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Written by John Sammon

The contents of a newly revealed diary show that George Romney, former governor of Michigan, was so obsessed with the game of baseball that he named his son after a baseball mitt.

"I know I am perhaps dooming my son to a life of failure and frustration naming him Mitt, but I’m hoping that he will be inspired and become a relief pitcher for the Detroit Tigers," the elder Romney said in the diary, dated 1958.

Romney, who passed away in 1995, was governor of Michigan from 1963 to 1969, and is the father of current Republican presidential candidate, Mitt Romney.

In the diary, Romney confessed to neglecting his wife and family by attending baseball games, and that he had asked his wife for an "open marriage," in which she would understand his long absences at Tiger Stadium.

Read more: Diary Reveals Romney Named After Baseball Mitt

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Written by John Sammon

There's something about me that really angers people. A nice guy like me.

Maybe it's because I'm so open, vulnerable, intelligent, handsome. I don't know.

It's uncanny how I have this innocent ability to infuriate. If I could just channel it, find a way to make money off it. For example, I've taken my share of low blow cruel shots at work. I've worked for some vicious, sadistic, dishonest, scheming people.

I had a manager one time slam his fist on my desk in front of other employees over some trivial matter. Now, if I walk into his office and hit him, I'm up on charges of assault in battery. I have to spend at least a night in jail (I've already been there once), pay a fine, money I don't have, or do public service picking up leaves alongside the highway in orange pajamas.

He slams his fist on your desk because he’s afraid of his boss over him, and wants to use you as a scapegoat. You know you have to pay a bill and can’t quit your job. So you take it. You need the pay, so you take it from him. The system favors the abuser.

But you don’t have to take it lying down.

It seems that life is a conspiracy designed to humiliate. Always petty humiliation. Like the late Rodney Dangerfield used to say, "I don’t get no respect."

Back in the Old West, you could just shoot it out with the bastard. But no more.

Nowadays, you have to take his insult if you want to keep your bill paying job, until it gnaws at your guts. There's a better way to deal with these people.

Read more: Vile Vials

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Written by John Sammon

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.

Read more: Mitt's Benign Double Speak

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Written by Amy Lucas

"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…

Read more: What the Fu*k?