You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to whisper. You have the right to talk all damn day just so long as I don’t have to care. Or pretend I care.

You have the right to borrow my green cardi. And my thermal henley. But not my J. Crew hoodie. You know how much a J. Crew hoodie will set you back? Do you? That’s right. I didn’t think so.

You have the right to say something “stinks.” But not that something “sucks.” Because when you say something “sucks” it will make people think you’re a common whore. Unless you actually are one. And if that’s the case, then just go on and say something “blows.”

You DO NOT have the right to say the word “retarded.” Because it’s totally mean. I mean you can use it when you’re referring to math homework and school chicken patties and Crocs and knock-off Prada and your locker combination and the game of softball and country music and your headgear. But don’t use it when you’re referring to people, except for those retards Tania Barrington and Wendy Schultz and Carlie Peebles.

You also can’t say something is “so gay.” Except for Disney movies and chem class and Nelson Masterson. They ARE “so gay.” No doubt.

You have the right to eat bananas in the lunchroom if they’re cut up and dipped in fat-free peanut butter and eaten with a fork. But at all costs avoid corn dogs and Popsicles. Unless, once again, you’re a common whore. Which I’m beginning to think you are.

You have the right to look at me and I have the right to look straight through you. Has anyone seen my lip gloss?

You have the right to look at my breasts. Aren’t they pretty?

You do NOT have the right to look at my butt. Were you looking at my butt? Sick. What’s wrong with you?

You have the right to copy answers off my history test and fail miserably.

You have a right to ask me to prom and I have the right to think about it for as long as it takes that other guy to get up the nerve to ask me.

You have the right to come to my slumber party, but only if you bring gin in a shampoo bottle. Don’t tell anyone I invited you. We’ll just pretend you showed up and I’ll pretend to feel sorry for you. Then you’ll hand me the gin and I’ll drink it all myself. Don’t bother bringing a sleeping bag.

You have the right to come visit me while I’m working at the Hawaiian Ice shack. But I can’t give you a free sample. Unless, of course, you brought more gin.

You have the right to call me Amanda. You have the right to call me Mandy. But you don’t have the right to call me. Or e-mail me. Or wave to me from across the library. Or slip me a note during study hall. Texts only, please.

So. You think you can dance? Huh, big guy? You really think so? Oh, sure. I bet you can pull off a sad version of the Robot and maybe three-quarters of a Box Step. Maybe even a little Cha Cha Cha and the Y.M.C.A. And, of course, anyone with two left feet can bumble their way through the Electric Slide and the Macarena. But can you Salsa and Samba? Can you Mambo and Rumba? Can you Hora and Hornpipe? Can you T-A-N-G-O?

Oh.

I see.

Nicely done.

Well, then. How about the Lindy Hop? The Charleston? The Mashed Potato? The Carolina Shag? I bet you…

Okey doke.

Never mind.

I retract that wager.

Hmmmm. Let me think. Aha! I’ve got it! What about the East Coast Swing? The West Coast Swing? The Schottische? The…

REALLY?!

Wait a second.

Did you just do a pirouette while I was talking to you?

Now, looky here, Mr. Bojangles. Let me tell you a thing or two. You might entertain with your fancy dancing, but I’d like to see your version of the Cabbage Patch Kid or the Urkel. Or the Sprinkler or the Bartman. And you better believe it, no one — and I mean NO ONE — can do the Stanky Leg like me.

Hmph.

Except, apparently, you:

The Dancing Asshole.

All I can say is, is that it looks a lot like somebody just happened to come from a very affluent background. Maybe someone used a lot of Daddy’s money and a lot of Mommy’s time and was fortunate enough to take years and years of private dance lessons while the rest of us kids spent our after-school hours trying to hit an acorn with a stick while our mother drank drugstore Chianti in bed and our father was off screwing the secretary of the bankrupt family wallpaper business.

Sound familiar, Fred Astaire? Sound like anybody you know? I bet this same somebody probably got white-patent-alligator-skin tap shoes for Christmas while the rest of us watched our father beat the crap out of a second-hand Atari with a steel meat tenderizer because he couldn’t figure out how to put the batteries in. Never mind that an Atari doesn’t even take batteries, or that the secretary showed up in her negligee for a plate of Christmas goose — the same goose my mother ended up throwing out, pan and all, onto the frozen driveway, but not before calling my father a royal bastard-ass for all of Maple Street to hear. Never mind that, Gene Kelly. While you were tripping the light fantastic in your new pair of exorbitant tap shoes, I was drinking maraschino cherry juice and smoking inch-long menthol cigarette butts that I’d fished out of my father’s ashtray. Oh, and duct-taping a joystick back together. Merry effing Christmas.

