I ate an entire head of broccoli while watching the British version of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” last night in bed. Afterward, I battled two whole hours of gaseous blotation wherein the elastic on my underoos nearly snapped against the force of the bubbling pressure. “I’m going to be farting broccoli all night,” I warned the dogs, affecting the best British accent I could muster. Their consequent horrified glare informed me succinctly that no matter how hard I try I will never be so deliciously charming as even the most craggy and toothless resident of Her Majesty’s Kingdom. When ...

Am I racist? Yes. Do I discrimate against the poors, even though I was once a poor? Sure. Did I walk down from the MARTA platform to get away from a blind woman because I was worried that I’d get stuck helping her? You bet. But at least I’m not homophobic (my fear of gays is completely rational!), sexist (I like to have sex with women!), or anti-Semitic (I can’t afford to be!). So it’s a push. When I was seven years old I asked my father for a Saint Bernard not knowing that “because they don’t poop little poop” would become the answer to every request I made for at least eleven m...