If you sincerely "like" me - I mean like me like me, without any quotation marks around the word "like" - I may, just may, even start to like myself. Even enough to stop asking you.
At the risk of starting a scandal involving promiscuous sex and teenage pregnancy, I have been living in a cathouse for almost two decades. And the madam of the establishment was the mother of nine children.
As a proud Canadian and good friend of the United States, I feel it is my duty to bring to your attention a salient fact about the recently declared candidate for the Republican nomination for president: Ted Cruz was born in Canada.
A new law would make it illegal for Indianans to be Knob Heads in any way, shape or form. And it would also give individuals and businesses the right to refuse to serve anyone acting or indeed sounding like a total Knob Head.
What I don't understand are the people who have escaped the trenches, who no longer deal with the day-to-day insanity and haven't sat in a status meeting since 1998.
Let's talk about marshmallow Peeps. I'm not even going to bother researching those Easter basket staples. Face it, any food item that returns to its original shape after you crush it in your hand must contain something harmful.
Madonna gets a lot of heat for behaving in a way many believe is inappropriate for a woman over 50. Men who are also "of a certain age" often behave in rebel fashion, but are usually lauded for their actions.
To have any chance, Cruz must be made to appear human. To pull that off he mustn't harness his nascent weirdness so much as let it gallop across the political spectrum.
Couldn't the editors have been mindful of the fact that comparing Jews and dogs, in any context, might be considered -- oh, just maybe -- insulting?
I'm not afraid of getting old... well, maybe a little...
I try to be deeply thankful to not be disfigured, lost, or forlorn. To be sitting on a hill in California eating organic chocolate and laughing with friends. But mostly I just feel guilty for being such a spoiled neurotic shithead that a day of contemplation is a kind of torture.
They say the sky is bright and clear, They say it's nice -- just beautiful, I wouldn't know if that is true, Since I'm stuck inside my cubicle. I bet the birds are belting out, Tunes so bright and musical, But noise and joy are not allowed, Here in my dang cubicle.
I've just been invited to an exclusive club. It's not the Soho House. It's not the Illuminati. It's not even Costco. For $250, I can get a membership into the hottest club in Los Angeles - my primary care physician's patient roster.