Peer pressure is a harsh, forbidding landscape for a teenager to navigate. I know. I’ve been there.
I was watching a Justin Timberlake special on TV a few weeks ago, and as that amazingly talented young man sang, danced and smiled his way across the stage, I said to myself, “You know, if I ever switched teams, Justin Timberlake would be my first choice.”
After an extensive scientific study spanning an entire six-pack, I have come to an important linguistic discovery:
Look, I like breakfast as much as the next guy, but that’s the last time I spend a hundred bucks on a stack of flapjacks.
As a ham-handed guitarist with a voice even a mother would disown, I have butchered more than my share of Irish pub songs.
My wife and I went to lunch last week with a group of people, and one of them was a charming young lady named Africa, although she was actually from Venezuela.
It’s a simple question, so it shouldn’t be hard to answer: How happy are you?
My wife was only a 20-year-old college student the day she walked into the campus clinic and got the test results: “You’re pregnant.”
Whew! We dodged another bullet, didn’t we? Turns out those ancient Mayans were wrong about the world ending just before Christmas.
If you get stuck behind me in an elevator or crowded check-out line, don’t blame me for making your eyes water. I didn’t choose to smell this way.
My brother Bill did good a few weeks ago.
According to recent studies, as many as 20 percent of teenagers have engaged in “sexting,” or sending digital photos of themselves in nude or semi-nude poses. The majority of sexters are girls, rather than guys.
If your name were Nulland Void, how would you ever cash a check?
It’s the end of baseball season – time for foolish bets across the nation to be paid up.
Go ahead, say it. I won’t be offended. It’s not like I’ve never heard anybody tell me, “You know, Kerth, sometimes you talk like a real A-word.”