A few months ago, I ran into a friend of mine, who I hadn’t seen in a while, and we decided to go get a beer. At the bar, he paid for my beer and when I reached for my wallet to settle my debt, he told me not to worry about it. I thanked him profusely.

Over the past year or so, I lost 30lbs and I have to say I really recommend it. Now before I get pilloried for fat shaming, I have to specify that I didn’t lose weight to be considered more attractive in accordance with mainstream tastes.

When my son (I don’t remember which one of the two) got his first two teeth, I thought it would be fun to name them, which I did: Montague and the Chomper. No one else found this cute, so I abandoned the idea, but it left me with the gnawing notion that I should be naming my own teeth.

We have reached a point as a society where it is considered a personal failing to not like Brussel Sprouts. If you admit to not liking Brussel Sprouts–as I myself have–people will insist that it’s simply impossible to not like them and that you’re being childish for not giving them a chance.

For the life of me, I can’t understand why Sleep Specialists seem so hellbent on preventing me from sleeping soundly. Anytime I read an article about the latest scientific discoveries on the sleep front, I can’t sleep for a week!

I have just now discovered, more than halfway through the workday, that my underpants are on inside out. How could this have happened to me, a noted paragon of wearing underwear in its correct fashion?