There’s never a good time to tell your parents you’re dating a mannequin. But there are spectacularly bad ones. You keep finding them with the precision of a heat-seeking missile aimed squarely at your mother’s last good nerve, usually with the whole family watching. The worst times to tell your parents you’re dating a mannequin…
Competitive chicken wing eating is the only American sport where the trophy goes to whoever can most convincingly lie about what just happened to a chicken. The prize money is real. The stomach damage is permanent. The temptation to fudge your bone count is roughly the size of a Honda Civic. Australian eater James Webb…
She came over carrying cookies and kissed you on the cheek. The breath she sent your way on the exhale could strip varnish off a coffin. The dentures have crossed a line. They are no longer teeth, they are a bioweapon parked behind her lipstick. You love her, and you also love breathing. Both things…
Somewhere in America right now, a gastroenterologist is staring at the back of a stranger’s head from a profoundly unflattering angle. They have heard things. Disturbing things. Quotable things. Things their spouses have not been told about. Some of those things were said by patients running on one-third sedation, one-third dignity, and one-third leftover Pinot…
A hangover is your body’s annual performance review, delivered by a tiny pissed-off accountant who lives in your skull and uses your eyeballs as drum kits. The morning after a bender comes with the same tempting little lie: that some magical cure is out there, waiting to undo the eleven Aperol spritzes you treated like…
Competitive eaters cheat. Constantly. And they cheat in ways so spectacularly stupid that the appropriate punishment is just a hug from their disappointed mother. The most common methods include swapping empty plates to inflate the count, hiding chunks of food in dark-colored drinks, and palming half-chewed buns into napkins. Some of them even quietly puke…