Not sure if you heard, but last week on Labor Day, some bored Casino in the Twin Cities spent half-a-day cooking a 1000 pound hamburger.

Guinness Records representative Philip Robertson verified the record for biggest burger. He called the feat a result of “remarkable teamwork” and said the burger “actually tastes really good.” Black Bear’s burger included 60 pounds of bacon, 50 pounds of lettuce, 50 pounds of sliced onions, 40 pounds of pickles and 40 pounds of cheese.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

No intro today. I’m too busy eastwooding empty chairs around the house. I, too, want to scold that invisible Kenyan President for having the audacity of being born in the foreign country of Hawaii. If you need context, I’m not sure what happened the other day, but I was flipping channels and saw Clint Eastwood having a 20 minute stroke.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

So much to write about this week, so little space to put it in. So let’s meditate, gyrate, and procreate our thoughts on this challenge, and condense down to one single topic. After a large amount of concentrating and Captain Morgan, I have read your mind and figured out what you, as my readership, wants to discuss.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

First things first– does Matthew Berry always have to refer to himself as: ‘Matthew Berry – The Talented Mr. Roto’? What is the deal here? Did he marry a chick with the last name ‘The Talented Mr. Roto’ of which he and said wife agreed to combine their last names via the hyphen?

Please, blog, may I have some more?

This was a fantasitical week for a couple of celebrity relationships. In a stunning development for people who grew up a long time ago and stopped reading comic books, we found out that Superman is going to boom-boom-boom, lemme hear you say way oh!

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So, for today’s post I was going to talk about how women can biologically prevent pregnancy, but only in cases of legitimate rape. However, much to my chagrin, this guy beat me to it. I mean, the nerve! Right before I’m about to talk about it… then yoink.

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Did you end up saying Jay one more time? I dared you after all… which makes sense if you remembered last week’s creepy get together, as we partook in my glorious proclamation that Jon Jay was a good thing for your 21st week of scoring.

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Last week, we got together for a Sunday brunch and enjoyed ourselves some Spam and eggs. What’s it made out of? Who cares! Fried to a crisp with an egg on top, maybe some rice or sourdough bread on the side, yes sir… it’s like a Hawaiian beach inside of your mouth.

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For those of you who don’t know what FYPD stands for, I give you, freely, in the title of this post, the most common usage of that special acronym. While the phrase itself is used often, be wary for the potential of seizures and an impending brain aneurism when attempting to use it in everyday conversation.

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When I think of a creeper, two images flow into my mind— Bachmann-eyezed! and the song ‘Creep’. This combo punch is usually enough to haunt my entire day as I hum Radiohead and cry fearful tears, afraid that I’ll be accused of being part of the Muslim Brotherhood and then be stared at profusely by those hypnotizing conservative eyes.

Please, blog, may I have some more?