Kinda changes the meaning of “cancer stick,” doesn’t it?

I am from a small town. I can assure you we did not have a thrift store.

“...refuge for people who have completely and utterly given up.”

I hate the Post, but will remember this front page as long as I live, for its humor and its tastelessness.

But having blurry video of people at night isn’t really all that useful.

We buried my grandmother last month in Philly, but not at this cemetery.

As a former surly teen whose friends thought it was cool to hang out in cemeteries at night, I can confirm that most seem to have pretty much no security at all.

I was thinking more mental/spiritual oppression, but this is good too.

I don’t know if they have any security because the incidents were less common (or possibly rare). And of course they’re probably happening in the period from sunset Friday night until sunset Saturday night when the cemeteries would be unoccupied.

Like some of them get stuck under a toppled headstone and get gangrene, losing a limb?

Hard to report trouble when all the neighbors are dead.

Entire animal?

They don’t. It’s for sleight of hand.

Oh, get over yourself. It’s a skillful art form. Just because you don’t appreciate it doesn’t mean they shouldn’t honor those who achieve greatness within their community.

I’m a chef you fucking idiot. I know exactly what it means and I know it’s a fucking rip off, because I know what all that shit fucking costs. Go be a hipster moron 5 years behind the trends before trying to engage with people who actually know what the fuck they’re talking about.

I hate them too. I’m of the “Joey doesn’t share food!” philosophy. No, I do not want your fingers all over the sixty-seven plates so can get *one* bite of each. I want my own damn food.

Tapas means “I have to go to this fucking birthday party and pay more money for an incomplete meal and then wind up ordering a pizza later anyway.” That’s what tapas means.

I would go to a restaurant where they randomly carved chunks of meat off a carcass, cooked it up, and plopped it down in front of me until it was nothing but a pile of picked-over bones. My grandfather was a butcher, and my dad hunted and prepped his own venison, so it would be like my childhood all over again, minus…