The ‘Bama Sutra: Showing in sadly explicit detail hundreds of different techniques and positions for having sex with blood relatives or the merely toothless.
The year ends much as it began, with the minor addition of the bloody battle between the forces of good and evil on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve 1999.
With December comes the end of another wildly adequate year of cutting-edge journalism, edgy opinion-making, and our single-handed revival of the payola craze.
“This, my friends with whom I’m forging an unlikely bond, is the Planet Product Placement hotel, the best place to go if you wanna contrive an exciting climax.”
“Now what the fuck are we gonna do? Mr. Burnt Sienna’s fuckin’ dead! That means I’ll have no one to bounce my sarcastic pop-culture references off of!”
“I’ve been carrying this vital piece of classified intel for days and I’ve got to get it to Ominous-Looking Government Headquarters in Qualico-Over-Quantico!”
We manufactured designer “accessories of Godliness” at the Sweatshop of Heavenly Piecework. These were rare and glorious times and I have the scabs to prove it.
I was chasing a dream of rock ‘n’ roll stardom, playing electric ocarina in a band comprised of a bunch of malcontents, layabouts, and known mousse abusers.