So, listen up, Baryshnikov. You might impress the masses with your prep-school versions of “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)” and “Crank That (Soulja Boy),” but just because you think you can dance doesn’t mean you’re a better person than me. Just because you can take the Nordic Polska, segue from the Cotton-Eyed Joe into the Worm, mix in a little Boot Scoot Boogie and Flamenco, and top it all off with a downpour-inducing Native American Rain Dance/Pop ‘N’ Lock doesn’t mean you’re happier or wealthier or will never need a hair transplant or are 67 percent less likely to suffer a heart attack than those of us who’ve been rendered impotent by a poorly executed Moonwalk attempt.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Of course it does.

Compared to your Algorithm March, my sophomoric Hand Jive looks like a distress signal.

So, before you go — off to wow the women with a Headspin and the Bolero — if it’s not too much of an imposition, can I ask you one final thing?

May I have this dance?

— Sandy K., Provo, UT

We were on a commuter flight from Fort Pierce, Florida to Nassau. Halfway there, the plane lost cabin pressure and from my vantage point in Seat 8C, the clouds outside appeared almost lilac in appearance. Not lavender, mind you. Lilac. A few minutes later, the flight attendant stopped in our aisle to ask us to put on our oxygen masks. It was then that I realized she was actually Cheryl Harmon — my freshman year roommate from Utah State! Talk about uncanny! We briefly hugged and cried and exchanged email addresses before the cabin regained pressure. When no one was looking, Cheryl gave me two extra packs of peanuts — which came in handy once we landed because our airport shuttle was late and my blood sugar dipped way low. Coincidence? I think not.

— Bill S., Chattanooga, TN

My wife Tanya and I were deep sea fishing near the Turks and Caicos when she, who HATES fishing, caught a record-breaking dusky grouper. I, on the other hand, caught a cold. Also, our fishing guide looked like Bigfoot.

— Frank W., Coral Gables, FL

As a Coast Guard officer, I see lots of strange things in the Bermuda Triangle. But nothing was as weird as that guy I rescued off the coast of Miami who had four nipples. Three? I could maybe handle that. But four? I can’t even talk about it.

— Josh G., Austin, TX

I was on a Carnival Cruise with a bunch of my bros en route to San Juan. I swear, one night by the upper deck pool, I was probed by aliens. It was definitely the same night my frat brothers and I took mescaline. Or maybe it was the Purple Hooch night. Whatever the case, the next morning, my butt hurt. I hate the Bermuda Triangle. But Puerto Rico was pretty cool. Continue reading →

The Runway’s End
A traveling salesman gets snowed in at the Kansas City airport. He does not meet his soul mate at the Terminal D bar. He does not overcome years of crippling self-hatred by loudly berating the ticket agent. And he does not encounter a gay politician in the men’s room. He does, however, end up staying at the airport’s Courtyard by Marriott, where he eats an old bagel for dinner and watches the last half of Law & Order before finding a pubic hair in the ice bucket. The next morning, he wakes up with a crick in his neck, then flies back to his flat-chested wife in Greensboro.

Ollie and Friskers
Ollie the French bulldog and Friskers the tabby cat get accidently left behind when their owners move. The pets begin a long journey home by navigating forests, torrential downpours, and junkyards. Friskers loses a leg to a coyote. Ollie gets Lyme disease. And even though they end up dying slowly and sadly from exposure, when people see them trotting along in the Interstate’s median, they do imagine Friskers being voiced by Dakota Fanning and Ollie by Tim Allen.

Here Come the Zombies
At 5:05 a.m. on a Sunday, after lots of red wine the night before, a disheveled mother makes waffles for her toddler, while her husband eats a handful of Rolaids before passing out, face down, in the sports section.

My Crazy Bridesmaid
A nutjob bridesmaid ruins a wedding by making a pass at the groom and wearing shoes that are decidedly fuchsia and NOT salmon. It would be nice if a heartfelt toast made up for everything in the end, or if a dazzling wedding gift was given as a peace offering. But the whole time she’s on her honeymoon, the bride just ends up yammering on and on about how much she totally hates the bridesmaid, forcing the groom to pretty much drink his way through St. Croix and wonder what the hell he’s just done with the rest of his life.

