"It's 1:20 in the A.M. Do you know where your pants are?"

My clothes are in the other room, I have work tomorrow, my (new) apartment has not burned down yet, Penny Arcade finally had a funny comic again, and there is booze in the fridge. I am going to bed - for tomorrow, I will have to deal with a marketing consultant so retarded that it does not offend me that her consulting business has existed, but that it continues to exist because people still give her money for her defunct services. It's an insult to the species that she is not living in a cardboard box or working at McDonalds. Or both.

Underwear goes inside the pants.