One of the most entertaining stories of the year so far, in my book, is that of Manti Te’o. For those of you who have had your head stuck in a roll of Kirstie Alley’s back fat for the last three months, I’ll recap: Manti Te’o is a football player for Notre Dame who totally had a really smokin’ hot girlfriend, but you wouldn’t know her because she’s from out of town, dude. Then she died. Well, she didn’t really, because she never existed. Turned out some guy was pretending to be this smokin’ hot babe and that he had a thing for Manti Te’o. This, of course, set off alarms in the peanut-sized brains of NFL talent scouts because, holy shit, what if we have a GAY FOOTBALL PLAYER ON OUR HANDS? YOU CANNOT WIN THE SUPER BOWL IF YOU SPEND ALL OF YOUR TIME ANTIQUING, GODDAMMIT! Continue reading

Ok, look, I don’t want to alarm anyone or anything, but recent developments have made it clear to anyone who hasn’t been drinking varnish that we are all doomed. First it was robotic sparrows, then it was cinder block throwing robo-mules and internet-assisted evil rat brains. Now we’ve got tadpoles that see out of their asses. Science has officially run amok, and it is obvious that if we want to survive as a species we must learn to burrow deep underground like the mole-people. We also need to start fucking like rabbits on Viagra, although some of us have gotten off to a head start in this regard (*cough* Tara Reid *cough*). Continue reading