Just like bad sex, amirite?

You know, when the world was less like MMA every day, MMA seemed uniquely savage and brutal amid the relative restlessness.

And to think I thought Panera’s most distasteful thing was pink-pimping Breast Cancer Awareness to sell bagels.

DING DING DING DING DING.

As a former altar boy who used to hold the plate under people’s chins at communion, lest the host drop to the floor (All y’all got some NASSSSTY tongues, btw), I was gonna get all righteous about how low-key, sacramentally sacrilegious this was. Then I read the author’s middle name. And it all made sense.

It was Arizona, so he did it with his left turn signal on for 25 miles.

While I applaud the enthusiasm with which the Takeout crew attacked Butter Week (Which, I have to admit, felt more like Butter Three Days), I’d be down with Vodka Week.

Smelly ring, smelly ring, how are they cleaning you?

And now I want to make it in my Instant Pot...

Accepted!

Plate guilt is real. It’s like a side wing of Catholic guilt, mixed with a dollop of the Clean Plate Club.

“Think Outside The Bun” (In The Oven)

Agreed. Nuggets are a sauce delivery system. Anyone who eats the nuggets solely for chicken purposes neither can be trusted, nor deserves any human social interraction.

Intrigued by the cutline identifying the uniquely named Jinx Falkenburg McCrary, a very shallow wiki dive revealed:

Quite a title. That’s like a big pot of bastard-filled bastard topped with creamy bastard and served in warm bastard bowls.

I might be wrong, but it would appear none of them at this moment of ultimate sports joy seems concerned about someone kneeling for the national anthem.

Love me a coupe glass. LOVE. You could drink strawberry Yoohoo from one while wearing welder’s gloves and still feel elegant.

I’d love to get all uppity about olive oil. I could care less. Call me pedestrian.

DOCTOR Evil. I didn’t go to six years of evil chicken vodka medical school to be called Mr.