Kate Ryan

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.