It is a compelling question. Thanks for reading!

Cigar, eh. Finished your inaugural post, leaned back in your patent leather desk chair, propped your feet proudly up on the old desk and lit up a stogie?

You, too, could wind up being fancy if you find yourself noodling around with your blog, deliriously drunk, at three o'clock in the morning.

Hey! You don't know me, but me and some Gawker #crosstalk peeps did something very similar, minus the high brow.

I am 35 years old, I am married with two children, and I have never had health insurance. We're in that fantastic wage bracket where we don't qualify for Medicaid (so, yes, the kids are uninsured too) and a decent plan would cost us upwards of $600 a month. This would be a difficult expense to afford even if we didn't…

I was a PA on a shoot for a Victoria's Secret commercial for one of those Super Bowl halftime shows they used to (do they still do them? I dunno). My call time was 5:30 AM. I was also bartending at the time, so I'd had a shift the night before, which I got done with in just enough time to go home, take a shower, and…

You're welcome!

I think that if your comment made any sense we'd end up getting into an argument.

Why do you all hate people of color so much that you'd want them to be on this terrible show?

Listen, if I were to write a show about my life, it wouldn't feature many people of color either. Then again, it wouldn't feature much of anything beyond getting up in the morning, trying to get my daughters to eat something, arguing about whether or not I should let them watch television, getting them dressed,…

Please tell me whoever made that video cleaned up beforehand.

It should be some small consolation to Snooki - and the rest of the world - that "Emilio" doesn't seem to understand the meaning of any of the words he spoke.

O hey girl.

Sounds like these researchers just published their findings from watching Mr. Mom.

Maybe it's just me, but I like to reassert my manliness by putting on really tight pants, pouring myself a big ole glass of whiskey with, like, no ice or nothin', queuing up some Bon Jovi on the record player and moving my hips to the music like I'm makin' love.

Straighter'n you are, dude. Straighter'n you are.

Solution: replace all curse words with spliced in images of dismembered body parts.

I was thinking more of the 16 year-old brides I could buy from Russia, but I missed my editing window.

Hopefully this calls attention to another scourge of our society: the alarming frequency with which restaurants (and hospitality businesses in general) promote complete fucking idiots into management positions.

Why thank you!