F(r)P: “Whatever, baby. I swing both ways, you dig?”* **** ancient rebuttal from the postmodern perspective, brought to you by an unlikely source: me. Of course, you know me. I would never let me get away with such argument without fleshing it out a bit more.

— in fact, today happens to be a very special Monday, it being my son’s first ever day of school. Hard to believe. And sure, it’s only pre-K, and he’ll only be gone about 12 hours a week — but to me, it’s going to feel a lot longer than that. My heart is sad. Though on the plus side:

me: “You can’t take being mocked, me.” me: “Ouch.” me: “And your retaliations? Weak sauce, bro.” me: “Ouch again.” me: “You have this need to always be in control.” me: “Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, I did handover the keys to the site for months at a time, and have allowed guest posters of all stripes to post here. So it’s not like –” me: ” — See?

You know who’s kinda lame? That Obama fellow, that’s who.

But don’t just take my word for it…

“If what’s happening in my pants is any indication, the movement to shrink torts is dead in the water.” “You and me, we’re meant to be together. And I know this because the spirit of a bunch of dead babies told me so.” “The Closer” “The Sopranos” “I object! — to just how beautiful you are. On the grounds that it’s just not fair to all the other women in

Edwards: “Aw, c’mon now, mashed potatoes, honey. I’m loaded to the brim with delicious country style — and you’ve got that hot recess in your milky smooth mound that, admit it, you’re just longing to have filled. “So whaddya say? I mean, sure, I’m not going to deny it: I’m generally committed to chicken fried steak. But the sad truth is, that meat spoiled, leaving a big empty spot on

Ruffini Chianti Classico: “You sad conservatives! You simply cannot bring yourselves to appreciate the sublime aesthetics of a Barack Obama — the soaring rhetoric, the elevation and glory of beauty and style over the drab, pedestrian monotony of functionality, so blandly redundant in its predictable partisan substance. You are monkeys. And as such, you don’t deserve one so postmodern as a Barack Obama. “– Nor, come to think of it,

me: “So… How do you like the, you know — the starship…?” Ghost of Isaac Hayes: Ghost of Isaac Hayes: Ghost of Isaac Hayes: “Shut yo’ mouth.”

Sure, I could‘ve had a big honking stack of flapjacks — with a side of thick-sliced hickory bacon and maybe some toast points. But, honestly? The Fruity Pebbles were closer. Plus, no grease spatter!