The rabbit, with its tender meat and lack of situational awareness, is an appealing target for any number of vicious predators. Its pillowy fur and cute button nose belay to them the fact that it is, for all intensive purposes, utterly defenseless.
A stray cat could easily kill your rabbit, as could a wily raccoon or intrepid eagle, and even with a watchful eye there is no certainty that you will always be there to protect your beloved pet. It is therefore important to make sure that your bunny has the tools it needs to defend itself from danger, and by following this simple guide you – yes, you- can turn your weakly animal into a hardened battle rabbit.
Who is the saner of the two crazies? Who, I ask, bears the most passable displays of sanity that would achieve such a goal? The most believable grasp on reality despite their love of comparing Democrats to Nazis? Let the case be decided by who has the worse case of Santorum-mouth.
As most of us read this we sit in our homes absent-mindedly tinkering around on our computers, perhaps idly messaging friends, and it is unfathomable to us that a 700-pound cat would smash through a door or window and crush our skull between it’s powerful jaws. However, It is not so long ago that for an abundance of people this was as real a threat as almost any other fatal malady.
In India at the turn of the century there were a series of big cats that killed and ate over 2000 people in rural forest towns, and the killings only stopped when one man decided to take it upon himself to hunt the rogue beasts down. That man was Jim Corbett: Tiger Hunter.
In today’s sporting world there is a dearth of creativity and thrill. We see it in lackluster dunk competitions, leagues rife with inequity, and dwindling revenues. Instead of embracing the sheer excitement of watching athletes that have more skill, speed, and size than any of their predecessors, we are forced to rely on commercialization and nationalism to dictate who we want to succeed.
Perhaps the worst offenders of this are the Olympics, where (apart from a few marquis events), there is merely an endless swath of competitions that no self-respecting person should give a shit about, let alone dedicate their lives to. I’m speaking of course about sports like discus, synchronized swimming, and that retarded thing with ribbons. However, hidden within this idiotic field of lesser-known events lays the key to reviving the sad world of sports: The Modern Pentathlon.
Henry Ford was a man of incomparable means. At the height of his wealth he was worth the modern equivalent of over 188 billion dollars, and his name was synonymous with success the world over. Ford had remade capitalism by the power of his will and design, but he wasn’t content just making machines-he wanted to make men. Such was the impetus for one of the most socially and financially disastrous projects any one man has had the gall to attempt-the building of a utopian city deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle. It bore the name of its creator-Fordlandia.
For some reason, I’m generally impressed with people who can sign, probably because it in some way reminds of me codes between friends or baseball players. There’s an element of secrecy and fun to it that makes it more of a novel activity rather than a real language to me, but that’s how I feel about most things that should be taken seriously, like bowel movements.[1] This is probably why I felt compelled to take a workshop on sign language, and why I was so shocked when I found out to my horror just how racist this noble language is.
Recent polls suggest Newt Gingrich, last of the not-Romneys, will not be able to sustain the surge of popularity that won him a surprise victory in the South Carolina primary a week ago. It seems that despite receiving one of the largest campaign contributions in U.S. history from corrupt billionaire Sheldon Adelson, there are too many voters who look past the soaring egotism of Gingrich’s rhetoric and see the real Newt. But who exactly is that?
I won’t lie to you: I love Paula Deen. Her unique blend of southern sass, traditional mama charm, and her uncanny ability to ride anything result in one of the most endearing TV personalities I know. I refuse to call her a chef, for she is not one. Hell, a box of Kraft Dinner could produce a healthier, tighter meal than Paula. But despite the slop she pushes out of the kitchen and the fact that her eyes look like she just rubbed cocaine in them, Paula’s following remains larger and more steadfast than Frida Kahlo’s unibrow.
(photo courtesy of The Guardian) 
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