Tennessee shalt not suffer a witch to live.
The eight ball says rate hikes.
Seven alleged humans sued Texas.
China’s new foreign minister might not be a fan.
New EU regulations banned Meta’s business model.
Bees can copy homework from other bees.
Does anything bring out your inner Puritan? The readers I’ve met trend toward “all sin is legal.” Which makes sense, since I usually say all sin is legal. I almost got it tattooed, but I’ve already got the Catch-22 cover sketch.
Then there’s sports betting. Every time DraftKings flashes across the screen, I turn into your grandmother. Unless your nana loves gambling. Then I hope she liked the Chiefs.
It’s a bit of hypocrisy I can’t shake. There has to be a psychological side to it. My fancy brain knows prohibition, finger-wagging, and colorful cartoon PSAs don’t work. But I could never figure out the root. There wasn’t a dog-racing club at Princeton. Eric Adams only pushed one gambling scam (two if you count crypto). My dad didn’t gamble between family boxing matches.
Today, it hit me at 2 AM: I love games, vice, and danger. I’m the picture of a gambling addict. My brain’s trying to defend itself with fake righteousness.
I’m sure there’s nothing else in modern life like this. We are beings of pure light and reason. But what a curious anomaly.
“I’ll make these manuscript edits on paper first. Transcribing is fun. I won’t hate life, words, or myself for it later. Good job, Dennard.”
I’ve been invited to pay three hundred dollars for a Princeton reunion. Which is inviting, really. But I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to withdraw three hundred hard-earned dollars, strike a match, and watch the smoke spiral up to heaven. What would it feel like? How would it smell? What would I learn?
Curiosity might win. I’m running out of time before digital currency or postapocalyptic barter takes over.
I’m staring down the end of my comfortable bulk range. I’ll miss eating like a human being, but nothing’s more important to a writing career than fitness.
No really, Plato said it. Or Socrates. One of the jacked marble statues. The point is that the authority fallacy is firmly on my side.
On 1-900-HOTDOG, I learned how Varg spends his weekends.
I have the opposite of a soft spot for “Why I’m Leaving New York” essays.
Read Everything Abridged to escape the cycle of rebirth and ascend.
“Own Goal” was my big break.
Not to harp on it, but my book’s out in paperback on April 11.
Democracy’s chosen the advice column. I’ll kick it off shortly after the aforementioned manuscript hell.
One Sentence Reviews
Guilty Gear: Strive: I’ll have the basics down in three years. (4.5/5)
Chris Rock – Selective Outrage: Peaks nicely, but overstuffed with 2013’s hottest insights. (2.5/5)
Loaded Weapon: An aspirational joke gatling gun. (4/5)
Steel Panther – On the Prowl: I’m a child. (3.5/5)
(A hilarious poll on the substack goes here.)
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