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Calling the suspect the "underwear bomber" makes him sound less like a terrorist, more like a really popular fourth grader.
To the guy who just made eyes at me from his car: the only mate-worthy quality I've seen you demonstrate in this parking lot is pulling out.
Apparently a lot of guys define friendship as "that awkward period of time where I try to stick it in you."
The clerk at CVS didn't find it funny when I asked what aisle the paper towels were located with the declaration, "I'm a Bounty hunter!"
One of my mom's three dogs is humping the other while she's eating, the third's snarling over a toy. It's the dog equivalent of a rap video.
My dad is being Catwoman for Halloween. He bought a pleather bodysuit and heels. I'm being Daughter With Explicable Psychological Problems.
Dating sites remind me that while my boyfriend is annoying, he doesn't consider "watz up sexy!!1" a salutation or "being fly" a hobby.
Urban Outfitters: selling overpriced nostalgia to kids who are too young to feel it.
Mark my words. The next ironic hipster accessory: AOL email addresses.
Britney Spears repeats the word "baby" so much, you'd think she was singing Angelina Jolie's to-do list.
Vibrator ran out of batteries as I was masturbating and my immediate thought was, "THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN WHEN BARACK OBAMA IS PRESIDENT."
I think that bisexual girls should just call themselves more-or-lesbians.
Texting while crying results in me typing things like, "Mandate bees if you want. I don't groove and fuck." And then sending it. To my dad.
My clumsy, sweatpants-clad seduction was timed to commence with his morning wood and a Rush song. I'm not a sex kitten, I'm a sex LOL cat.
Nothing shuts up a crowd of giggling, club-going girls quite like my dog having frenzied diarrhea on the sidewalk in front of them.
not so good at fads
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