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Tag Archives: humor

We never saw it coming. There was no warning, no time to say, “You know you really ought to have a Twinkie. It’s been so long, and who knows how much longer they’ll be around.” Don’t be stupid, any of us would have said. Twinkies will be around forever. Not so. Twinkie the Kid is gone.

This, notably, is the only time “fresh” has ever been used to describe a Hostess Twinkies snack cake. Also notable is the tagline, “The fresh snacks with a snack in the middle!” Twinkies are a snack within a snack—a snack2. Isn’t this really all we ever really wanted?

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Max Weber Haus in Heidelberg, Germany

Where it all went down.

Once upon a time, I made the mistake of putting myself on a mailing list.

Not the kind where you type your email address into the computer at the register at DSW and the girl assures you, “ALL we send are coupons, I promise,” or the kind where you get a Hulu Plus account (finally, after “thinking about it” for like a year) and then you get emails that say unnecessary things like “John, Catch the Latest Fall TV This Week.” Not that kind.

I mean the kind where you write your email next to your name on a piece of paper on a clipboard, or taped to a table, or getting passed around the room. Kids, never do this. Ever.
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As of today, I am out of clean underwear. Two jobs and a partially-unpacked suitcase have left me with only questions, and no time to straighten them out—questions like, Did I wear these already?

If I’m being truly honest, my second question is typically, Did I wear these…twice? I know, I know, yuck. Cut me a little slack. (Incidentally slack is typically the two-wear giveaway.) Let him who is without laundry laziness cast the first stone. I’m out, plain and simple.

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It was one of those instances in which someone says, “I told you so,” and you aren’t even mad. They did tell you so. It was one of those sudden, disastrous events, after which someone huffily snaps their arms akimbo and goes, “See??” and you do see. This one’s on you.

Last weekend, my boyfriend Ashton and I drove up to visit my grandparents in southern New Hampshire. We spent a few days working through a few To Do lists, helping out able-bodiedly with the house- and yard-work that come with the changing of seasons—in this case a shift from breezy early summer to face-melting mid-July.

I was shuffling around the front yard in flip-flops, watering plants and weeding.

“Take off your chanclas and put some shoes on,” Ashton tsked, climbing off the riding mower while I knelt in the wild strawberry pulling crabgrass.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I answered, insouciant.

A few minutes later, crabgrass pulled and my flip-flops already far from my mind, I took up the task of moving six forty-pound bags of potting soil into a small metal trailer. I’m fine, I’d said. keep reading >>>

My dad once told me never to write anything down that I wouldn’t want read back to me in court. It was rather a startling note of caution to offer a twelve-year-old on AOL Instant Messenger, but the point was well taken. From that point on, typing anything anywhere online felt like a gamble with infamy. Fast-forward to 2011, and my worst fears of 2001 seem very nearly realized.

Baby’s First Status

The slow, wall-by-wall encroachment of Facebook’s “Timeline” feature has for many of us brought the past five or six years to a harrowing present. Now, suddenly and without preface, the Facebook pasts of friends, friends-of-friends, and Facebook-official loved ones lurk in a single sidebar—every wall post, every status update, every damning e-flirtation ever issued, all collected chronologically in one place. Be still, my mouse.
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