It would be great if he hit the ejection seat, came down on his feet and they panned up to see this:

Asking for a priest who’s a babysitter?

I’d rather eat the ribbons of tickets I win playing skee ball.

18. Yourself

“Yes, I’d like my pizza with pepperoni, black olives, green peppers and The Onion.”

I once attended a mascot kickball game held between a minor-league baseball double-header in Port St. Lucie between the single-A St. Lucie Mets and the Jupiter Hammerheads.

Sona has the best real laugh. Just infectious and wonderful all on its own.

I was alive for Barry Sanders’ career.

Palin’s extensive and exhaustive diaries (John Cleese, you may yawn now, if you like) detail his longtime love of travel, his longing for it even during the heyday of Python and with small children and his wife waiting at home and an aging father losing his faculties.

But what if the case of beer was used to conceive the child?

I’m such a fanboy for overly lit, half-def Japanese TV with subtitles, noise-activated graphics and an incessant 32-bit videogame soundtrack making me fucking crazy in the background.

Hot take.

The O.G.

Yeah, but what would the product endorsement be these days? Certainly not Flutie Flakes.

“My boy” is rarely used well. Or without condescension.

From the NY Times, 2008:

Who, but the New York Times, brings vegetables to a goddamn meatsnake party?

Loud chewing. LOUD CHEWING. LIKE I WAS INSIDE HIS HEAD WHILE HE ATE ICE CUBES IN A STEEL-LINED COAL MINE LOUD CHEWING.