Greasy Days
This documentary follows several dozen people and their fast food eating habits over the course of a few months. None of them gets heart disease or food poisoning, and most of them don’t eat out all that often, but when they do, 51 percent prefer chicken to beef even if the chicken is fried because it just sort of seems healthier. Also, a few people sometimes eat in their cars so they can listen to The Clark Howard Show.

My Reliable Love
At a 25th high school reunion, a divorced woman marches straight past her sophomore year boyfriend, straight past the nerd who ended up cute, and straight past the former quarterback, and directly to the veggie tray where she sees, with much delight, that the ranch dip is Hidden Valley brand.

Into the Danger Zone
A young man goes off to war and his girlfriend pines for him daily. That is, until she starts working at the Tat Shack and falls for a guy named Rico. The soldier doesn’t have any battle scenes, but he does take up dipping Skoal. After about 6 months, he realizes that his love-hate relationship with the desert is actually more hate.

Something’s Going On
In a regular suburban house — a house that looks just like any other — a family is besieged by terror when they start hearing strange sounds and misplacing small valuables. Then they find out their iguana has a cold and that the Molly Maids are common thieves.

Search for the Milky Way
A kid dressed as an astronaut raids his sister’s Halloween candy.

Wall Street III
A banker gets laid off but it’s okay because he really likes cupcakes and is pretty decent at baking and there’s kind of a cupcake craze going on these days anyway.

One of God’s Children
Deep in the slums of Bombay, there’s a boy who knows nothing about game show trivia. But he will bite off your ear for a teaspoon of couscous.

The Office Party
Here I am in the vast and unforgiving expanse of the corporate desert, where temperatures can spike to a swelt’ring 79 degrees during the annual holiday gala, or when Joanne, a chronically chilly secretary, is in charge of the thermostat. Don’t be fooled by the sterile nature of this office’s post-modern design; this place is lit’rally teeming with parasites. Last year, four human resource employees were rushed to the hospital after consuming copious amounts of ranch dip, and one of the office’s more buxom interns purportedly contracted syphilis in the copy room — just two examples of exactly how inhospitable this hellhole can be.

Tonight, I’ll demonstrate how to get from the conference room to the Valley of Cubicles without getting sucked into the maddening abyss known by indigenous peoples as Karaoke Corner. I begin by fashioning a shield from the cold-cut party tray, and a blunt spear by snapping together several dry-erase markers. Now, watch as I crawl military-style beneath the buffet table and toward the sparse forest of potted rubber trees. The sap of the rubber tree is renowned for its antiseptic properties, which would come in handy for the rug burn I’ve already procured over the past three meters, but unfortunately, these rubber trees are actually rubber.

Now things get gnarly. From my vantage point behind the recycling bin, I can see close to two dozen inebriated co-workers, and the excruciating din of festivities is rivaled only by that of the Nicaraguan howler monkey. Good thing I’ve found a partially smashed cockroach here on the carpeting; it will be an invaluable source of protein for the rest of my journey.

Bugger! That tastes less like a cockroach and more like a four-day old prawn! My mistake. It is a four-day old prawn. My only hope of not coming down with dysentery at this point is to make a hasty beeline to the tray of potent Jell-o shots in Cubicle #9. Four or five of those will ward off any chances of life-threatening diarrhea, but will likely land me right where I didn’t want to be, doing what I did last year: in Karaoke Corner singing B-side Wham!

Christmas With The In-Laws
Don’t get me wrong, I love my Missus, but I’d rather marinate myself in wildebeest broth and sleep with the Anasazi cannibals than bunk with my teetotaling in-laws. Proof of how bad it can be? All three of my wife’s former husbands took their lives during holiday visits: one bludgeoned himself with a turkey leg while my feral mother-in-law told her pageant queen story; another hanged himself with Christmas lights in the garage after a round of “Little House on the Prairie” charades; and another, in a noble attempt to get drunk, died after a desperate cocktail made from rubbing alcohol and potpourri.

But I’m here to prove not only my devotion to The Wife, but also my survival skills. If I can traverse the wily Panamanian mangroves and scale the glaciers of Greenland, surely I can handle a four-hour game of Pictionary with Hal. If I can drink the vomit of a Tibetan yak and then crawl inside its carcass for warmth, surely I can stomach Judith’s corn pudding.

