Today I’m binge-watching Bob Ross. No, really.
Before Rohypnol, Jethro Tull T‑shirts were, alas, the only way a lot of guys could get laid.
Call me Pope Ernie. Or His Holiness Ernest the Oneth, if you’re a Shiite Catholic.
John Denver didn’t die, kid. He just went home.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I didn’t look like a kid with big hands; I looked like a kid wearing a pair of those giant foam hands they use to play Slapjack on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon.
And now, children, hear and remember the tale of me, Billy Paul, Mrs. Jones, my friend Rob, and my dog Meatball: Long, long ago, in a little state named Kansas, which no one wants to admit coming from except the classic rock band Kansas and possibly Bob Dole, two young men and a dog were tooling around town in the legendary muscle car Charles the Deep Breather, which probably sounds silly because you weren’t there,Read More