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Since nobody will ever be stupid enough to think we’re offering food for the brain, the rants this week are all about food for the gut (meaning, egad, we’re the perfect Trumpian tabloid). And in the predatory spirit of “I’ve got mine, screw yours” we’re starting off with the above neener-neener by a polar bear at a seagull who’s definitely not getting the bigger guy’s seal of approval.
About Post Author
I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.