Just as soon as I finish off this flask of Irish potato moonshine and crawl from the boxwood hedge, I’ll go inside. I’ve brought along what every good husband would bring: gift cards from Home Depot, a Bowie knife, and a roll of duct tape. If those don’t make my visit more tolerable, I’ll just check myself and my crew into the local Red Roof Inn.

Not that I’ve ever done anything like that before.

New Year’s Day
A New Year’s Day hangover can sometimes get a wanker thinking: Why did I have to go and drink so bloody much? Who in the name of mythical viper pits do I think I am? And why am I missing a testicle?

It probably has a little to do with RumpleMinze, a little to do with ego, and a lot to do with the local zoo. Orangutans, captive or wild, typically do not respond well to unsolicited back massages. They also do not appreciate you using their dung to illustrate fire-building techniques, nor are they too keen about participating in “body shots” — even if it is a holiday.

In my opinion, the best way to overcome the devastating psychological and physical effects of New Year’s Eve is to book the next helicopter flight to the Himalayans. On the way there, indulge in Mother Nature’s hangover cure by gnawing on a willow branch and applying a warm poultice of gingko leaves to your armpits. Maybe indulge in a couple of rare bison steaks and a smuggled cigar or two. Then make a resolution to regain your pride and your reputation, maybe even your right bollock.

Before you can say “Bob’s Your Uncle,” you’ll be parachuting into the great unknown — with only a flint, a pair of socks, and a pissed-off cameraman — starting the year off right.

Cheers!

Jerry Bruckheimer Does Skittish, Jumpy, Overreacting Cats

This opens to a sunrise on an aircraft carrier, or a helicopter crash in enemy territory, and some cat is going ape to a Kenny Loggins guitar solo. Next, there’s a silhouette shot as a cat jumps up on all fours, because of a moth or a mouse or a MiG-21. Whatever the case, in Scene 3, there is no feline, just somebody looking hot in uniform. Probably Val Kilmer. Now, cut to a tabby on the Sergeant’s ceiling fan, a Persian in the locker room getting snapped by a towel, and a calico walking through a Miami crime scene. Finally, three kittens claw the patch off Johnny Depp’s eye. People say cats are hard to direct, but they don’t know Nicolas Cage. One last thing: it fades out with a cat running into a plate glass patio door that looks open but isn’t. That’s funny as all hell.

Stanley Kubrick Does Fathers Getting Nailed In The Groin

Here, a bunch of dads and kids bide their time in a white room heavy on crown molding and velvet drapes; in the background are crates of economy-size cans of franks-and-beans. The children are dressed in pastel bunny costumes and jazz plays on a phonograph. Or better still: off-key polka. Next, the children are given antique badminton racquets while shuttlecocks are affixed to each father’s crotch. Then things just get confusing. There’s maniacal laughter; a toilet in the corner (clean then dirty, clean then dirty); and a close-up of the phonograph needle stuck on a merry stretch of music. It might end with a lingering shot of a father whose head is tilted down and eyes are peering up, but it’ll probably just close with an overly theatrical whack to the groin. Either that, or a giant teddy bear wielding an obelisk.

John Hughes Does Babies Eating Peas

This one stars a baby dressed in pink training bra; a dumb, muscular baby; a baby with dandruff; a baby wearing a headgear; and a baby with horrendously huge nostrils who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything. The babies sit around most of the day not eating their peas, knowing that by the end of the day, they’ll have to either eat their peas or mug for the camera. That is, unless someone hid some weed in a sippy cup. Yay! Baby-with-the-headgear did! Also, John Candy comes in periodically to change diapers and the soundtrack is comprised of Psychedelic Furs songs that aren’t good, but everyone pretends are.

The Coen Brothers Do People Falling At Wedding Receptions

Sounds cliché, but this probably begins with the camera rushing forward as a clumsy guest foxtrots into a wood chipper or a bloody snow bank or straight into John Goodman’s gut. Or maybe it features a trippy dream sequence of bridesmaids floating over the Exxon Valdez crisis while a narrator quotes Aristotle in an Oregon accent. Hmm. Or how about all the weddings are set in Omaha and all the men are incompetent? Wait. That’s not the Coen brothers. That’s Alexander Payne. Same difference. Anyway, I bet ultimately they just get Cameron Diaz to play a disabled golfer who can’t cut the cake for Jim Carrey, the schizophrenic groom.

