When I worked in the service industry, I used to hear from a lot of people that the number one faux-pas of the job was to openly discuss politics. The implicit reason, of course, was that you never know who you’re talking to, and you might make somebody angry. Continue reading
It’s the end of February, and it’s been almost three months since I left my apartment for something other than food, class, or a night of getting blackout-drunk enough to not feel like the winter is pushing my soul through a colander made of frozen shit. Not only am I developing a pretty majestic beer gut from all this sitting around, but I’ve arrived at a point where I have to wear sunglasses whenever I leave the house, even if it’s cloudy. Salinger wasn’t this much of a recluse. If it weren’t for TV, I might have forgotten how to say words by now.
Yesterday, Fenway Bark founder Jane Fulton announced, amid several paragraphs of mean-spirited sarcasm and bullshittery, that the fancy kennel she is trying to open in Southie is changing prospective locations.
In case you’ve missed our commentary on Fenway Bark thus far, it’s first here and then here, and kind of here. Unfortunately, our disagreements with Ms Fulton et al, which recently resulted in Fenway Bark’s permanent Shit List-ification, have descended in tone to the level of ad hominem verbal aggression. So, with that in mind, I’d like to say that Fenway Bark is gay. Gay, gay, gay. Continue reading
Happy Labor Day. It’s the Sunday Paper! Continue reading
Oh shit, velociraptor on a bicycle!
It’s the Sunday Paper! Continue reading
Yesterday morning, the Associated Press reported that economic growth in this country slowed to a rate of 1.6%. But hey, it’s still growing, right?
Actually, reports that Ben Bernanke is now weeping softly in a broom closet over at the Fed while Larry Summers and Tim Geithner play Russian roulette in the Capitol rotunda may contradict that positive outlook. On the bright side, America has rediscovered its love for Ramen noodles and self-loathing. Continue reading
Groovin’… on a Sunday afternoon…
It’s the Sunday Paper! Continue reading
Recently, the Staker’s critics have been engaging in somewhat of a feeding frenzy. I can call it that because we don’t get your standard, run-of-the-mill internet trolls on this blog. We only get people who actively dislike us specifically. And I love that! It means that I’m getting my point across.
To offer a little background, the Staker has garnered Shack heat for making the following two innocuous assertions:
It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to look at a woman’s chest without the fear of false advertising. In the 90’s – right around the time when I started to notice that there were boobs all around me – I was betrayed, and now I’m being betrayed again. Allow me to elaborate.
When the Wonderbra gained international prominence nearly two decades ago, it changed my life for the worse: never again would I enjoy the luxury of knowing the true character of a given set of boobs before meeting them in person. For men who prefer the view from the back, however, there was no such obstruction, and they continued to live their lives largely unaware of the nefarious class of elaborately-designed underwear that has cast doubt upon every boob in America. That’s all about to change because of the Booty Pop.
It’s a Wonderbra for your bum. I mean, am I going to have to start judging women based on their personalities? This is outrageous.
In the infomercial above, spokes-booty Natasha raves about everything that Booty Pop has done for her:
“What I love about Booty Pop is the lift, and the shape, and the roundness.”
Well, Natasha, what I hate about Booty Pop is the damn, dirty lies. I can’t speak for all men when I say this, but why, Natasha, why? I’m sure your booty is just fine the way it is. Variety is the spice of booty.
I’m not going to comment about what this means for the women’s movement or anything. I’m just saying that if I get lucky and then find myself face to face with a Booty Pop, I’m going to be confused – just like you would be confused if I walked around with a cucumber in my pants. If you can’t be honest, at least be nice: when you want to trick a dude into thinking you’re hotter than you are, use beer. Trust us, it works.
Booty Pop, you’re on the Shit List until my apparati stop working.