modern American? Begin your paragraph with:

My tech bag has a slip of paper with the words, “Gone until Tuesday. Call my assistant” on it.

Fifty shades of entitlement. I get you.

I look at these posts and then I mutter, “Damn. There really is a single helix.”

“Awesome”. Someone telling me how much they love HotPockets /and/ Fallout 4 just became one-touch easy for them.

So... More Jaden Smith moobies. And...

Oh... you and your music.

It’s Tennessee. There’s “snake handling” and “snake handling”. If they could, for once, spell out the difference, then there would be no “relentless media agenda.”

“Why do I have these sores all over my lips?” said another.

I never learned how to drive.

Whoa... whoa... whoa. Chelsea Handler had a talk show for seven years?

Because “bat shit crazy” wasn’t gettin’ the love.

Because in 1986 everyone was fucking sick of going to see Cats.

So... fundamentally: By Tweeting during jury duty you’re not really paying attention to somebody else’s possible life wrecking situation.

I used to put “Wired Magazine wrote articles about me four times” but then I realized that only interns plowed through the resumes.

The best dates I’ve ever had have been due to a “cute bump” at the grocery store, ASKED FOR THE DATE, and then noticed their entire cart is full of turkey basters, plastic bags and ten-cans of cake frosting.

According to Hemingway’s classic, “I Write Because I Don’t Really Give a Fuck and Scotch Costs Money” any time a writer pens the words:

He sounds like a dream boat. Dinner, drinks and then he drops you off at your place so he can get right home and “autocomplete”.