Kate Ryan

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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

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.

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 . . .

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.