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You can talk about this "walk of shame" all you want, but it can't compare to buying booze twice from the same clerk working the same shift.
If there could somehow be a convenience store inside a replica train in a small ballpark at an airport, a six-pack would probably cost $670.
Something rapping at my chamber door. Turns out it's a moth. I said, aloud, "Go into the light, Carol Anne." All moths are named Carol Anne.
Opened a beer while I still had one to finish, much like my mother used to do with cigarettes. Only one of us burned the house down, though.
People at my bank watch my account balance the same way people used to watch cliffhanger serials: "Ooh, how's he gonna get out of THIS one?"
Breaking: Bug-ridden North Korean GPS leads to attack on South Dakota.
30th anniversary of AIDS, which went from "fatal epidemic" to "annoying chronic illness" in record time. Science 1, God's unbridled wrath 0.
In college I wrote on a 40-column word processor, then, lacking a printer, retyped them on an antique. Still easier than tweeting via phone.
Thinking about taking an undoctored photo just like my avatar. It'll require forced perspective, obviously, as well as convincing my mother.
Fresh off his triumph, Romney strode confidently through the crowd, sucking stray popcorn bits up from the floor, like his Roomba ancestors.
"Storms blew me off course and into some jellyfish" is my new apology.
I like when the apartment manager gives me a flyer, because then I have scrap paper for tweet ideas, or else something to correct and grade.
For only $1.25 a day, you can live like me for another four more days.
What animal do you think your musculature would most resemble if you didn't have skin? Mine would be a bat who just kind of stumbles around.
Give in to your anger, fellow tweeter, star the jokes with serious undercurrents to them. It makes me feel like Bill Hicks, only more alive.
"Follow and I'll follow back!" has got to be the saddest come-on I've heard since that time every woman I meet says, "Credit or debit, sir?"
Going to confront my chief phobias all at once by skydiving with a parachute made of tarantulas into deep water while drinking tomato juice.
Get me a blonde wig, some Percocet, and a fine straight-razor shave and I'll be your Martha Stewart. No, I can supply the roomy dress shirt.
Headline: Florida killer executed after apologizing to victim's family. Jesus, what were they planning to do to him if he HADN'T apologized?
The five Ds: drink, drugs, debt, depression, and death. In two flavorful, exacting varieties: 70 and 140 characters.