“I took my daughter to the father-daughter dance and I cried like a little baby.”
It goes without saying that the onscreen presence of Wolverine (or better yet Hugh Jackman) awakens a certain region in the female brain that’s partly responsible for igniting our physical desire for him.
You have not felt joy in this life until you’ve had a pretty girl resting her head on your chest playing with your chest hair. Seriously.
“Isn’t what you asked for? Isn’t it enough? When will it ever be enough?”
Practically everybody in New York has half a mind to write a book — and does. – Groucho Marx
“Did you hear that Ashton Kutcher cheated on his wife? What a slut.”
I have never gotten chills in such a short amount of time, nor felt so moved by that one passage of the song. You go, baldy, you do your thing.
When I was young, my parents taught me that I could do anything I put my mind to. As of today, I have resolved to become People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.”
For years Oprah has been coasting, getting by on her likeability and her personal history with her viewers rather than anything of substance. Her daily gabfests are less about sharing information or exchanging ideas than they are about wasting an hour with Ms. Winfrey. In that regard, she is more of a modern day Arthur Godfrey than any sort of media messenger leading the way to “living your best life.”
Despite the now-predictable American influence on pop culture here, when I turn on the TV, I’m still never quite sure what I’ll see, other than that it will be something old and something borrowed.