I was surprised, probably because I didn’t think to look until I started this blog, that there are about three hundred thousand erotic books on Kindle. One of them is called Fucking For Science: The Complete Series. As a former scientist, I’m sad to tell you that the focus is primarily not on the science. There aren’t any control groups and the margin of error is never discussed. This is probably why it was published to the erotic-stories section of Kindle instead of the American Journal Of Modern Fuck Science.

What was it the Bible said about rich people? There was a camel, and a needle… oh! I remember. “If you want to enter the Kingdom of God like a badass camel with a sharp needle, then get the dopest $45,000 rosary you can find.”

From the makers of “Imagine: Babysitters” and “Imagine: Babyz” comes the groundbreaking video game “Imagine: Party Babyz.” Yes, girls, you can grow up to be anything you want, be it babyz, or babysitting, or party babyz!

I’m hoping they’ll make a similar line of games for young men. I’m really looking forward to playing “Imagine: Low-Level Store Employee”, “Imagine: Low-Level Office Worker” and “Imagine: Ignore Your Babyz.”

Know anyone who likes tennis and cooking, but is always burning their hands on hot pans? I just took care of Christmas for you.

This low-fat powdered peanut butter called PB2 isn’t bad if you follow the directions and measure it out and mix it with water or put it in a protein shake or whatever.

But if you’re like me, and you’re sitting on 30 years of digging a spoon into the Jif jar and shoveling it into your stupid face, then you’re fucked. Peanuts which have been pulverized, de-oiled and powdered (as in PB2) might be the driest thing on planet earth. And you don’t know it until you stick a spoonful in your mouth.

Before you can react, all of the liquid on your tongue, cheeks and teeth is swiftly drawn into the delicious hellpowder, and it forms a thick layer on all of these surfaces, impenetrable without filling your mouth full of water again and again, swishing and swallowing again and again to move the astringent dust into your gut.

As you furrow your brow and continue to drink water, trying to restore the moisture in your alimentary tract, you wonder if this is merely punishment for a lifetime of fattitude, or if you once did something horrible that you’ve since blocked out and cannot remember without therapy.

“Fuck it,” the president of Vicks Nyquil says, tossing a stack of papers onto the conference table. “Let’s just make purple drink.” He gets up from his chair and is almost out of the room before someone speaks up. “Um… sir? What should we call it?”

“I don’t give two shits what you call it. Call it Zzzquil. Who fucking cares.” The door slams, and work begins on Zzzquil.

Look, I like my pets. It’s cool and slightly weird to have an animal in your house and hang out with it and talk to it. But in my house, “music for pets” is also “whatever I happen to be listening to.” If you don’t like rap then get out of my house and try to survive in the wild, you won’t, you’re all fucked up from eating fake food out of a bowl in my kitchen for six years and a coyote will eat you.