There was an Australian guy standing behind me in line at Subway yesterday, and as I stood there debating the merits of ordering tuna at a fast food restaurant, I couldn’t help but become extremely jealous of this dude’s sweet-ass accent. With an accent like that, you can pretty much say anything you want. It’s impossible to tell if you’re retarded, a womanizer, a creeper, or drunk because virtually everything you say comes off as sounding wonderfully exotic. Life’s not fair. If I had an Aussie accent, I really don’t even think I would mind being known as a descendent of exiled British criminals.

Wednesday’s Forecast: By the way, don’t order the tuna. Bad call on my part. A fishy odor has been seeping out of my pores for a good 24 hours and counting…