There’s something about the confidence of a straight guy wearing pink tennis shoes that suggests he’d be good in bed.

In researching charities for a Morning News article, I came across this site. It’s a charity that, I shit you not, trains monkeys to help quadriplegics. Could this rock any more? At first the idea seemed so weirdly revolutionary that I thought it couldn’t be for real. Tell me that the logo, the tagline (“Monkey helpers for the disabled”), and those grainy photos don’t make it look like a very well-conceived spoof? But it’s not. These are real, live monkey helpers, and this is the best idea anyone has had in a long time. Why, oh why, aren’t they selling T-shirts with just the logo on the front? I’d buy three.

So, according to this article, PETA has decided to hand out fliers to little kids coming out of the Nutcracker. The fliers “include a color drawing of a woman plunging a large bloody knife into the belly of a terrified rabbit. The fliers urge kids to ‘ask your mommy how many dead animals she killed to make her fur clothes.'”

As long as PETA is educating the public on how animals have similar feelings and instincts to humans, perhaps they should pause and consider how a mother bear reacts when someone threatens her cubs.

It is raining heavily. This man is wearing a yellow slicker and rain boots as he hoses down the sidewalk. There is obviously something so noxious on the pavement that he cannot wait a few minutes for the rain to wash it away. He would prefer to stand in the downpour with a hose to expedite the process.

Ataxia: Loss of the ability to coordinate muscular movement.

I was fast-forwarding through commercials the other day (thanks TiVo!) when I caught a nanosecond of a woman pole dancing. What the…? I stopped; rewound. Turns out it was a cheesy commercial for Centerfolds, a local strip joint. There were dozens of taut women pouting, gyrating, and otherwise seducing the home video camera. Their slogan, “Absolutely nothing is left to the imagination,” made me wonder when that became a selling point.

At the back of the bar there’s a group of five men in their thirties, most of them are wearing plaid. They are crowded around a video-game console pounding at the air and yelling things like, “BITE! Bitebitebitebitebite.” “AIRMAIL, Budddiiiie! ” I walk past them on my way to the bathroom and glance at the screen. Video Golf is just about the whitest thing the world’s got going.

This man is standing barefoot in the gutter of a busy street wearing his white terrycloth bathrobe. He has not come out to retrieve the paper, or turn off the sprinklers, or check his mail. He’s come out to enjoy this fine Thanksgiving Day and watch the cars go by. He spits, takes a drag of his cigarette, and sighs contentedly.

We are the proud owners of 692 candle votives, three party jugs of SKYY Citrus, and five large jars of maraschino cherries. Come on over. We’ll get drunk, light shit on fire, and see how many cherries you can fit in your mouth at once. Married people know how to party.