One more day in the Ubu Administration.

I keep waiting for the last straw, but that camel is one sturdy motherfucker.

Only bet on predictions from an octopus.

Never trust a man who uses “disciple” as a verb.

Or the guards start abusing them all. Some creeps will be requesting duty there.

I next fear a politically weaponized ICE. A U.S. citizen by birth could be on a list and have his passport confiscated upon presenting it, then be disappeared for a while or forever.

Well, he is the danger . . .

They look (and taste!) like shriveled Teletubby testicles. 

I’ve seen her shoes. At Nordstrom’s Rack.

He still has a way to go.

1990s: Alice in Chains

I’m thinking a lot of unauthorized shagging has to happen in hotels. Rooms, beds, alcohol, travelers with nobody watching and less of the buzzkill of sickness and death than in hospitals (usually).

We’re far worse than centipedes. They at least punched above their weight and inspired a video game.

The Tribune’s burying the lede. The people have the right to know: sauce or dry rub?

As Patrick Henry once said, “I disagree with how you eat ice cream, but I will defend to the death your right to eat it that way.”

Spicoli 2.0.

I think Shitty Future has this covered.

A Nobel Prize scientist named Luis Federico Leloir supposedly invented “salsa golf” in the 1920s in Argentina, as a side sauce for prawns.

Why, Lord, why?

We are dodgy primates incompletely civilized by dogs.