Fuck IPA fever. I am so sick of wasting ten minutes per table explaining our vanilla espresso IPA, our 36,000,000-minute IPA, our Antidisestablishmentarianism IPA. Go hump a barrel of hops and GTFO of my face.

You know what? I love the balls on Cara Sloane to tell a BCO story about her own fuck-up. Just about every one of these is told from the waiter’s point of view, so I am always curious as to how customers would tell one of these (and what the exact hell was goin on in their cerebellums)...

“ If you don’t succeed in business, you shouldn’t be the first one to step up and complain about getting paid.”

Staying in school, and saying maybe sometimes to drugs.

My road wreck fantasies were never that I wanted to be hurt, more like, “damn it would be so easy to go from in control of the car, to a smear on the side of the highway.” And then I’d grip the wheel a little tighter and slap some sense into my face for some hyper vigilance.

Sometimes, when I’m driving to work, I think that I’d rather have a disabling accident than live through another week of bullshit. Not the same thing? Okay, I have nothing to offer here. Bless it, as we say here.

I feel a strong kinship with the girl in the lower right corner, eating soft serve and being ignored.

these are the most fucking honest people among us

Yeah, well baseball is duller than pig shit. What else is there to do?

Coconut lime popsicles - coconut milk, sugar, lime juice. Pretty darn tasty.

If you are interested in regional Chinese cooking I highly recommend Fuchsia Dunlop’s books. This week I made yuxiang eggplant (鱼香茄子）and it was great! Just like what I ate in Sichuan.

Definitely read that as: Julia Roberts is “leaning on kefir.” I pictured her pounding shots of it while repeating FERMENT NOT LAMENT bc that’s how i deal with marriage troubles.

When my mother decided that it was time for my little sister to start wearing deodorant, my sister indicated that it was handled already and she’d been wearing it for months. We found out later she’d been using my mother’s Summer’s Eve in her armpits.

Heather Chandler may have taught Veronica Sawyer to fuck with the eagles (even getting her into a Remington party—a REMINGTON PARTY!) and what did she get in return?

You have violated my closet vag.

And all I got was this stupid marriage license.

As if that weren’t already a narrow pool of suspects, Browns starters have since raced to deny it was them—six players at latest count (not including Josh McCown, who probably doesn’t need to issue a denial).

Yeah, my husband has a bedroom towel, too. It’s frequently crusty and not so absorbent. But maybe you mean something different.

I have to assume dying at 11 AM is at least partially a conscious decision. If you’re old and have been up since 5, by 11 you’re faced with the option to go make yourself a sandwich for lunch, or die in your recliner.