So basically everyone now needs to get their ass to Mars.

As someone who was actually there, I can confirm that polio wasn't what killed Andy's dad. It was lupus.

Don't worry, this is just the abridged version. The uncut work has trenchers, hot pies, and many casks of Dornish wine thrown in.

A Trump always gropes. This is known.

I'm just gritting my teeth until Wednesday, after which if Hillary, hopefully, has won by then, I'll collapse of nervous exhaustion and sleep for two days straight.

*quietly purchases sports almanac*

Cue Cranston screaming again about how "it's gonna send us back to the Stone Age!"

He's no daisy.

I'm still trying to bleach that film from my mind. Efforts have been mildly successful, at best.

I only use the classiest, most obscure references, believe me.

No word yet on whether he will reprising his award-winning performance as Mortdecai within the film itself.

I hope David Lynch brings enough damn fine coffee for everyone.

I can confirm that he's no daisy.

"Living there, you'll be free, if you truly wish to be~"

If there's one thing the history of politics has taught us, it's that Weiner will not be contained. Weiner breaks free, he expands to new territories and crashes through email barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously. I'm simply saying that Weiner, uh…finds a way.

So Jeff Goldblum will be reprising his Oscar-worthy performance as Dr. Ian Malcolm in the season finale? Make it so, Westworld.

*Thomas Pynchon continues to wait eagerly by the phone, before remembering it was disconnected in the early 1980s*

The only thing that could really put Gibson back into Hollywood's good graces would be the long-awaited "Braveheart" sequel: "William Wallace: Havana Nights."

No more Trump, the fire next time.

*stashes seven percent solution until January*