Kate Ryan

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.