What? Me? Compete? No! I suck!
How did an Anglo-Italo-Swiss over-aged rock chick living in a sleepy village in the canton of Vaud meet a gorgeous young rock star from Kansas City?
Madonna’s music makes me try to figure out the best way to messily destroy myself as a nonverbal form of protest.
I have spent the past weeks trying to find Joe Six-Pack, AKA Joe Average, AKA the real American, a political heavyweight with more aliases than the average Wu Tang Clan member.
With Google calling the shots, you won’t send that tear-soaked, 4 a.m. email that unintentionally pushes your ex into the arms of some broad-shouldered European guy who’s probably better in bed than you are.
It’s hard not to picture a future full of warming one’s hands over oil drum fires, sleeping in tree houses, and eating old tennis shoes while desperately trying to convince myself it’s roast beef.
There is a vast conspiracy controlling the U.S. government, and it is comprised of vampires, Templars, and rich people.
Celebrities have a deep and innate understanding of the concerns of the working class: in fact, sometimes they have to pretend to be working class in their films!
Given the years between the infraction and the truth, my wife and I can look back on it and laugh … sort of.
Michael Phelps might in fact be the most perfectly built human swimmer ever born. He might also be part boat, which supports my claim that he isn’t human, but flies in the face of my manta ray theory.