A towel? Like, a paper towel? Or a regular towel. I don’t know, when I mean paper towel I never just say “towel,” I say “paper towel.” A towel is a towel. So, OK. To the bathroom!
Let’s just put it this way: watching a mature-beyond-her-years girl balance the advances of a platonic male friend who clearly wants more and the badgering of a right-wing twerp who thinks he can get under her skin by teasing her…well, that sounds like every Thursday night out I’ve had at a bar in DC.
I don’t like screaming over a dubstep bass drop when they ask me how my job is. I would like to be able to tell them “terrible and soul crushing” in a normal speaking voice, thank you very much.
A perfect friend is someone who is always there for you, no matter what. For you, above all else. No matter what your friend is going through, you come first. You know what that sounds like a more accurate description of? A butler.
Wisecracking, delightful. You always know that Bugs can make you laugh. Then again, his intimacy doesn’t seem to go beyond smacking huge kisses on the lips of both males and females, and he also only seems to eat carrots, which would probably get old after a while. But you can get over that.
I was wearing my gray suit, which is my fancy party suit, but then again it is also my funeral suit and my wedding suit and my Bar Mitzvah suit and my job interview suit.
I know art heists are bad. So are shark attacks, though. And just because shark attacks are bad doesn’t change the fact that I love Jaws and will continue to watch it every summer when it comes on SpikeTV or whatever.
Witch-off! Vicki Valencourt’s hair turns to snakes, maybe. They’re talking a lot. Lot of angst. Then all hell breaks loose. Empire Records just disappeared. VV whipped out a huge knife? INSANITY! INSANITY! Something just happened! Too fast. Not sure.
Little presumptuous to call it the “World” Series, don’t you think?
It’s part of this world we grew up in, dominated by advertisers, where we are shown (repeatedly, constantly, to the point of near perpetuity) the same jingoistic songs, the “He likes it! Hey Mikey!” repetitions that come part and parcel with being (growing up, living) as an American.