My standby line was always, “Well, I’m WORTH a million bucks an hour. But I’ll understand if you have to keep it a little lower.” Clearly a joke, and it usually elicited a chuckle. No idea if it ever got me a higher salary, but I can safely say that it never got me a million bucks per hour. Maybe I should have gone…

Okay, I get it - as a resident of Indiana, I get it better than roughly 49 out of every 50 U.S. citizens. Pence is not a good guy. He governed Indiana (and there’s certainly no reason to believe he’ll change as VP) as though he was representing Jesus and not the electorate.

Yup. Keeping Starbucks accountable by keeping them profitable. Please boycott my business next.

Wow. I never realized there were so many far-right-wing proofreaders, editors and English professors.

In no way meant as a reflection on Ms. Duval, for whom I wish only the best, but the first sign of mental illness is the belief that Dr. Phil can help you. And the first sign of being a syndicated shitbag is the willingness to heartlessly exploit someone so clearly in need of help from an ACTUAL professional.

Hey! I’ve lived in Indiana for over thirty years and I...deeply resent...your...characterization...Damn! Almost got through that without cracking myself up.

He was using fresh-squeezed orange juice as his makeup base back then. Now it’s concentrate.

Ms. Reynolds, I strongly object to your characterization of Mr. Trump as “a sentient pile of dirty sheets covered in poop.” How dare you, madam! How dare you refer to him as “sentient”!

On the other hand, the rise of the virtually unchecked use of the Executive Order has, I think, thrown those checks way out of balance. Taken with the twenty-plus-year trend of presidents perceiving themselves as much less the chief representative of the electorate than The All-Knowing Chosen One, this election is…

Great. Now you’ve really pissed off Jimmy Hoffa.

Years ago, I was bitten by a friend’s golden retriever (yeah, I know) who’d growled at my young son. Forearm, didn’t hurt, not that much blood, no stitches. I didn’t really think anything of it. A month later, feeling more and more like I was slowly dying (but having all but forgot the dog bite), I saw my doctor. I’d…

My cable provider shows something quiet, chill and long-lasting pretty frequently...

Similar to my tactic - except that yours is reasonable. I’m a New York/PA transplant living in the Midwest. If I’m called out for mispronouncing something, I just casually toss out, “Oh, that’s how we say it where I’M from.” Sadly, it works. Some people even look impressed.

I’m 100% with you. I gave up going for a six-pack years ago. In my 40s, I proudly sported a keg. In my 50s, it somehow became the whole brewery.

The first half of the letter might actually have made for a useful warning for a college-age male. Perhaps Turner Elder should have discussed those consequences with his son before he went off to school instead of with the judge who was sentencing him for rape.

I’m dreading the day my younger son starts driving: the only racing game he was ever interested in was Mario Kart. God help us if he spots a field full of mushrooms.

No doubt I’m not the first one to say it, but this guy needs to change his middle name from “Craig” to “A” - Fuckin’ A Mazin.

It’s not “Any Rand.” It’s “Ayn Rand.”

And you left out, “Back in my day, when men were men...” But I do love “hooliganery.” Not sure of the pronunciation, though. Is it “hoo-luh-guhn’-uh-ree” or “hoo’-luh-guh-nuh-ree”?

True, but it’s a vintage, artisanally crafted, locally sourced knob.