Let’s get something straight: Comic Sans is not the villain. It never was. It’s just a font—an honest, bubbly, non-threatening font—and somehow, over the past two decades, it became the internet’s favorite punching bag. But if you look past the snark, the memes, and the design elitism, you’ll find that Comic Sans is actually wildly underrated—and maybe even misunderstood.

First off, Comic Sans wasn’t made for your resume or your minimalist startup’s brand deck. It was designed by Vincent Connare in 1994 to be friendly and readable, specifically for Microsoft Bob—a software interface meant to feel approachable to non-technical users. The goal was clarity, warmth, and accessibility. Mission accomplished. The fact that it got shoehorned into every flyer, email, and bake sale poster on Earth isn’t the font’s fault—it’s ours.

But even after decades of overuse, Comic Sans still works. It’s legible at small sizes. It doesn’t get mangled when printed. And most importantly: it doesn’t take itself too seriously. In a world obsessed with clean lines, brutalist grids, and Helvetica clones, Comic Sans feels like that one friend who still wears tie-dye and means it. Is that a crime? No. That’s personality.

Want to know who loves Comic Sans? Kids. Neurodivergent readers. People with dyslexia. It turns out that the quirky letterforms of Comic Sans are actually easier for some people to process than so-called “professional” fonts. The very things that designers scoff at—the inconsistent lines, the round shapes, the hand-drawn vibe—are exactly what make Comic Sans welcoming to people who find other fonts intimidating or hard to read.

And honestly, what are we even mad about? That people used it too much? That it showed up on church bulletins and PTA newsletters and garage sale signs? Guess what—that’s charm, not tragedy. Comic Sans was the voice of the people for a while. The every-font. It showed up where people didn’t have a designer on staff or a subscription to Adobe Fonts. It was accessible. It was democratic. It was goofy—and it knew it.

The backlash isn’t about Comic Sans. It’s about taste policing. It’s about gatekeeping design. And that’s what makes the hate so tiresome. Because at the end of the day, fonts are tools. You don’t make fun of someone for using a wrench just because it’s not chrome-plated and Swedish. If it fits the job, let it work.

So bring it back. Use Comic Sans proudly—maybe not on your law firm’s website, but on your blog’s “Out of Office” post. On your party invites. On your kid’s science fair display. Let Comic Sans be what it was meant to be: lighthearted, functional, and totally unpretentious.

It’s time to forgive the font, embrace the fun, and stop acting like typography has to be so damn serious all the time.

Let’s end this ridiculous debate once and for all: Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Not a “sort of” Christmas movie. Not a “Christmas-adjacent” movie. A full-throated, holly-jolly, candy-cane-drenched Christmas movie. And the fact that some people still insist it’s not is the cinematic equivalent of claiming Santa doesn’t exist because you’ve never seen him at Costco.

Let’s look at the facts. The movie takes place on Christmas Eve. The central event—a corporate holiday party at Nakatomi Plaza—is a Christmas party. There’s a giant Christmas tree in the lobby. There’s holiday music throughout the film. Hell, one of the terrorists gets dispatched with the immortal phrase, “Now I have a machine gun. Ho-ho-ho,” written in festive Sharpie across his chest. If that’s not the spirit of Christmas, I don’t know what is.

But Christmas isn’t just about tinsel and tunes. It’s about themes. Redemption. Reconciliation. Family. Hope. Die Hard delivers all of that wrapped in explosive action and Alan Rickman’s glorious accent. John McClane flies across the country trying to reconnect with his estranged wife. He fights to save her, not just from terrorists, but from a crumbling marriage. He bleeds (a lot), he suffers (a lot), and by the end, he and Holly are reunited. There’s even snow—well, paper snow, but it floats down like the end of every feel-good Christmas flick ever made.

Now, let’s address the skeptics who say, “It’s just an action movie that happens to be set at Christmas.” That’s like saying Home Alone is just a home invasion movie that happens to have a tree in the background. The holiday setting in Die Hard isn’t incidental. It’s woven into every frame, every scene, every motivation. Would Hans Gruber have stormed a building on a Tuesday in July for maximum media coverage? No. He used the holiday as cover because it matters. The isolation of the building, the skeleton staff, the overworked police, the slowed response—all of it is because it’s Christmas Eve.

