I attend a beach party, prowl the rooftops of Gotham City, shop for comics at a gas station, and dish out some manual stimulation.
Hey ladies: you know how your boyfriends are always bugging you with music? Insisting that you sit through a whole song even though there are about eight million other things you’d rather be doing? It’s because men have a hard time expressing themselves and they somehow think that if you listen to a particular song you’ll magically be able to understand the feelings that song engenders in them and, by extension, their whole range of emotions about life itself. They haven’t quite figured out that you don’t actually care how they feel about anything; you just want them to look good in front of your friends and give you babies.
I kind of feel like I’ll never make a mixtape again now.
I agree to take care of somebody’s two pet ducks, which take up residence in my parents’ swimming pool. One of my nieces accidentally breaks off the lower half of one duck’s bill, then tries to blame it on her toddler brother. The poor duck is very distressed, and I’m quite disturbed.
I interview Robert Downey Jr. about the upcoming film Iron Man. All my questions are lame. His condo contains what he calls a “teleporter” but which is, in fact, just a hole in the floor. He tries to get me to stand in it anyway.
Do we think the phrase “the wiki of record” is going to enter into the popular lexicon?