2026 is about jugs

It’s time for the year end awards (a thread). First up we have meal of the year 2025. Here are the first four nominees in the highly competitive category:

My mother and sister teamed up to really dial in on saying “You’re a big, gay monsterfucker with a preference physical media and we accept you” this Christmas.

Hot nerds who understand the distinctions between sleet, hail, and freezing rain deserve sloppy, devoted head.

Can we talk about this crazy capture of the young fire from last night when the snow was just starting

The tortellini and sausage soup I just whipped up at the cabin should have the OG very nervous

It’s starting to accumulate inside the screened-in porch (yes I’m walking around in it barefoot idc idc)

A monologue so lengthy that all the cum has fully dried by the end of it

Rented a cabin for Christmas. Fire pit, hot tub, and snow on the way tomorrow.

1987 was fucking wild

What produce stand was open at this time of night, Mildred? Before you answer, I want you to know that my name is Jessica Fletcher. You may want to take that into consideration before deciding on a response.

Me approaching the 32” waist section where I buy jeans

Literally impossible to get a table at the Harmonia Gardens. They swear they take them, but they’re just always on their bullshit.

The dance of the waiters in “Hello Dolly!” is so very specifically and uniquely gay

Dawson Knox eat my ass challenge

I wanna wish you a merry Klimtmas for the very low price of $19.99

I probably should’ve eaten something before doing this.

So I had two successive orders of their rigatoni. Yeah, I finished both. Yeah, the server was horrified. Whatever. I’m a growing boy.

Taking this catch out for his birthday tonight

“She wanna blame it on the edit (blame it on the edit) Blame it on the edit She wanna blame it on the edit, blame it on the edit, edit Go'on and take the credit, bitch, you the one who said it Oh so now you tryin to regret it? Uh Blame it on the edit” — the ghost of Christmas past to Ebenezer

Kinda like pigeons can’t take a step without bobbing their heads, I find myself unable to do dumbbell shrugs without making a stink face at the apex of the motion.

It’s just not the holidays without trusted brands and huge breasts

Sunday morning. Fresh snowfall, nowhere to be. They don’t make many days like this.

Tumble out of bed and I stumble to the kitchen Pour myself a cup of ambition And yawn and stretch and growl “Elizabetttttha” like Gary Oldman as in 1992’s “Bram Stoker’s Dracula”

iOS finally forced an update on my phone and I’m just finding out that one of the group chats I’m in has had its background image set to a photo me in a bad wig for months.

A desalination plant but for the hats I wear to the gym

“Do people tell you a lot that you remind them of Mac?” Whatever I have done to deserve this, I pledge to do a lot more of it.

Sunday morning means it’s time for Church (JADE’s version)

Christmas cookies round one. We’ve stuck the landing on the bake and are off to deliver!

A reading of Pushkin’s “Anchar” but sung to the tune of “Good King Wenceslas”

It is ONCE AGAIN snowing in Philadelphia and I am putting in a substantial pre-payment for the Christmas cookies I’ll be eating before they can bake after this.

Snowing ever so lightly here in Philly. Big “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” first* date vibes; Jon Brion playing in my mind as we walked home from dinner in it.

While most of my holiday decor is placed, I’ve gone back and forth on another tour of duty for Rasputin the stocking-muppet. He doesn’t really fit the ~milieu~ of what I’ve done this year, but I can’t seem to quit him.

Yes, yes, I’m mad. But also I am free.

The number of typos I make these days is alarming. Sometimes I’ll read my own posts and find them and I begin to wonder if I got, like, kicked in the head by a mule.

I was built to be an ornery, grizzled local in a snowy northern fishing village on the coast, subsisting on broths and humbles stews and tankards of poison, clad in weathered wool and leather. How the FUCK did this happen instead.

Rewarding myself for slaughtering leg day with one (1) seasonal showerpoppers

“I didn’t recognize you with pants on” — a member of my local Pokémon Go community greeting me for a Lugia raid (He clarified that he meant I’m almost always in shorts but the damage was done)

As is seasonal tradition, I will once again declare: WOULD.

Pot pie leftovers are a next level thing after a solid chest/back lift.

My husband has had hiccups for over half an hour. Is it more merciful to try to scare them out of him by saying a want a divorce, or to let them lift on their own?

I have styled my name for the spirited season, yes.

We’ve literally never made pot pies before but also please come to our restaurant

I think it is close

No no, I did just like the instructions said and went bleurghghghg all over myself

Horny but for a good snowstorm

Found a “Best of Andy Williams Christmas” video last night and let me tell you it was a fucking fever dream

Need more necklaces. Need to adorn myself with more pendants, amulets, talismans, and gems.

Allowing myself to listen to “Christmas Portrait” a few days early and sob in my car, as a treat.