When man rests, the competitive essence of his very being does not. It drives him to excel even at relaxation, to best his own capabilities, and of course those of his peers. We are men, and when we chill, we chill hard, and we roll fat, fatter, fattiest fucking joints. Full story
The Wizard of the Saddle Rides Again
The Dark Specter of History in Memphis
Hung Like a Gastropod
The Rigors of a Snail-Genital Illustrator
Austerity's Drug of Choice
Sisa Is Nasty Shit
This Is What Winning Looks Like
Chaos and Corruption in Afghanistan
The Fat Farms of Mauritania
Pack on Those Pounds, Ladies
Jerks Are Exploiting Cambodia's Orphans
Get It Together, People
