To understand the dicks of the bird world, we must confront the dicks within.
By mid-June, most of the greens at Bamboo Creek Farm had gone to seed.
“The term ‘small-batch’ is just a meaningless, offensive term now, but Lance actually makes three barrels of something, and it’s so fucking good.”
The $636 million industry is fueled by the greatest suckers of all: millennial dog owners, like me.
In the quiet of the night in Atlanta, an illustrator conjures up dreamscapes that feel otherworldly.
Several weeks ago, I was peacefully lying in bed drifting off to sleep when I felt a conspicuous, featherweight tickling sensation along my bare calf.
This steady, slow, rhythmatic, nurturing of a living thing, watching it grow from a slip of green to a thriving, lush being, provides a vital tether to the present, and to my surroundings.
A day bath? In this economy? Capitalism makes the idea appalling — sickening, even. Idle leisure has a terrible ROI.
“There was a lot of pressure to bring out ‘whales,’ and talk about how you got this beer or how long you waited in line. For lack of a better term, it was a dick-measuring contest, and I wasn’t tasting anything.”
“Abortion” isn’t a cuss. It’s healthcare.