What if like, this reality was all manufactured, and we were really some gross worm thing plugged into a computer program in the future being kept alive intravenously by evil robots. Go ahead and wrap your head around that, pussy.


At the Nintendo E3 party, Crispin and I test the weight limit on my nose, with sexy results.


Gabs and I hug for a minute at the George Clinton concert while Mr. Clinton illustrates how 200 straight years of drug abuse fucks up a performer's supergroovalistic prosifunkstication.


My EGM pals Jenny and Shane, probably complaining about how many times I said a Barbie game was for faggots in my latest column.


Kick it one time: this is what I looked like when I was a freshman in college, ladies.


Nick, Gabby, and I drinking like we mean it.


Even though my cracker ass has a better tan than her, Raishawn is still my n-word.


If Kitty and I were in a Jean Claude Van Damme movie, she'd be the invincible cyborg and I'd be the sassy female reporter.


A caught-on-tape hidden camera show is going to seem a lot less funny when you notice that the guy secretly peeing into the office coffee pot is standing in your company's break room. And that he's you.


I'd never know this if someone hadn't told me, but after many cocktails I start making friends with gogo dancers.

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