Kate Ryan

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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 . . .

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

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

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.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.