You’re right, and another thing.  It takes about a minute on Google to learn just how ridiculously tight The New Yorker’s fact checking is.  If anything, they adhere to a higher sourcing standard than NBC.  It’s a bullshit excuse.

I always wondered how they got there.

Speaking of ejections . . .

Co-signed by a lawyer of 20 years on all counts (and I’m right there with you re: lawyerhood and depression).

F-Zero for the N64.

Wang Dang Sweet Poontang?

www.baconmethod.com

Are you in LA? Then the Sepulveda Basin Park model aircraft airport is the place for training. There’s a generous helicopter pad/flying area that is perfect for drones.

In 1989, North Carolina required both classroom instruction and practical driver’s ed to obtain a learner’s permit, which you couldn’t have before you were 16.

Inwood, Upper Manhattan.

The most efficient way I’ve described AFL to American men aged 30-50 is to imagine an equal combination of Kill the Man With the Ball and 500, and you’re 90% of the way there.

Sammy Davis Jr.’s eye can testify.

Can confirm. Over the years, had one of each from either side . . .

My Sweet Lord, call the lawyers.

It’s not just painted on the wall, it’s done by Damien Hirst, one of his best friends who shows for most of his matches.

It pretty much turned itself inside out.

My mother’s ‘87 Fleetwood Brougham in the same dove-gray color saved my bacon as a teenager, when a drunk in a CRX decided to hit me head on. The law of gross tonnage definitely applied. My mother still misses that car.

I didn’t provide the weed, but my dog had a similar experience. Hiking in Griffith Park in LA, she goes behind some sage scrub and returns with a literal shit-eating grin—she had found someone’s emergency poop and really dug in. The pooper must have been on some wicked edibles, because a few hours later the dog is…

And yet, the scourge of FARTGAS goes unabated.