I think my frustration with the modern-day obsession with princesses has been noted, right? I fluff my feathers and squawk a bit every time I see grown women sporting clothing that proclaims them worthy not by dint of action or personality, but just by the sheer fact that some bint with a title chose to spawn, and they are the undeservingly-privileged results.

Brad says that tonight I should talk about chrome bumpers.

Brad, I hate to tell you this—'cause I love you and you're my favorite Canadian and all, but you're totally and utterly full of shit. Why, again, am I letting you stay in my house?