Right.  And I once planned to make a rocket-powered jet pack out of a couple of fire extinguishers, some tinfoil, a roll of duct tape, and my father’s suit belt.  But that didn’t work, either.

Thankfully, though, I am.  Secure in my own masculinity.  So no worries.* **** update:  Did I mention that I lift weights?  Because I do.

Laurence Simon has now linked back to this site several times in an effort to make it clear to you (see update 1) that protein wisdom is no longer interesting or creative, and that I am a thin-skinned pile of ash with an empty ceramic cookie jar.  Which is okay—Laurence is entitled to his opinions—though I must say that I find his need to publish his pronouncements and link them

     Like any number of other decidedly ordinary men, Larry spent his weekdays toiling in a six-foot by six-foot cubed space, his blandly carpeted corporate cut-out defined by three identically-sized particle-board walls, each littered with sticky notes whose scribbled messages he never revisited—the whole of his working world punctuated by the perpetual hum of a bank of fluorescent rack lights.  On most days, Larry would make phone calls, or take phone

Those of you who like to taste your news—to get a feel for it, to luxuriate in its odors—will genuinely appreciate this intimate account of time spent in Ward Churchill’s bailiwick by the Weekly Standard‘s Matt Labash.  From “The Ward Churchill Notoriety Tour”: […] I step out into Sproul Plaza, where Mario Savio launched the Free Speech Movement in 1964. I head toward the GAP, which now sits adjacent to

Reuters: The female U.S. reservist soldier who posed before naked Iraqi prisoners as they were being abused at Abu Ghraib will plead guilty to seven of nine charges against her, her lawyer said on Friday. Lynndie England, 22, became the face of the Iraq prisoner abuse scandal after photos of her posing before humiliated Iraqi prisoners were published last year. One showed her holding an Iraqi detainee on a leash.

This same thing once happened to me—only in my case, the phone was half a meatball sandwich, and the strange behavior that seemed to mimic predictable electronic functionality was forty-eight hours of light vomiting and the inability, to this day, to keep down anything that’s been simmering in an oregano-heavy tomato paste.

Sorry, but said 9-banded Dasypus took it upon himself to chew through my Caligula DVD, so I beat him with a loaf of French bread and sent him to bed without any supper. Fucking unrated version, too.  Stupid, stupid beast.