About two years ago, on a sluggish L into Manhattan, the train stopped suddenly somewhere under the East River, flinging forward anyone who hadn't been gripping seat or strap. I watched as a white gentleman-neo-nerdy and a bit old for his skinny jeans-reached much too late for the pole to his left. He stumbled hard into a black guy about 15 years his junior and one foot taller, causing the black guy to drop his soda. Immediately, everyone fell silent and stared, as if the spilled Dr. Pepper were a Baselitz he'd been delivering as a gift.
In Tucson, Arizona, people-novice hunters mostly-kill wild, stinky, tusked pigs that roam the Sonoran Desert in small packs. The name for these beasts is "javelina" (pronounced have-uh-lee-nah), and it's my favorite example of a beautiful word for an ugly thing. A girlfriend of mine once told me that, were it not a violent hog, she'd consider naming a daughter Javelina, and I didn't disagree.
"Classy" is exactly the opposite. To summon forth "classy," one must first smash his tongue against his teeth while simultaneously coughing up a hard "c." Soon enough comes the "assy," which, if spoken without due diligence, can make anyone, regardless of origin, sound like a [...]
Biggie's Oeuvre (Including the Junior M.A.F.I.A. Album 'Conspiracy,' But Excluding 'Duets') In Order
56. Biggie 55. Hope You Niggas Sleep 54. Playa Hater 53. Another 52. Last Day 51. Can I Get Witcha 50. Nasty Boy 49. B.I.G (Interlude)
What were you doing over the Thanksgiving break, friend? Drinking? Eating? Pitying your one cousin who could have been totally cool if your aunt wasn't such a Christian whackjob? Of course you were-and good for you! That's what people do.
Me on the other hand, I'm not a person, I'm a vegan, from even before that neon green book came out. So I was doing what all vegans do when you sickos annually sacrifice poultry to long-dead Puritans: straight up fuming, about absolutely everything. Here's a fume about how hard it is to find grocery store stuffing that doesn't use chicken broth. There's a fume about how Lil Wayne [...]
Oh, look! Ha ha ha. Slate's been at it hard this last week with the counterintuitiveness. That's Slate's "thing," you know, much like there's always one guy at the dinner party whose "thing" is to go on and on about how Mein Kampf is "actually very lucid." Last week, the band Creed was good, instead of being unlistenable Jesus-growling for hockey moms. Then? Newspapers were fine! That's right, newspapers-those shuttering, bankrupt, decreasingly-staffed things everyone throws in the garbage as soon as they get to the top of the subway steps-"aren't doing as badly as you think." Hmmmmmmm.
Along the length of the eastern seaboard, crazed foxes continue their savagery. As we know, a young girl in Brockton, Massachusetts, remains paralyzed with fear following her assault by a silver fox. Now, an aged couple has been mauled amid the tropic splendor of Boca Raton, Florida!
A string of fox attacks, vicious as it has been unpredictable, has presently befallen the once pleasant town of Brockton, Massachusetts, throwing the women and children of the locale into a certifiable panic.