What’s most admirable about Sam Borden’s piece on the reluctance of NFL players to wear athletic protection is how he runs the table of euphemisms without once referring to the family jewels. Oh, and I learned why a pioneering manufacturer of jockstraps was named Bike.
Handel’s ditty gets the “Subterranean Homesick Blues” treatment by the fifth grade class of Kuinerrarmiut Elitnaurviat school in Quinhagak, Alaska, and it’s adorable.
(I agree with Bas Bleu to overlook the greengrocer’s apostrophes.)
I once used a line printer that I swear was playing the bass line to the Smithereens’ “Blood and Roses,” but it is no match for BD594’s collection of instruments. Kasia Cieplak-Mayr von Baldegg tees up this version of the Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun.”
Via Leta, Rudbeckia Hirta summarizes Atlas Shrugged. If I’d had this precis to read back when I was in high school, I could have spent that week reading sexy science fiction instead.
People alternate between speechifying at each other with Tea Party rhetoric and then having sex because everyone would stop reading if it was just the Tea Party stuff.
Via Bookslut, a story from the Onion with steak to go with the sizzle of the headline (and byline, in this case): “Hey, Man, I Totally Get It; I’d Watch A 2-Hour ‘Biggest Loser’ Special, Too,” by A Collection of Nabokov’s Short Stories. Guess who just added something to his book shopping list.
RE: Your Cosmic Assistance Most Urgently Needed, by Zachary Martin.
I want you and I to make a fortune out of a situation that I am obviously left with no better option. The issue I am presenting is that my sun was recently destroyed in a supernova that obliterated most life on my planet…
Eric Hague introduces Objectivism to the play lot.
By so much as allowing Johanna to share her toy with him, we’d be undermining her appreciation of one of life’s most important lessons: You should never feel guilty about your abilities. Including your ability to repeatedly peg a fellow toddler with your Elmo ball as he sobs for mercy.
Via Leta: my internship in New York came a little late (1978), but here I am at Sterling Cooper (standing in for W.R. Grace & Co.), ready to set the world on fire. (Actually, John Molloy would have been appalled by the short-sleeved shirt.)
Geoffrey K. Pullum reproduces a turd of plagiarized septic verse.
From the TMN archives: Kevin Guilfoyle’s “Surrey with the Syringe on Top,” concerning the scandal in the swirl of disclosures that Great American playwrights had been doping:
[Arthur] Miller is quick to point out that it wasn’t always this way, and when the conversation turns to his early days, he becomes nostalgic. You should have seen me when I was writing Death of a Salesman. I had pecs the size of Iroquois saddlebags and my glutes were so rock-hard I could have sat on Joe McCarthy’s head and popped it like a rotten beet.’