Today’s Fortune: Throw bricks overhand.
I heard a big ruling came through.
A recession may make it harder to get devalued money.
Uvalde’s police chief was given a tanto, a pillow, and a final hug.
Hope you like fireworks.
All three Christmas Ghosts testified.
Colt investors feel great.
Since my brain is in full-stop high school atheist mode, I’m going to talk about the body. It’ll keep things light.
As the gyre widens, turning my hitherto-ignored patio into a makeshift gym has kept me smiling/sane/human shaped. It cost more than I make, but I never have to listen to the WERRRGH sound lonely gym types make for attention again.
I had a childish mood on Sunday. You know the type, there are a thousand terrible sonnets about it. Instead of the adult solution of Strega, I bought my first skateboard. A pure teenage move.
Now I know I wasted high school. If you have a chance, try five minutes on a cruiser. You can ask the kid you buy good drugs from for advice.
I can still do a headspin. That’s not interesting, but I’m running out of ways to avoid the issue.
Do you like elephants? There’s one in the corner. This’ll still be funny, but only in the way a nearsighted firing squad is funny.
IUD failures are rare. About one in a thousand. I have that memorized, because my ex and I beat those odds. To this day, I refuse to touch dice.
The timing was inconvenient, because we had kind-of sort-of maybe grown to hate each other. Completely. We made Kill Bill look like Titanic. Which seemed normal in art school.
As the worst kind of gallows humor fan, I’d love to describe snappy grad school banter inspiring the abortion. Mutual Veep insults, the works. But that angle’s a red herring, since it was ectopic. The aforementioned hatred melted into terror.
With the wackier states skipping exceptions for the life of the mother, I’m stuck thinking about that moment. First, the less-than-hilarious fear for her life. Then, the more-than-hilarious fact that it was a triple threat. Two penniless students that also despised each other and also had a medical complication. I’d tell a student that dreamed that up to reel it in. To cut it down to one angle, and try to sell it.
That’s trifecta’s not good enough for the people in control. The lump with no prospects, chance of survival, or nervous system comes first. I typed out “that’s terrifying,” and “that’s mortifying,” but neither feels right. Those describe surprises.
I gave newsletter readers (that’s you!) a bonus story. Read it, it’s funnier than this.
Remember my book? You should read my book.
I’m an official 1-900-HOTDOG columnist.
Weeaboo Hell lives. Celebrate!
My parody of conservative op-eds aged extremely well/horribly.
Poking at a second book. It’s about a brilliant Jamaican-American author that can do headspins.
The next hotdog column is coming along.
One Sentence Reviews
Shadow of Intent – Elegy: Maybe war isn’t fun. (4/5)
Shadow of Intent – Melancholy: I’m glad there’s deathcore good enough to make college me look like a moron. (4.5/5)
Bill Maher: #Adulting: Narcissus in decline. (1.5/5)
Comedy Chingonas: Another collection holding every letter grade. (3/5)
Master Boot Record – Personal Computer: Beautifully disregards recent memos on synthwave. (3.5/5)
Do I dump my rejected Modern Love column on the newsletter?
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