Being my own

flack.

A scalpel

when a shrink would help. Met a plastic surgeon recently who said one business holding steady lately is carving away folds left from bariatric surgery on patients still fucked up from overeating.

Apparently there's some kerfuffle

over this. I first braved the kitchen when I was in single digits myself, with my schizophrenic, profoundly depressed mom calling out instructions on how to bake a cake as she lay smoking in bed. I'm all for kids cooking. Just don't shove them down my throat like they're Molto Egoettes. 

Nothing's sacred

Peanut butter in the cat food. 

(Gleaned from Slate.) 

Enough with the kitchen

On to the wine cellar now that the O'Doul's fool is gone. 

Imagine one day

lighting up a joint at Starbucks. Would it make Tijuana any less bloody? 

The other side

of the alternative to high-fructose corn syrup. 

Not fud, but acidic

When you've lost Hitchens . . .