Judd Apatow Does People Feeding Zoo Animals But Then Something Goes Hysterically Wrong

This one’s easy: a bunch of grandpas attempt to feed elephants peanuts while Russell Brand and Will Ferrell get overly friendly with said elephants from behind. Body fluids should probably be involved, but since this is a family show, the grandpas will probably just vomit on one another.

M. Night Shyamalan Does The $10,000 Winner Thing

It comes down to these four:

“Man Hides Rubber Snake In Cookie Jar; Toddler Wets Pants”
“Great Aunt Betsy’s Dentures Fall Into Chili Pot”
“Fat Man Loses Toupee On Roller Coaster”
“Lady Drives ATV Into Chicken Coop”

And the winner is…Well. There is no winner. This isn’t a reality show. This is a classic Shyamalan world-within-a-world and every audience member is a prisoner, forced to watch videos symbolic of his or her meaningless life. Haven’t you always thought audience members laughed in a very forced, secretly terrified way? Yes. This is actually hell and Tom Bergeron and Bob Saget are campaigning for Devil. How’s that for a twist? Definitely better than The Village, right? And certainly not based on a crappy Nickelodeon show.

If someone dies on Good Friday, they go directly to heaven. If someone dies on Fat Tuesday, they probably had diabetes.

If your nose itches, a fool is about to kiss you. If your crotch itches, blame Derek.

Be sure to wait an hour after eating before dumpster diving.

If you carry an acorn in your pocket, good luck will follow you wherever you go. If you carry a lamb chop, the same holds true. Except you can replace good luck with possum.

Never, ever lay a hat on a bed. Unless it’s a blond, inflatable sombrero.

Make a wish on the first robin of spring. If you finish wishing before the robin flies away, you’re not greedy enough. Who convinced you to reach so low? Man, you’re a real, underachieving asshole. I don’t know how you look at yourself in the mirror. Hey, look! A robin!

Grapefruit at dawn, live real long. Steak for dinner, bad gas.

Always bury your fingernail clippings under a full moon; if it doesn’t get rid of your plantar warts, it’ll get rid of that perfectly nice guy you’ve been dating. You know, Derek.

Feed a cold, starve your son’s guinea pig.

If you dream of fish, you’re pregnant. If you dream of fish sticks, your mother wishes you’d never been born.

Never walk under a ladder. Unless, of course, it’s wearing a diaper.

An apple a day keeps the blood-sucking, well-endowed, super-sexy vampire-robots away.

If you say goodbye to a friend on a bridge, you will never see each other again. Probably because it’s that “friend” whose boyfriend you borrowed and she’s been hoping to get you on a bridge for a couple of years now. See ya.

Housecats can’t suck the breath from a newborn, but they will steal your condoms.

The child that is born on the Sabbath day
is fair and wise and good and gay.
Not Rosie O’Donnell gay.
More like Portia de Rossi gay.

If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the navel is the peephole to the lint.

The knuckle-bone from a piece of mutton was once thought to be a preventative charm against rheumatism. A bison’s bladder, filled with M&Ms and worn about the neck, will probably get you that nanny job.

Chewing gum takes seven years to get out of your pubic hair.

In German lore, if you sneeze three times before breakfast, you’ll receive a present by day’s end. If you sneeze four times, Hitler’s ghost will piss in your oatmeal.

Red sky at night? Sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning? What a delicious peyote Danish this is!

If the first baby calf of spring is born all white, you’d better have your lawyer draw up a living will. Be sure to have a lengthy discussion about feeding tubes.

A rabbit’s foot, dyed the colors of your favorite NFL team and made into a keychain, pretty much makes you a cruel bastard. So does a jockstrap made of veal.

If you put a cabbage leaf in your underwear, well, then, so will I.

Lucky omens: a magpie, a shoelace knot, a penny, a chimney sweep. Unlucky omens: a black cat, a shotgun between the shoulder blades, a layover at the Pittsburgh airport, heart disease.

A cricket in the house is really fricking disgusting.

Every time Derek rings a bell, a Kevin Bacon movie comes on TBS.

Black Tie (aka Formal)
Yes: Black tuxedo jackets and matching trousers, patent leather shoes for men. Evening gowns or cocktail dresses for women.
No: Khakis, nose rings.

