BBQ Season has just begun, and already Mom's in the hot seat. Not to worry - she's got some chardonnay with which to cool back down.

Jay's got a big date, and he's feeling tremendously cocky about the whole affair. Will it be a smooth fit, or will he just get the shaft?

Give me your poor, your tired, your huddled drunkards just jonesing for another vodka and Red Bull. Tipsy clubgoers hold forth on why illegal immigrants should or shouldn't be held back from the pursuit of life, liberty and $16 Meatpacking District cocktails.

Seriously - dude, if you don't keep it down, I'm gonna have to call the Stormtroopers, and let's just say you won't be getting to Tosche Station to pick up those power converters for at least 15 to life.

Perhaps comedic no-goodniks Better Than The Machine are in need of some prune juice for their constipated souls because right now, no matter how worthy the cause, they simply can't bring themselves give a shit.

Dave Hill's ascending from mom & dad's underground Cleveland digs and, with some help from some slightly off-key bikini babes, and his own personal PHILosopher/bodyguard (a.k.a. Jer-Z rawk phenom Satanicide's Aleister Cradley), he's taking his rightful place on the first throne he can find. So long as it's in Miami. And it doesn't clash with his schweet spray-on tan.

It's a hardcore, uncensored Michael Showalter Showalter showdown when Paul Rudd gets Randy all over his interview with, uh, Michael Showalter.

Sometimes a checking account is just a checking account. Sometimes a checking account is a proxy by which a couple can semi-safely argue about their comically dysfunctional romatic relationship. Usually, though, it's just a checking account.

Ah, the interweb. It brings us laughter and joy and sketch comedy and special chat places where people who enjoy collecting plush unicorns and antique baked bean tins can virtually gather for one-handed typing and companionship. But do you know what it can't bring? Your friend's penis back after it's been lopped off and festively gift-wrapped.


Thanks, Al Gore. Thanks a lot for the super-duper invention.

"Hey, mind if I borrow your Hey Soul Classics?"

"No, my brother- you've got to get your own."

Seriously. I mean it. Reach one inch closer, and you draw back a stump.

Nate Craig - not so much a fan of the urban Hummer, nor of the generally strident possessors of such. Nate, would you care to share your feelings with the rest of the class?