Yeah, demand a refund.

“We’re trying to be transparent without being stupid.”

I would happily slap her for you. Free of charge, and with a big ol’ crazy grin.

That flag would be threadbare in a day and a half.

You... You know, Howard’s not here... right?

No, crabby, I DO not.

If Wisdom of the Crowd* wants to know who is the deranged killer is, it’s me, and their commercials are the cause. No need to crowdsource me hunting down that Stuart Little wannabe with a toupee; I did it.

“New Christine.”

“I don’t see messes. Just opportunities. In my rear view mirror as I speed out of your scary neighborhood.”

I have known awesome, Ms. Kelly. You are not awesome.

I know: I’m going to quit dragging the fucking sprinkler around the new sod if it’s all going to fry up to a cinder in a flash. Seriously, I’m not paying that damn landscaping bill either.

We contain multitudes. Of dismay.

Leave God’s Will alone.

Interesting. God is telling me his head is a baseball, and God wants a home run. Or seventeen.

If we were me, we’d know the answer to that.

You have to admit though, this uptight, flutter-sleeved, turtleneck, sweater-weight, tucked-in, straining both literally and figuratively, unflattering, boob-mashing “garment” is the perfect look for standing in a newsroom and rigidly rambling on about a list of movies that make you sound like you have multiple,…

Fetch us a ginger ale, me!

Doesn’t help that I am composed of 70% pre-existing conditions, 18% fat and crumbling molars, and 12% mental illness.

Same here. Took early retirement, and negotiated a lump sum for eighteen months of COBRA coverage, but coverage runs out next summer. NO ONE is going to want to insure crumbly, old me. I will be lucky if I end up a head in a jar, connected to a printer.

Hmm.