Black Tie Optional (aka Semi-formal, Indecisive, Passive-aggressive)
Tuxedos or dark suits for men. Evening gowns or cocktail dresses for women. Pantyhose or no pantyhose. Top hat or no top hat. Attend or don’t attend. See if I care. Not that you’d care if I cared. I may not even go myself. I might have something better to do. But if I do end up going, I’ll probably have a sinus infection. Or cancer.

White Tie (aka Ultra-formal)
Pretty much the same as Black Tie. Except racist.

Texas Black Tie
Pretty much the same as White Tie. Except homophobic.
Oh…and spurs.

Executive
Orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, Gucci loafers.

Smart Casual vs. Business Casual
Blue jeans and bifocals vs. Banana slings and ballpoints.

Casual Friday
Dockers, bed heads, Birkenstocks, mild cases of chlamydia.
(Casual Friday is not to be confused with Lackadaisical Wednesday, which permits flip flops and gonorrhea; or Devil-May-Care Tuesday, which authorizes Crocs and crabs. Please note: cutoffs, snoods, gladiator sandals, and genital warts are solely reserved for Manic-Depressive Thursday. We do not care what you wear on Suicidal Sunday, but keep in mind, a little rouge never looked bad on anyone.)

Festive (aka Holiday, Humiliating)
Yes: Sequins, musical neckties, tap shoes, dickies, clown noses, Groucho Marx glasses.
No: Recollection of how you ended up behind the office copy machine spooning with a Chia Pet.

Rugged (aka Sporting, Lesbian)
Yes: Orvis, pelts, slingshots.
No: Spandex, leg warmers, tampons.

Resort (aka Cruise, Water Park)
Yes: Disney attire, fanny packs, cellulite, Aqua Socks, body hair, suspicious moles, third nipples.
No: Concealed weapons, open wounds, Ph.D.s, dignity.

After Five
Yes: Sweatpants, preferably velour. Terry cloth. Red Lobster bibs. Zit cream.
No, I do not want to get back together with you. I just stopped by to get my DVDs and toothbrush. What’s that? I can’t have them until I have sex with you? Hmm. Let me sit here on the couch and think about that. Meanwhile, why don’t you go get me a beer while I finish your lobster? And a glass. A frosty one.

Mardi Gras (see also: Nursing Home, Nursery School)
No: Bras.
Yes: Diapers.

Dressy Casual
Pair an “A” item with a “B” item.
A: Wife beater, overalls, corncob pipe, trucker hat.
B: Tweed knickers, hoop skirt, cummerbund, monocle.

Rehearsal Dinner
Dude! Screw the rented tux; all you’re gonna need is a paper bag for your head. I am so totally going to bring up that time when we did that thing. And that other time when we did that other thing. If I get on a roll, I may even mention those two other times and those two other things! I am so going to make you hate me, and your fiancee hate you! It’ll be awesome, Bro! I’m also going to pick up half of my pork tenderloin during the speech and waggle it between my legs to illustrate a point. Then I’ll shed a few tears before grabbing your grandmother’s ass at the open bar. Soon after, I’ll puke. Any chance I can have your paper bag?

Country Club
Yes: J. Crew “critter” pants, ballet flats, tortoiseshell accessories, alcoholics (non-recovering).
No: Cosby sweaters, Drakkar Noir, Discover cards, Mormons.

Catholic School
Yes: Kilts, hemmed four inches higher than catalog standard. Dime bag in kneesocks. Cigarettes in padded bra. General countenance of ennui.
No: Fishnets. Yarmulkes. Mohawks. Ass-less chaps. Pasties. Pearl necklaces. Chewing gum in confession, Missy.

Le Smoking
Yes: this is an actual dress code.
No: I didn’t make it up.
Suggestions: Wear a beret. Drive your Le Car. Shave your le balls. Plan on doing lots of le cocaine.

Midwestern Thanksgiving Dinner
No: Bare feet, slouching, death metal concert tees, low-rise jeans, hickeys, Methodist jokes, tattoos, scatological humor, mini skirts, eyeliner, eye rolling, Doc Martens, wallet chains, Hannah Montana paraphernalia, or, God forbid, that vulgar v-neck number. What happened to that Lands’ End turtleneck we sent you last Christmas? Don’t tell me you gave it away. It’s probably all because of that man you’re co-habitating with. Oh, mother of pearl…the yams!
Yes: Horse tranquilizers, Snuggie.