This is my view when I’m urinating in the Men’s restroom at work. If you look at the picture—and trust me, it’s even more intense in person—you will notice an array of “pulsating dots” coming from the grout where four tiles converge. I invite you to do this now.
Big Sausage Pizza is a porn franchise featuring male delivery men who ostensibly deliver pizzas with centers cut out, through which their cocks manifest for unsuspecting patrons, who once shocked, are eventually seduced by such evocative measures.
Ed is only half-human, and his maker died before he was finished. He has scissors for hands and deep scars all over his face. One can safely assume his is a virgin, and probably failed at masturbating. He lives on a lonely hill, at the edge of town. He looks like he would enjoy Joy Division, but alas, has no CD player.
Eat disappointing salad for lunch in efforts to lose weight, as you plan on dating soon. Remind yourself of Maxim article you read saying that women liked “ripped abs,” and worry if your unrealistic quest for such abs is a little douchey.
I get it. You don’t care about “stuff,” like the music industry, life in general, and whatever. You live in New York and your band The Strokes are the languid Godsons of punk. And it’s all rather precious and charming, but watch where you’re throwing that mic stand, because you just might hit that Production Assistant whose life isn’t so hot right now…
The judgmental stranger is a growing breed of somewhat unhappy people who have the need to make themselves feel better by judging others, often accompanied by self-ambivalence and misdirected anger. While the religiously fervent Muslim and Christian are the “classic” judgmental strangers, we shall explore other types, perhaps in demographic overlap with this kind readership.
Many social functions are clarified and maintained by this fermented grape juice. It can serve as “admission” to dinner parties, as the host implicitly expects guests to bring a ~$15-20 bottle in order to offset the cost of food—as chronicled in a Seinfeld episode in which George Costanza laments having to buy a bottle for a party.
Jonathan Franzen and Mark Zuckerberg both recently appeared on the cover of Time, and never has the approaching-archaic magazine seemed so relevant, or at least tried to be, to “us”—a word which marks this supposed readership of the internet savvy and literarily inclined.
Shown above is a standard taco—not the pre-curved ones from Taco Bell, but an authentic taco, usually made by actual Mexicans, especially in California and maybe Texas. This is not so much a “diatribe against tacos,” as the title of this article has rather glibly implied, but a diatribe against a kind of evasive vagueness coming from the people of Mexico about the proper way to eat one.
For sake of continuity, we shall observe the informal (and somewhat politically insensitive) vernacular of “bros” and “hos” in the following article. May it be known that this contributor, with bro-like qualities, is not a full on bro; nor does he believe that all women are hos.