It’s bad, and people who drink it are bad. Someone after my own heart.
This is pretty funny. NASA calls BS on it.
My first thought on seeing this was, “Why would I want a damaged screw remover? Just to save a little money?”
Behold the leftist angst over having a barbecue in proximity to a fake hunger strike.
My neighbor of a few blocks away is whining about his victimhood:
I am also victimized for my unpaganhood, and I am constantly pressured to conform and accept weird weather religions and the theological musings of internet hipsters who think the idea of Christian grace is some sort of supernatural point system where you get into heaven for accomplishing a set number of good deeds. I reject these attempts to subjugate me to the dominant discourse, just as I reject the liberal Jesusplaining that seeks to steal my savior and turn him into some sort of socialist hippie, a Bernie Sanders in a robe who thinks the only sin is generating too big of a carbon footprint.
And then there is the systemic hate for my rigidly male monosexual identification and my pronounced pro-chick agenda. Too often those of you who are genderfluid deny the identity of those of us who are gendersolid.
Sonny Bunch has some helpful suggestions for how to connect with “most people.”
This is just beautiful. I wish I’d written it.
Kevin Williamson refuses to be outdone by T. A. Frank:
…as the poet said, there ain’t no cure for love, and Democrats just can’t quit the Big Creep.
So they’ve turned to the Little Creep.
Chelsea Clinton, most recently lionized on the cover of Vanity Fair, is a 37-year-old multi-millionaire who has never uttered an interesting word about any subject at any time during the course of her life. Judging from the evidence of her public statements, she has never had an original thought — it isn’t clear that she has had a thought at all. In tribute to her parents, she was given a series of lucrative sinecures, producing a smattering of sophomoric videos for NBC at a salary of $600,000 a year. She later went more formally into the family business, leaving her fake job at NBC for a fake job in her parents’ fake charity. She gave interviews about how she just couldn’t get interested in money and bought a $10 million Manhattan apartment that stretches for the better part of a city block. And, since her mother’s most recent foray into ignominious defeat, she has been inescapable: magazine covers, fawning interviews, talk of running her in New York’s 17th congressional district.
The Democrats are doing their best to make Chelsea happen. And, who knows, it might work. It would be tempting to write her off as a know-nothing rich kid who has made a living off her family connections while operating one of the world’s most truly asinine Twitter accounts, but . . . well, you know.
But, for Pete’s sake, stop it. Have a little self-respect, Democrats. Build Bill Clinton a statue or . . . whatever. Send him your daughters like a bunch of bone-in-the-nose primitives paying tribute to the tribal chieftain. But stop trying to inflict this empty-headed, grasping, sanctimonious, risible, simpering, saccharine little twerp on American public life.
They won’t stop. They can’t help themselves.