Matt discusses his disdain for the abundance of comic book movies and prepares to give his thoughts on the controversial Brett Kavanaugh situation... only to be interrupted by a rogue, conspiracy-spouting, tin-foil-hat-wearing fellow podcaster.
Considering that for the first ten or so years of my life of I was a picky eater of the highest order, it's an almost Twilight Zone- like turn of events that I now enjoy trying new foods a great deal. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a "foodie" because I'm not an asshole. I'm a douchebag. There's a difference. It's for this reason that I like going to restaurants. It's cool; you get to sit at a table with people you tolerate while a stranger brings you things that you picked from a menu that if you're lucky even has pictures of the food printed on it. Sometimes there's a high school football schedule on the placemat or an ad for a used car dealership, or if you find yourself at one of the Evel Kenevals of restaurants, there may be no placemat at all. I like all kinds of restaurant dining experiences with one massive exception: the potluck. Certain words just sound awful and potluck is one of them. Nothing makes me less excited to go t
The identity of Jack The Ripper is one of history's great mysteries. A monster who stalked and viciously killed women in London's Whitechapel district taking six victims in the late 1880s then managed to elude capture. It's a case that will likely remain unsolved entirely, but I think I may have cracked another important aspect of the case: why did he* stop killing. *(I say he, but there are some pretty compelling arguments into the crimes having been committed by a woman posing as a nurse, The key to that argument is she could have posed as a mid-wife which would have allowed her to walk around Victorian England in bloody clothes without raising suspicion.) Jack The Ripper wrote a series of letters to Scotland Yard in which he taunted authorities. I was reading a book that featured one of the letters — the famous "From Hell" letter, the killer's final letter — when something hit me. Here, read it for yourself: From hell. Mr Lusk, Sor I send you half the Kidn
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