When I was starting my career 30 odd years ago, some asshat called me “sweetheart” on the phone when we were trying to negotiate a lease. I shot back and called him “dearie” and he apologized. It’s tiring that we have to still stand up to these old fucks, but it still has to be done, unfortunately.

My dad used to pull the “ladylike” crap on me. Telling him that I learned how to curse, etc, from him never worked, it was only after I sharply retorted, “Since I am a lady, my behavior is, by its very nature, ladylike,” coupled with the death stare that I inherited from his mother, that he finally stopped.

I wish there was an age restriction or term limits or something that got these old fucks out of the government faster. We need fresh minds. We need diversity. We don’t need old white men getting older but still in complete and total control of a world that is changing far faster than they can possibly keep up with.

holy shit, right!? I don’t even think I could make my brain think that thought, much less my mouth say that sentence, when in conversation with a child.

He responded to a nine-year old: “You won’t be saying that when you’re 40 and you’ve got cobwebs in your box.”

If you didn’t love Sarah in the series Avonlea then may I suggest a heart transplant to replace the cold, dark one you have inside of you right now.

Actually, I quite like that she has no problem sourcing her own mother as the person who taught her how to speak to these cretins. Her mother should be a proud parent!

Would’ve been funnier if the conversation with the pearl-clutching beat “reporter” didn’t go like this:

Came here to say this.

That’s the problem. Plenty of war criminals are also charming scamps at cocktail parties. It’s why everyone always turned a blind eye to their being war criminals.

I can barely talk about Bojack with anyone because it hits me so hard. I just tell people to watch it if they can handle a talking animated horse living in an alternate universe of humans and animals making bad decisions causing you to question your entire self-worth over and over. But I watch that shit alone.

A friend of mine used to wait tables at a high end steakhouse in DC and passed along this Rumsfeld story: when Rumsfeld ordered a coke, my friend asked “Regular or diet?” and old Rummy answered with a twinkle in his eye “Surprise me.” He also tipped quite well.

Wouldn’t it be funny if Bale just took times of fatter and fatter people? Like he decided “working out is hard, and Oliver Platt will drop dead soon. And someone has to take those roles that were supposed to go to Philip Seymour Hoffman”

Oh, and I spilled his french fries and he wasn’t even mad.

It was part of the push to convince every woman to wear at least three layers of tops, winter or summer.

i can trace the end of my innocence to the very day i declined the banana republic catalog, with its hand-drawn depiction of far away lands, climes and adventures, for the victoria’s secret catalog, which drew the aforementioned hand quite differently.

I’ve just not been able to determine, at any point in the last 10 years, who Gap thought they were making clothes for. I still enjoy their Gap Body stuff, and when their athletic stuff is on sale I’ll take a peek, but their regular clothes are just so fucking bizarre. It’s like hey, what if we took regular t-shirts…

Fuck chub rub. I don’t even feel like my thighs are THAT big but I gave myself a nasty rash/injury. My friend recommended bandelettes and my life has changed.

As a kid, I felt like this every Sunday night. I once said out loud ‘Sunday nights make me feel like I don’t want to be alive’ and my mom flipped. It’s just ennui, mom!