The Fourth Judge Is Afraid of Getting Hit by a Space Rock

This whole Russian meteor thing is terrifying. Imagine if a 10,000 ton meteor exploded 30 km above your big stupid head? There’s no reason it had to explode in Siberia. It could have just as easily rocked your shit while you were eating at a Chipotle in Minnesota. There’s no reason to think you won’t get wiped off the map right this second. Right as you bite into that crumbly as fuck Nature valley Bar.

I like to imagine that at the exact moment the meteor exploded there was a devoutly catholic boy masturbating for the first time in his life. This boy will go on to believe that his sinful act of genital manipulation for non procreative purposes angered God so greatly that He smote the boy’s remote manufacturing village in the Ural mountains with fire and brimstone. Wracked with guilt, the young man will go on to kill himself by lighting his dick on fire and jumping in front the Q train during morning rush hour, making me 45 minutes late for work. I won’t be that annoyed about missing work, but I’ll be hungover with a headache and a queasy stomach and will be in no mood to stand around forever. Plus I ate a bacon egg and cheese that morning that isn’t sitting right.

I had a dream that Snapchat for Android finally had video. For once in my life I was happy.

Here’s what I want to know about the Oscar Pistorius thing – what happens to his magazine subscriptions when he goes to jail? Will somebody cancel them? Will he switch the delivery address to his new prison? Or will the new tenants of his haunted death house keep getting issues of The Paris Review, Architectural Digest, and The Source?

I never realized until today that I could bitch about the fact that the only person who lived in my apartment before me was someone who went to THE Ohio State University. I could be getting mail for Ed Koch. Or Carmelo Anthony. Or Hitler! Think of the possibilities!

You guys do your taxes yet? I’m thinking about using an accountant this year for the first time, but I don’t know. Seems expensive.

Apparently, baseball guys are getting caught doing steroids again, which isn’t surprising in any way, but it did mean the return of my favorite Steroid Excuse Meme. Francisco Cervelli, the Yankees shitty backup maybe starting catcher, pulled out the ol, “my average was only .211 last year. How could I suck that bad if I were on steroids?” card, which is absurd on a number of levels.

First of all, we get it. You suck. But you could always suck more. A .211 batting average is not the absolute basement for baseball suckiness. Whose to say you wouldn’t have batted .186 without steroids and broke your fragile baby wrists attempting to lay down a bunt when the force of the ball hitting the bat shattered both your arms (which is what would happen to me if I were to attempt to bunt a major league fastballl).

Here’s a picture of Penny Marshall.

My weed guy didn’t compliment my appearance yesterday. I’m starting to feel unappreciated.

Compliments I’ve received in the past:

Compliments I’ve received in the past:

-Lookin’ sharp as always!
-The studious look. I like it!
-You get a haircut?
-The studious look. I like it! (he seems to forget I own glasses)

It’s possible my biceps have gotten to big for his taste. I don’t know.

Oh FUCK YEAH! This challah bread is still FRESH as FUCK!

/stacks a bunch of pepperoni on some surprisingly fresh as fuck challah bread (I made French toast the other day).