Hey, guys. It’s been a while, to say the least. And I must admit, I’m a little bit hurt at your wanton neglect. I was so lovingly crafted when you first moved in. You decorated me with glitter, laminated me, hell—you even gave me a functional spinner. I was supposed to usher in a new
Hmm, that’s odd. Hey, does anyone else hear that rattling sound? Tommy, is that you horsing around back there? Knock it off, it’s dangerous to distract the driver. Wait, it’s not you? Huh. Strange. Do you think it could be your sister’s computer knocking up against something? It’s gotta be an easy fix, I mean it just started.
Dear Musher Fighting for First in The Iditarod, I’ve started to suspect that my best friend since 3rd grade has developed an eating disorder, and this wouldn’t be the first time. Four years ago I confronted her about her bulimia, and although she admitted it, she didn’t talk to me
Remember when Russia used military force to seize me in 2008? I sure do. You just sat back and let it happen. It’s just a part of growing up, you said. Leave us alone, the international community is busy, go play with Armenia or Turkey. That’s what you told me, and I sucked it
Hey, baby. I know it’s only been a couple of days since we first met—since that fateful evening when you walked into the Club Sports Council meeting, representing the Women’s Synchronized Swimming team. You were so full of wonder, so full of life; with an ample bosom and an inquisitive mind. Now, baby, I finally have you
Dear Couple Showering Together With Soap in Their Eyes, I am a junior this year and I have to decide if I am going to apply for grad school. I always planned on getting my Master’s degree, but as the application deadline grows closer and closer, I am worried about
Okay, seriously? You really need to stop this. Take a look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see? I’ll tell you what I see. I see the zombie-like gaze of someone who has spent the entire night churning out a half-assed essay for the third time this week.
I’m the stuff of legends. Of fantasies, if you will. And I’m here to tell you that it’s all true. They call me Bigfoot, they call me Sasquatch, hell, my Wikipedia page even calls me a Bipedal Humanoid. But listen to me: I. Am. All. Man. I’m sure you’ve seen
Why Not Host the Super Bowl in Our Freezing, Post-Industrial Shithole of a Town? By James L. Cassella, Mayor of East Rutherford, NJ
The Super Bowl is one of America’s greatest national pastimes. Accordingly, the Big Game has usually taken place in tolerable, temperate climates like Florida, Louisiana, and California. Over the years, we’ve simply taken for granted the idea that a great game has to happen in a great place—like Miami, San Diego, or Tampa. But, as the Mayor