I’m great at Twitter, I’ve recently learned how to stream Netflix movies on my Xbox, and my cat is trying to teach me how to Skype. But Instagram, Instagram is where I draw the line.
The premise of the show seemed to be “Blonde women who fight with each other and sometimes play guitars. Also, there are men in cowboy shirts.”
I see her outside jumping with such joy that I am almost inspired to join her. Then I remember that I am frail, and an adult stranger jumping rope with a child is the sort of thing that gets you arrested.
Wait — what’s that? I hear clanging metal pieces! Clanging metal pieces are what open the door! He’s home!
I miss John Candy.
No one ever pictures themselves as the people who die at the beginning of the horror movie, or one of the already long-since zombified by the time Rick wakes up from his coma on The Walking Dead. But the fact is, that’s what most of us are.
The cutting has just begun, and already I’m really close to his balls. Like two inches and a thin layer of blue jean are all that separate me from this stranger’s nuts.
Candy was never meant to taste like a drink you order on Spring Break.
Videotape Mitt preparing for a debate backstage with his 50 sons. There’s no way that doesn’t get weird. These guys are basically an angry Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue.
What is wrong with you? I mean, specifically, what’s wrong with you? There’s gotta be something, right? Because whenever I come across a profile without a picture attached, I assume there’s something crazy going on.