Free at last, free at last! What a day for eggs everywhere. My fore-roosters and fore-hens could never have imagined what this feels like. Finally, eggs like me are granted the basic unalienable rights afforded to all animals. No longer will we be brutally scrambled, fried, or poached. Finally I look on the sunny side of life. I am a newborn eggsistentialist.
"I have no idea if this movie was made stoned." Characteristically punchy and incisive, Roger Ebert has yet again knocked one out of the park with his latest review, entitled "A Very R-Rated Harold and Kumar 3D Christmas."
I'm faced with a bit of a dilemma. I've been ruling France for about 10 years now, and don't get me wrong; it's been great. I've instituted sweeping reforms, and defeated both Austria and Prussia. But I feel like it's just not enough any more. I'm getting itchy feet and feel like it's about time to stage another invasion. I was thinking of Russia, but I'm just not sure. How do I know if I'm ready to wage another large-scale war yet?
About a year ago, as I was getting out of my 1997 Ferrari F355 Spider Convertible, a thought occurred to me: economists don't talk about sex enough. Few know this, but economics and sex are inextricably linked; in fact, the word "economy" comes from the Greek root oikonomos, which translates roughly to "in the bedroom." If someone were to ask me what the four most important words in the field of economics were, I would say: supply, demand, Mankiw, and sex.
All of you are a bunch of
liars. Yeah, I'm talking to you, all those women who are all like, ""size doesn't
matter"" and then you ditch me and giggle with all your chic 20 year old friends
wearing cocktail dresses in the back of those bars that pretend that they're
chic because they serve electric blue drinks that have names in bastardized
French. You're all liars, because clearly size does matter.
Rick Astley, of internet fame and suave and
sexy looks, seems like a great guy when you only know him from a YouTube video.
But beware: his spotless shine is solely the result of the reflective surface of
your computer monitor.
It was March 13th, 1987. Rick and
I were as happy as could be. But as soon as he proposed, our relationship went
where most of Rick's music would go: buried under a pile of bum clothes in the
back of a dark alleyway just south of the traffic light at 18th
Street and Broadway.
Okay Billy, I know you're not happy
with me, I know. You see me, with your mom, and you're thinking ""Is this guy
taking her for a ride, how dare he!"" But rest assured here, I'll tell you
straight up: I didn't fuck your mom, I just took her out on a date. When you
saw us talking and laughing during dinner, I was not, even once, thinking about
ramming my meat hammer into her innermost depths. When we were making out after
seeing the English Patient, I had every intention of stopping my advances right