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Not sure that I ever posted what I think is the most serendipitous Dashco ever.
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I have come to assume that if your shirt is one color and you collar is another color we are unlikely to be close friends.
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'Satellite' by Dave Matthews Band is exactly as terrible as you remember.
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Beer-battered Sea Trout, Pickled Onion, Smoked Gouda Grits.
The thought here, for both of you who care, was that the pickled onions stand in for the vinegar in the usual fish and chips. And the chips are represented by … shit, man — I’m just trying to get dinner on the table before 10 pm. There are no chips, representational or otherwise. Open a bag of Lay’s or something. Do I have to do EVERYTHING around here? FUCK.
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When The Zombies asked “What’s your name? Who’s your daddy?” was it as skeevy then as it’d be today?
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Kind of forgot about this album for a minute. Lot of post-college flashbacks going on over here.
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Country Fried Steak, Buttermilk Biscuit, Gravy
This pic isn’t up to standards, but it’s been awhile.
You sous-ing for me would be an insult to you, dude.
This isn’t even a little true. Not these days. Regardless, you’re welcome to my toys any time, and I’ve got a line on a really nice pop-up space in Chicago.
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Loathe to point out how desperately out of touch I am with the moment, but this happened in my life today, and I’ve never been happier to burn a song out over a 72-hour holiday weekend,
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"If I wanted smoke blown up my ass, I’d be at home with a pack of cigarettes and a short length of hose."
— The Simpsons really used to have some stuff going on.
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If you’re fortunate enough to live in a situation where you think, however briefly, that there isn’t a massive pile of horrible, casual racists roaming at large, let me refer you to the Facebook comments on this ESPN story.
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