Notices by batkaren (batkaren@mastodon.online)

She deserves better than Jerry, The New Yorker.

Okay, cheese grater cowbell… You’ve got a side for shaving cheese, one for thick grating, and another for thin grating—no notes there—you’re killing it.

But that last side’s just to draw blood? Oh, it’s for “zesting citrus”? That’s not cheese. Does it at least work? No. Can I clean it? Also no.

How could I possibly trust AI with important shit when I can’t even text “oh god Jill Sobule died in a house fire!” without my phone suggesting I add a flame emoji?!

“Sir, a second attack plan has hit the Signal chat.”

Maybe those fish in the Mariana Trench with reading lights hanging off their foreheads are just taking in some Proust before bed.

I always love the 3-day lead up to Easter when Jesus is in Schrödinger’s cave.

If I ever get a Green Lantern ring, I'mma make the biggest green hand do the biggest green jerk-off motion.

No more outsourcing from abroad—the US will now cultivate its own tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free domestically.

Get in the Signal group chat, loser, we’re doing war crimes.

Pretty done with stories about dudes snogging chicks who were drugged unconscious—let’s return to simpler tales where if a guy saw a woman bathing naked, she turned him into a stag and set his own hounds upon him to rip him limb from limb.

B&E now means sneaking into someone’s house to eat their bacon and eggs.

As I make the jump to hyperspace, I realize I left the baby on top of the ship.

"The human body is just an elaborate network of pneumatic tubing," I say, coughing up a bank deposit canister.

"I'm such a night owl," I say, spinning my head 180 degrees to watch the rising full moon, awaiting the transformation…

Feels timely, The New Yorker

who else psyched for tomorrow morning’s market crash?

Wait…so, this is NOT a mobile dumpster?

I’m old enough to remember when “come once in a blue moon” referred to the first time a Smurf got anal.

By age 35, your 500-foot burial pyramid should already be 80% complete.

Do you even keto, The New Yorker?