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Aside from his reputation for flip-flopping on issues and tailoring every speech to suit the crowd he’s speaking to, until this week Mitt Romney has run an almost flawless campaign if such a word can be used, basically making fewer mistakes than his rivals.

Until this week, when he said he “enjoys firing people.” Now in fairness, Mitt meant that you should get good service from service providers and you should replace them if they don’t provide good service.

Mitt, until he used the word “fire,” had unlike his opponents, admirably, marvelously, common-sense-ically and to a large degree, avoided using flashpoint, controversial, lightening rod words. Until this week. Mitt! Don’t use the word fire. Instead, you say, “we have to let you go.”

That’s the modern, intelligent, politically correct way to say “fire,” although that opens you up to the possibility the person being fired could say, “That’s a lie, you don’t have to let me go. You are not required to let me go. That’s a choice you made.”

Using the word “fire” establishes you as a heartless corporate bastard, which perhaps in reality you really are.

It's that time of year again where we gather family close, rip open a fresh carton of egg nog and huddle around the cool LED glow of our boob-tubes to watch some classic holiday entertainment.  It's the one time of the year where you know, absolutely, that good, wholesome, worthwhile sentiments will rule over crass cynicism and self-interested greed, at least until the third act.

Or do you?  Do you even KNOW what's in that egg nog?  Could those very same holiday classics hide a deeper, darker, secret message that you never realized was there all the time?  Strap on your mulled-wine goggles, take a look at these holiday classics and then decide for yourself.

Cursing at inanimate objects should be an Olympic Sport, in my opinion."What the fuck?" my boyfriend shouts. "Fuck you!" His fist comes down hard on a carton of eggs. Yellow yolk and flints of shell splatter the kitchen, barely missing my dress. I feel sliminess ooze between my sandaled toes and wonder if egg yolk ruins pedicures.

He throws the egg carton onto the floor. Although my toes are now fully slimed, I barely flinch. After all, he is not angry with me, he is angry at the egg. Perhaps it did not crack right. Maybe there is a stray shell in the bowl, or maybe the whole batch is rancid. It does not matter; I’ve grown accustomed to his habit of cursing at inanimate objects. I find it oddly adorable, and so I egg him on…