Please, for love of God, take him off my hands. He still owes me $87.50 on the cable bill, he ate all my bolgna, and his mustache clippings keep clogging the drain. On the plus side, he did teach me his secret hobo stew recipe.

I fucking loathe Jonathan Franzen.

You are a good person and I like you. Don Gately is my spirit animal. Or maybe it’s Mario Incandenza, depending on my mood.

Probably my favorite book ever. Feel free to make dark assumptions about my personality based on this. I swear to god though, Toadvine is one of the single funniest characters ever written in the English language. Also, yes, it is immensely distressing. I’m probably going to end up doing my thesis on it.

Holy fucking shit, in some of those still pictures Berman looks like Dilfer just murdered a puppy in front of him. The expression of total sadness with just a morbid twinge of ‘please God, let it be me next. I’m so tired.’

But rises again, harder and stronger.

Everything about that picture screams “Why yes, I have chlamydia!”

You made me Google image search Pontiac Fiero. I feel unclean now.

+every goddamn star, ever. This is the only song I’d ever do on karaoke nights when I worked the door. I always made the sound guy Kenny do Kirsty MacColl’s part. Shane MacGowan is the snaggletoothed, drunken embodiment of true Christmas.

You’re being pedantic. If a human-sized prolapsed asshole is capable of pedantry, I suppose.

I was going to post something to this effect, but you beat me to it. He looks like Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel’s bro cousin who went to Arizona State.

Somehow that’s even sadder than “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Browns-Bills is the darkest midnight of the soul.

Yes yes, but smell those cliffs and you’re not going to want to be close enough to the cove to enjoy the view. Also, those fat-ass sea lions are ornery.

La Jolla is ‘nice’ in the same way that your elderly aunt who wears Martha Stewart turtlenecks and quietly voted for Trump and drives a Bentley but still gives you the same $20 slipped into a Christmas card that you’ve been getting every goddamn Christmas since you were 8 is ‘nice.’

I used to set picks like that in middle school. At age 13 I was 6'3, 220 pounds-ish. I was not popular.

Under indictment for some kind of massive charity fraud, apparently.

Goddamnit it’s like Larry Bird and Karl Malone had a baby and lovingly raised him to always find the open shooter on the wing and that basketball rims are evil, sinful things that need to be slammed like you’re kicking the devil in the groin. As a 6'5 white-ish person who can barely touch the rim, I find this…

If I ever produce male issue I shall name him Barnaby. Builds character.

To be fair to Trumplenuts it’s more like 1933 Germany than 1937 at this point. The Night of the Long Knives hasn’t happened yet, although if the news suddenly came out that Elizabeth Warren ‘volunteered’ for a totally voluntary reeducation sleep away camp on an unnumbered locked floor of the Trump Tower, let’s say I…

The book version of In the Heart of the Sea is far, far, far better. I’m not saying that as a book snob who always thinks the book is better (ok maybe 70% of the time.) Ron Howard hopelessly fucks anything he touches now. I’m pretty sure if he directed an adaptation of Everybody Poops it would suck. And on a related…