My grandmother made this. In the nursing home. Two decades ago. It's a family heirloom. DO NOT JUDGE.

OK, you can judge. Because how did Grandma get her hands on a beer bottle for her nursing-home craft class? Perhaps the answer to that question is the key to unlocking the mystery of the uneven antlers.

I’m not Russian to judgment or anything, but I think a certain bot’s country needs to take a rudimentary caller ID technology class ...

I dunno ... let me check ...

I know I’m the patron saint of painfully awkward, piteous flirting so I have no room to criticize—and at my age I should just shut up and thank the patron saint of small ego boosts if someone even makes an effort—but if you walk out of a restaurant with your little to-go bag and notice that the sidewalk is drenched and covered in puddles for as far as you can see, probably the LAST don’t-look-like-an-idiot conversation starter you should use on the gay guy walking toward you is “Did it rain?”

I hate to be all judgey BUT I’M GONNA BE ALL JUDGEY

because AAA just sent the cast of Deliverance to wordlessly change my tire and start to climb back into its truck with zero interaction with me regarding the inflation level of my spare, how long they recommend I drive on it or anything else related to what I should look out for as I pull back into the highway with the back-right quarter of my car supported by a donut that hasn’t seen the light of day for 14 years. 

AAA, you really suck right now. But I’m heading home. Or into fiery death in a ditch.

Oh, nothing

Just sitting on a panel of judges draconianly judging the team names and uniforms for two separate middle-school and high-school dodgeball tournaments, and no doubt destroying uncountable spirits, hopes and dreams along the way. I am DRUNK! WITH! POWER!

How’s YOUR pathetically-meaningless-by-comparison Saturday morning?