The orange bloat was never a baby. Come to think of it, neither were you. After all, parasites aren’t human.

Chris Claremont, is that you?

Ledger’s Joker was “a truly brilliant criminal mastermind”? Oh, dear. Here I was for all these years thinking that he got away with all that overblown ridiculous crap in “The Dark Knight” through the sheer force of Nolan bellowing “JUST BECAUSE!!!”.  (And we *still* don’t know what happened at the party after Rachel…

“Grow Old With You” is the song Ed Sheeran’s awful “Thinking Out Loud” thinks it is. (“Will your eyes still smile from your cheeks”? Honey, if someone’s eyes are in their cheeks, something is horrifyingly wrong with their face.) I’m not at all the type to tear up at treacly relationship songs, but “Grow Old” gets me…

Wake me up when they’re bleeding for real. As in spewing from all their arteries. I could use a bit of cheer.

I had to student-teach “Jonathan Livingston Seagull.” That was possibly the most embarrassing week of my life.

That— the telling-the-husband thing— was actually what happened to Kay Kendall, the incredible spitfire of an actress who was married to Rex Harrison. (As an aside, their real-life affair and marriage would make a far more interesting story than “Love Story,” any day of any week.)

My older brother had the original MAD magazine that slammed “Love Story.” (If I’m not mistaken, the same issue went after “The Poseidon Adventure”— or “The Poopsidedown Adventure.”) Reading said takedown was one of the bizarre defining events of my young life.

Way back when, King was able totally to call the shots with his then-publisher (who might be his still-publisher, but I’m not sure). And his favorite callable shot was “If you touch a single word in this manuscript, I’m leaving you.” Hence the books that could house a family of ten.

Today in I Need Bifocals, But Nope: I read “Tr[a]mp is a mean clown” as “Tr[a]mp is a meat clown,” and I’m standing by it. But not by “It.” I read the book some three hundred years ago, likely on papyrus or stone slabs, and that’s enough “It” for me.

God, that shit is gross. Plus fizzy water is super rough on tooth enamel. I’ll stick with Grain Belt Blu as a go-to silly beverage, thanks.

At least Ms. Tartt can write at more than a seventh-grade level. Ah, petty slams! Aren’t they fun? (Snotty fact: I stopped reading the first Harry Potter book about fifty pages in because Rowling’s style reminded me of dysfunctional cardboard. I loved “The Goldfinch.”)

I read that as “forever tanned.” I’ll stick with that reading.

Minnesota State Fair, about twenty years ago: The pop-a-balloon booth had a Robert Plant concert t-shirt on display. I figured the darts were all dull and unbalanced, so I paid a buck for a single dart and just threw it as hard as I could. Just threw it as if it weighed as much as a bowling ball. It popped the…

Nothing. Also: “critics say”-style statements are utterly unfounded troll horseshit. The biggest difference between men and women? When men hear “someone doesn’t like a man-person,” they really don’t hear it: the sound simply impacts on a wall of oblivious male ego and bounces off into space. When women hear “someone…

She? And here I was all ready to punch it in its tiny dick. As for your misogynist husband, I’m sure he’s waiting for you to get him a beer while you pack his nice soft undies ahead of your “escape,” so shoo, now. You’re a busy girl. You’ve got a man t’ please.

“... a very weak candidate.” Hey, why don’t we sink our own fucking ship, you stupid shit? Stop doing the Russians’ job for them.

Don’t know what your politics are, bud, but I’ll absolutely agree with you: This album is one-thousand-percent formulated corporate-treacle bullshit. In a few days, they’ll be streaming songs from it at the big-box where I work a second job, and I’ll be wishing for the trillionth time that I hadn’t shitcanned my…

I hereby order us to flush the fucking toilet already.

Leviticus is the best. The stuff about cleaning mold from the walls of your house, lest you be “unclean until evening,” is priceless. Thanks to the household tips of Leviticus, I once earned a legit death-stare from a public-speech teacher who told us we had to pick and read Bible passages to our class.