The seemingly endless Democratic presidential nomination drags on and on, grinding its way from one state to the next with countless annoying robocalls and bucket-loads of empty speechifying, even though experts tell us that the only way Hillary Clinton can win is to clone her own superduper delegates in a secret lab or produce incriminating photos of Barack Obama kissing the Rev. Jeremiah Wright full on the mouth while simultaneously setting fire to an American flag.
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The key to a long life? Eat plenty of fatback. That's what Josie Myers Flowers -- or Granny Jo -- told me. I
Stephen Hawking has always been among my favorite astrophysicists. I've got his rookie card and planned to paint a large "K" on my bare chest so the gang and I could spell out HAWKING on the front row at his next lecture. But a recent comment by Hawking that only "cranks" and "weirdos" claim to have been abducted by aliens strikes me as extremely insensitive to those who have been whisked away and often probed by beings from another galaxy.
I had a decision to make. Should I slip into the bright-red boxer briefs, dig through the dirty clothes or go commando?
Visitors to and residents of Louisiana will not get a chance to chug the state's official cocktail and wake up on a French Quarter sidewalk with no wallet, no memory and no pants.
I wish I had a nickel for every question like this: Scott, as a noncertified financial planner, can you tell me whether I should use my upcoming tax rebate to pay down enormous, crippling credit-card debt or should I put it toward a Panasonic 65-inch flat-panel HDTV so I can sit on the couch, turn off my brain and forget all about my enormous, crippling credit-card debt?
If I were writing this with a pencil, you probably couldn't read it.
Terrorists burned pieces of my childhood during the early-morning hours of March 16.
I knew I was in deep trouble at the fifth-grade career fair when I eased into the parking lot and the Highway Patrol helicopter landed 50 feet from my truck.
I never knew Easter could be so dangerous. But Mr. No-No did.
Nominations for the seventh annual America's Best Restroom Award are being taken now through April 7, with an overall winner to be announced in August, if you can hold it that long.
While we Americans have been busy shooting down our own spy satellites and trying to figure out what a superdelegate is, we have turned a blind eye to what is possibly the most horrific threat to this great nation: devil toads.
Hello? Hello? I'm waiting to be courted here.
I was mad at Tim Conway.
My mama has gone Britney in the glare of the media spotlight. Last week, I wrote about how she ordered a George W. Bush mask, strapped it to a dummy in a replica electric chair from a Halloween clearance sale and set it on her porch as a "political and artistic statement."
As a small town newspaper editor, it's never pleasant when you're scooped on your own mama. It's more unpleasant when the story may earn her a complimentary waterboarding session and an all-expense-paid trip to Gitmo.
Children, at least sick ones in England, hate clowns. This is not my assumption. I simply report the news, then distort it for the amusement of others. Please, I do not want to receive this e-mail from the International Society of Clowns And To A Lesser Degree Mimes:
As I watched the results of a recent presidential primary -- the batteries in the remote suddenly stopped working, and I couldn't flip to Pimp My Ride without getting off the couch -- I was amazed at the upbeat, positive speeches given by the losers.
The pink electric scooter sat in the store aisle, as irresistible to an 11-year-old girl as a pony or a Hannah Montana concert ticket.
Readers without short-term memory loss will recall last week's column on... uh ...what the heck was that hurriedly written piece about?
Congratulations to Alberto Gonzales, who was recently named 2007 Lawyer of the Year, besting runners-up Alan Shore of Boston Legal and Nicky "Neck Brace" Carbone, who won a $6,200 settlement for a woman who claimed mental anguish when a can of squirt cheese exploded in her camper trailer's kitchenette.
The world owes a debt of gratitude to the late Evel Knievel, not only for his daring deeds but also for lending his name to the greatest toy of all time -- the Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle.
It was a cough somewhere between "I am laying the groundwork for skipping school tomorrow" and "I am in the early stages of a legitimate illness that will likely spread to other children, some of whom could develop severe complications leading to quarantines, mass hysteria and a visit by the CDC."
After the latest panda-human incident at the Beijing Zoo, international panda officials have asked me, the most well-respected journalist within an 8-foot radius of where I am sitting, to make this public-service announcement: Do not provoke pandas.
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