Google calls this sorcery “deep learning”. I call it “Skynet Beta”. Also there’s a high chance this thing would make me accidentally tell my boss to go fuck himself.
Anyone else strangely curious about this fish bladder filtering process? How many bladders do they use, where do you buy bladders in bulk, and how do you set that shit up?
Having to order the chicken on date night because you can’t afford the steak, much less the shrimp topping. Oh, and “date night” is actually just taking Chili’s To Go back to the 1 BR apartment to watch Netflix alone. PGP.
Pumpkin spice latte tastes like literal sex? Are you trying to say PSL tastes awful? Or are you trying to say jizz tastes like pumpkin and no one’s ever told me? Or do you just have no idea what the word “literal” means?
P.S. I’m not sure how I’d feel if you told me jizz tastes like pumpkin.
Same here. I’ve been #feelinthebern recently, and it hasn’t been the politician. But seriously, I wish I was s more elegant writer because the current state of weddings infuriates me.
You brought up two points that might be good topics for future articles: The overuse of email to ask stupid little questions instead of coming over to ask in person, which is easier and faster, and the absurd cost of being a groomsman or bridesmaid, both of which are pretty useless positions.
I like to use “Randy Travis” as an adjective to describe a certain level of drunkenness. That level is reached when Randy and I polish of a quart of rye… each.
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Google calls this sorcery “deep learning”. I call it “Skynet Beta”. Also there’s a high chance this thing would make me accidentally tell my boss to go fuck himself.
Anyone else strangely curious about this fish bladder filtering process? How many bladders do they use, where do you buy bladders in bulk, and how do you set that shit up?
Tapas: Overpriced appetizers for a meal that never comes.
Gotta go in like Larry David and order “some vanilla bullshit latte cappa thing”.
As someone in almost your exact situation and who’s spent some time in NYC, stay in Nashvegas. New York sucks ass.
Not sure if I’m phrasing this right, but the FOMO these photos are giving me is combining with my Scaries to make for one hell of a Sunday.
My girlfriend and I are big fans of the beer mile, but we have a special process. I drive her to the track and drink 4 beers while I watch her run.
I don’t just have the liquor, I AM the liquor.
Having to order the chicken on date night because you can’t afford the steak, much less the shrimp topping. Oh, and “date night” is actually just taking Chili’s To Go back to the 1 BR apartment to watch Netflix alone. PGP.
“Makes you feel like going into battle in iron armor.” So heavily incumbered and immobile? Because that’s how I feel wearing a suit.
“I’m running out of time.” Too fucking real, man.
I’ve also been inside more airport terminals than I have women, but I only average about 1 plane trip every 5 years.
Pumpkin spice latte tastes like literal sex? Are you trying to say PSL tastes awful? Or are you trying to say jizz tastes like pumpkin and no one’s ever told me? Or do you just have no idea what the word “literal” means?
P.S. I’m not sure how I’d feel if you told me jizz tastes like pumpkin.
Same here. I’ve been #feelinthebern recently, and it hasn’t been the politician. But seriously, I wish I was s more elegant writer because the current state of weddings infuriates me.
You brought up two points that might be good topics for future articles: The overuse of email to ask stupid little questions instead of coming over to ask in person, which is easier and faster, and the absurd cost of being a groomsman or bridesmaid, both of which are pretty useless positions.
You have breakroom snacks? Uppidy bastards.
I like that he made sure to include in his interview that his erection was “massive”.
Thanks Madodff. Been diggin your articles lately. Keep up the good work!
“Well I’ve got a job, and I put my money away. But I got the kind of (student) debt that no honest man can pay.” PGP.
I like to use “Randy Travis” as an adjective to describe a certain level of drunkenness. That level is reached when Randy and I polish of a quart of rye… each.