Here we have a tender moment between friends. So precious.

My goat fell into a well. Me and my dad built this stone wall around the opening a couple years ago, and we check it all the time. I noticed my goat was missing when I went out to the stable to milk it. First I thought maybe Eliphaz was out riding it, but then Eliphaz came over my house to play baserock, and I asked him if he’d put the goat back in the stable, and he’s like, “What goat?” and I’m like my goat, and he’s like, “I didn’t take your goat,” and I’m like, “Well where is he, then?” and he’s like, “I don’t know.” We wandered around looking for my goat, but we couldn’t find him.

This is the reason why cats aren’t very good superheroes.

The literary world is abuzz with the discovery of the only known dramatic work of Ludwig van Beethoven, written on a single sheet of quarto paper and inserted in the composer’s aged, cracked wallet along with brothel chits and deaf-aid coupons. Only last year’s find of some charcoal nudes by Shakespeare, tucked into his high school yearbook between two pages rarely separated by literary historians, has had similar impact.

I’m reading a polemic so revolting that I scarcely can choke back the urge to belch. The misguided author attempts to exonerate the craven exercise of clambering aboard any bandwagon carrying a winning sports franchise. Wherever courage and integrity are aspired to and revered—wherever persevering stalwarts steadfastly refuse to abandon their lovable losers– this nauseating practice is righteously denounced, worthy of all the opprobrium that honorable people heap upon it.