Short reviews of pretty much whatever. Finally, you can discover if Frosted Flakes Gold has more social worth than Illmatic or Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare.
Dawson's Creek with fairies and ecstasy. I'm working on a postmodern version that ends when a jealous Oberon puts a bullet in Donkey Kong's frontal lobe and no one ever has to hear another word about the fucking play-within-a-play. You're welcome.
The post office sucks. Everybody who works there is a total dillrod, their hours are like fucking Brigadoon, and the lines during those fleeting hours are filled with the angriest, shootiest people America has to offer. But who can blame them? They are waiting in a 25 minute line to probably not get helped by the one surly asshole working the counter. In conclusion, few other places can brag of bringing into the lexicon a term for going insane and hurting people, except for maybe theme restaurant Medieval Times.
Breathe easy, gothtards. The Wachowski brothers say Baudrillard says Keanu Reeves will die for your sins.
Potato salad is the most unpretentious food there is. The chunks of egg. The contrast of paprika with mayonnaise. Like a country girl's breast milk, it's hideously nourishing. Love it or hate it, you really can't adopt a reflexively ironic "cool" pose while eating it:
When I was digging in my cabinets a minute ago I found an old fortune cookie and figured hey what the hell. Little did I know that this cookie contained some sort of bullshit metanarrative/ironic fortune. (Actually I only have the vaguest memory of all that literary theory nonsense from undergrad so I'm not really sure what this fortune is, but it certainly feels like bullshit.) This is totally unfair. Fortunes should strictly tell fortunes. I don't need it to tell me I'm nice, or that the sky is blue, or that life is all a crock of crap. Just tell me my fortune, you stupid cookie!
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