Not quite the future Queen of England - future Princess of Wales thanks to the whole consort thing. If only George had been Georgina! Little girl baby that wasn't would have been the future Queen.

One year after Christmas, I brought home a bag of homemade pork tamales. I was generous and wanted to be sure my roomie had some of this awesomeness, so I shared a few with her.

Nick Saban thinks there should be a lot more shouting and headpiece throwing in these videos:

To be honest, this sounds like the most Wisconsin joyride ever.

I think Rhodey - in the War Machine armor - kicking this guy's ass would be more than appropriate.

Thank god salted caramel hot chocolate only comes around once a year, because I would have one every day. Or more than one. Or bathe in it.

Pumpkin spice lattes when it still feels like a stinky hot armpit outside?

Wishing you would have been the next ex-Ms. Malcolm?

Stuffed candy in the vents? What in the everliving hell?!

God damn. I've never had a cockroach in bed *frantically knocks on the coffee table* but the day I moved into an adorable Victorian summer sublet, a whole mob of the fuckers tried to crawl up the kitchen sink when I was mopping the floor.

Alabama here. We had a damn 4-5'' long one writhing around on the floor the other night. There's a reason why I sleep with a can of Bengal by my bed.

Pfff. The cockroaches down here would eat that thing for lunch.

Hey, none of us thought a casting director would consider Carrie Underwood a convincing Maria von Trapp. Duct tape would fix the lovely Ms. Brie's bust - and in hindsight, duct tape probably would have been a welcome addition to The Sound of Music.

For a minute I thought the headline read Allison Brie and I was all YAY!, and then once my eyes started working, I was all

Gooooooo. It's seriously as eccentric and tasty as you dream it is.

Seriously. Portland knows how to piss off right-wingers and make some delicious noms.

I don't know what's more awesome: the segment itself or listening to the women in the crowd engage in some hardcore squee.

The index lady was at our branch in a ridiculously posh neighborhood in Denver, where they had valet parking for people who brought their Maseratis to the mall.

Evidently this happens on a semi-frequent basis. It certainly has me shaking those damn plastic boxes, to see if there's a dead bird thumping around the organic baby spinach.

Maybe people are just super used to escalators? Or maybe they're all Hogwarts alumni?