And the rest of the people in the room, in front of and behind the camera, don’t immediately shut him down, cut to commercial, and then return with an apology for having platformed a fucking Nazi.

You know what they say about a Nazi at the table and ten other people sitting there talking to him…

A pastor, a priest, and a rabbit walk into a blood donation clinic.

The rabbit says “I think I’m a type O.”

I think originality is overrated. Hear me out.

Example 1: Star Wars should plagiarize more. Original Star Wars is Hidden Fortress in space, plus a bit of WW2 dogfighting and some car culture flavor. Late period Star Wars has been taking original Star Wars, blending it up, and pouring it back out again. Not enough plagiarism. Top Gun, but make it Star Wars and call it Rogue Squadron. Three Musketeers, but make it Star Wars and call it Three Jedi. Take your pick of old detective noir stories, set it on Coruscant, and call it the The Dantooine Falcon. Stop ripping off Star Wars in Star Wars, and go back to ripping off other properties, and it’s a license to print money.

Example 2: Stop trying to make movie franchises progress forward in time; continuity and originality are overrated. James Bond has been making virtually the same movie for over sixty years, and people still love it! Bond goes to exotic locale meets and beds some number of beautiful women, engages in a bit of extreme sports, foils the plan of some flamboyant villain. The actors are regularly changed without comment. The movie is always set “right now.” Bond has (almost) always been 007 for “a while.” Continuity virtually never spans more than a couple of movies until it gets reset to zero again. And it’s still going strong as a franchise! Pirates of the Caribbean could have used this pattern and just kept making crazy pirate adventure movies forever, but they got wrapped around the axle trying to keep a continuous plot going forward. Should have gone the James Bond route.

Stop trying to make original movies that advance an overarching plot across a franchise. Make movies that have already been made and that don’t take the franchise anywhere. You can’t go wrong.

Q: What do you call a doctor who is three sheets to the wind by mid-afternoon?

A: Doctor.

Don’t forget about PFAS!

Money may not buy happiness, but it can buy a jetski, and have you ever seen someone look sad on a jetski?

Proverbs 26:18-19

Like a madman who throws firebrands, arrows, and death, Is the man who deceives his neighbor, And says, “I was only joking!”

Could they do the thing that airports do with geese, where they get a Labrador to run around and bark at the birds and the birds say, “Ehh… fuck this area” and leave of their own accord?

Ku… Klluuux… Klan?

DO NOT CREATE THE TORMENT NEXUS

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I saw a car with these two bumper stickers:

That was a very confusing day for me.

There’s no way in fucking Hell that Trump would willingly stand in the way of a bullet.

There’s no way in fucking Hell that Trump could keep quiet about it if he was actually an active participant in a conspiracy. He’d have tweeted about it by the end of the week.

There’s no way in fucking Hell that the people around Trump could orchestrate an attempted assassination without it blowing up in their faces somehow.

The ear was probably hit by a tiny fleck of glass from a shattered teleprompter, and then with Trump no doubt on blood thinners it would bleed like all get out.

Just keep assuming ever greater stupidity and incompetence all around and you’ll usually arrive at the correct answer as to what happened.

That’s not a bad explanation.

Qui-Gon: Credits will do fine. [while attempting a mind trick]

Watto: No, they won’t.

Qui-Gon: Credits WILL do fine.

Watto: No, they won’t.

Qui-Gon: [Walks down street to money exchanger] Trade me these credits for Hutt bucks [Does mind trick]

Money Exchanger: Okay!

[Qui-Gon returns to Watto]

Qui-Gon: Here’s a pile of Hutt bucks. Sell me a functional hyperdrive.

Watto: Okay!

[Roll credits]

Anon:

What do you mean?

I assumed that it meant “toast.”

As a baby, my kid had cheeks that would visibly jiggle when we wheeled her stroller down a bumpy driveway.

We would sing a song about her: Fat fat, baby fat-fat. Fatty baby fatty baby, fatty fat-fat. Fatty fat cheeks! Baby fat cheeks! Baby fat, baby fat, fatty fat fat.

She didn’t seem to mind.