My general rule is this: if you “only like that one Taio Cruz song when you’re drunk,” you probably actually LOVE that one Taio Cruz song but are too afraid to admit it. It’s not impossible that, unbeknownst to you, you are Taio Cruz’s biggest fan.
What the hell is this golf-ball-sized fruit-filled thing doing on my plate, and why does it look like it’s dressed up to go to Cinderella’s ball? Am I supposed to eat it or am I supposed to put it in an expensive glass box and place it on a mantle?
I shudder to think of all the matching Nickelback T’s I saw fathers and sons sporting. (Sidenote: as it turns out, Nickelback concerts provide a hysterical exception to the “don’t wear a band’s t-shirt to their show” rule.)
On one hand, I do remember him explaining dental dams and vaginal condoms the way your 8th grade history teacher explains the cotton gin: At no point in your life will you ever encounter this, and neither has anyone born after the Great Depression, but it’s in the textbook and I have to mention it.
If you’re like every other woman, you frequently walk around looking hot only to suddenly stop and sigh with frustration, “Golly, my body is such a problem.” Fear no more, ladies.
Both of us don’t have to live in LA, right? We are bound to run into each other and create an awkward moment of some sort. I might see you on a date with a new gentleman caller, which will just cause me to dunk my head in a public toilet and repeatedly flush until the image of you snogging some wet blanket is washed out of my eyeballs.
We met at that thing. It’s great to see you. How was that concert? … I bet! I’m so jealous. The Roots are pretty much my favorite live band too. Anyway, it seems like we’re moving from acquaintances to full-blown pals, and there are a few things you should probably know about me before this goes any further.
There was a time when I preferred a man in pants so big I could get in there with him. It’s no coincidence that at the same time I wore hemp jewelry and thought 311 were the height of musical innovation.
From 2181 to 2160 BC, there was a point at which fourteen separate Pharaohs ruled for 70 days. That’s ten weeks pregnant. That’s a mostly finished H.G. Wells novel. That’s a potential plot for an Adam Sandler/Vince Vaughn buddy comedy called, “Too Many Pharaohs.”
In Arizona, it may soon be that women will be legally pregnant before an offending sperm ever penetrates the depths of her babymaker. Some people say this law goes too far. I, however, submit that it does not go far enough.