Yet Abe Vigoda lives on.

These descriptors have filled me with indescribable joy. Mostly because you’re better than me at describing things.

Ugh this is fucking asinine. They should fire the asshat who thought of it.

That’s not a big ass moth. This is a big ass moth.

Oh, Kara! With all the changes around here lately, this rings familiar and funny and good.

Thank you so much for this. I’m heading in to work, to scrub in to the O.R. Whatever this day may hold in store for me, now I can face it.

Good thing he ate all that Subway, now he’ll fit right in to that jumpsuit.

“Decomposing pumpkin pie inhabited by vicious albino squirrels.”

Weird.

I get pissed off when people expect me to give away perfectly good candy just because it’s Halloween.

It would be so awesome if, at the end of all of this, you compiled all of gawker’s collective Trump insults into one, long, glorious orange tinted article.

Clitoris Jackson.

If you’re particularly gassy, shoving some tissue between your cheeks will keep you from making a sound.

I feel like this is something that would make me stop eating there, if I ate there.

People, though often terrible, are sometimes my favorite things.

Vanessa, this is a fantastic article.

“Paulette Richardson told authorities her son’s biological father was an alcoholic, and that she didn’t want him to turn out the same way.”

“Skewered.”

I always misread the name Alan.

So, I guess you CAN polish a turd.