I didn't cry when Ed Mcmahnon died. I didn't cry when Farrah Fawcett died. I didn't cry when Michael Jackson died. But...ok, I didn't cry this time either. But I came damn close. RIP, John Hughes.
I'll have you know that my son walked in at the exact moment I opened this site. He's now said "My father touched my butthole" six times in the last minute. I guess we're not going to the store now.
The amazing thing is that the knife was not invented until 1929. Up until that point, the bread companies used rabid rats to gnaw through the bread with ninja-like accuracy.
On behalf of my gender, I would like to aplogize to all of the husbands and boyfriends who will soon have to sit through a tribute weekend marathon. Pass the popcorn, please.
