It is, for anyone even slightly interested in politics, the end of Sunday.

Campaign smears aside, if you are a Black person in America, you can (as you see fit and on occasions that seem to you to be meritorious) feel free to call me Whitey.

And on days I skip the elliptical trainer without a damn good reason, you can also call me fatty.

Check out this new Video Jukebox. Just enter a song or artist and you’ll get an instant video playlist.

It goes great on a social network profile, a blog or a start page like igoogle, netvibes etc. Try it out, and if you dig it, just hit the grab widget button.

At some point in my life I’d probably see all this as a sign of some deep depression or a marking of the end of the period in my life, but goddamn, I friggin love So You Think You Can Dance. I can’t wait to see it. I count down the days. Two hours seems too short for an episode. Last week, my wife and I made a rare childless excursion to the movies to see Iron Man. Twenty minutes into the movie, I leaned over and said, “It’s ok, but it’s not the dancing.”

I am pumped about this. And it scares me.

More and more Muslim women are opting to get a surgical procedure called a hymenoplasty in order to create the illusion of virginity.

I spent about half my life trying to create the opposite illusion.

(Man, this world is depressing. Religion is totally out of control.)