Kate Ryan

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.