Ok, I have one. If a hot wing menu says “nuclear inferno suicide making out with the devil himself hot,” and the sauce is bafflingly calculated to be palatable to the average Karen, I’m apt to send that shid back. That’s honestly the only way I won’t eat whatever the server brings out. If I order vindaloo and you…

Thanks for sending me on a Saturday morning LT binge, DT! 

The hell just happened?

No, you listen up, youngster. Synthetic weed is for two kinds of people: hobos with metallic spraypaint around their mouths, and people who are about to become hobos with metallic spraypaint around their mouths. Do not make yourself our responsibility.

When someone says, “bless you,” it always happens within the first five seconds after a sneeze, when I’m simultaneously disoriented and trying to figure out if there’s suddenly a six inch stringer hanging off my chin. I’ve successfully ingrained an instinct in my wife to, if she can’t stop herself from saying “bless…

As in, probably?

You realize he may have been joking, right?

The fact that I you think a McMansion cul de sac neighborhood can be classy, coupked with your use of the word classy without a shred of irony discredits your every opinion.