End times are clearly upon us. A tipster steered me to Fatter Guy’s screed against the Porcine Pantload, and I found myself agreeing with the former. Not completely, but still. One thinks we’re at Y2K 2.0 stage, while the other thinks hard times are a good excuse for yet more gluttony. My issue is with the absurd notion of blowing through your larder as if there will always be a Food Shitty open nearby, simultaneously starving stores and restaurants of your necessary cash. I somehow don’t think an invitation to an orgy is the answer, though. And it’s pretty clear the fight is over which twin wears the tony for the teevee. Why am I not surprised that a relationship forged in e-rectum has turned toxic? (I think the Republicans’ star junkie would describe it as anal poisoning.) As for news that sales of baking essentials are way up while feminine hygiene indulgences are sinking, I don’t even want to dwell. Not when the choice here is between doughboy and douche.