Still not convinced? Ask yourself this: Would Die Hard be the same movie if it weren’t set at Christmas? Strip away the holiday, and you lose key elements of the plot, the tension, the atmosphere—even the soundtrack. “Let It Snow,” “Winter Wonderland,” and “Christmas in Hollis” by Run-D.M.C. aren’t accidental. They are intentional choices meant to ground the story in the season. This isn’t Lethal Weapon with a tree in the background. This is holiday cinema with broken glass and C-4.

So yes, Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Not in spite of the action. Because of it. It’s about family, sacrifice, love, and defeating evil with duct tape and a tank top. That’s the true meaning of Christmas—plus explosions.

Yippee-ki-yay, holiday deniers.

Let’s get one thing straight: a taco is not a sandwich. It never has been, and it never will be. This isn’t just a matter of semantics or culture—it’s structural, historical, and frankly, a matter of culinary dignity. Trying to lump tacos into the sandwich category is like saying a hammock is just a sideways bed. Close, maybe, but ultimately a ridiculous stretch.

Start with the basics. What is a sandwich? Merriam-Webster calls it “two or more slices of bread or a split roll having a filling in between.” That definition carries expectations: a horizontal layering of ingredients between two separate or sliced pieces of bread. That bread forms a top and a bottom, enclosing the contents in a way that says, “I’m a sandwich, dammit.”

Now let’s look at a taco. A taco is one continuous tortilla, typically folded, not split. There’s no top and bottom—there’s an interior and an exterior. The structural difference here isn’t minor. It’s fundamental. A sandwich has vertical symmetry. A taco has rotational symmetry. In geometry terms, that’s not just a distinction—it’s a categorical shift.

But beyond structure, the cultural context is wildly different. Sandwiches are rooted in European culinary tradition—hearty, square, utilitarian. Tacos are distinctly Mesoamerican in origin—dynamic, mobile, often spicy, and tied to centuries of indigenous cuisine. When you call a taco a sandwich, you’re not just being inaccurate; you’re bulldozing centuries of culinary identity into a lunchbox label that doesn’t fit.

Even the delivery mechanics are different. A sandwich gets held from the sides, parallel to gravity. A taco gets cradled from the bottom. A taco makes you lean forward when you eat it. A sandwich? You stay upright, like a gentleman. Tacos are a lean-forward food. Sandwiches are a sit-back-and-chew food. Don’t believe me? Try eating a loaded taco like a sandwich and prepare to wear your dinner.

Some people argue, “Well, if it’s bread and it has stuff inside, it’s a sandwich.” By that logic, a hot dog is a sandwich (a debate for another day), a calzone is a sandwich, and an ice cream cone is dessert panini. At a certain point, your definition gets so broad it stops being useful. Not every food held by carbs is a sandwich. Sometimes a tortilla is just a tortilla.

This isn’t food snobbery. It’s food clarity. Tacos deserve to be their own thing. Unique. Unapologetic. Not some subcategory of Anglo lunch fare. They’re messy, they’re bold, they’re sacred. Calling a taco a sandwich is like calling Shakespeare a screenwriter. Technically you could argue it, but why the hell would you?

So let’s retire this debate and give tacos the respect they deserve. They’re not sandwiches. They’re tacos. And that’s more than enough.

Let’s cut through the sauce: boneless wings are not wings. They are chicken nuggets in disguise, dressed up with buffalo bravado, parading as something they’re not. It’s time we stop letting this culinary cosplay go unchallenged. Boneless wings are just nuggets trying to sneak into the grown-up table with a hot sauce mustache.

First, let’s talk anatomy. Real chicken wings come from a wing—you know, the actual appendage of a chicken. They have bones, skin, tendons, and weird angles that make them a unique eating experience. Boneless wings? They’re made from chicken breast. No wing in sight. That’s like calling fish sticks “boneless salmon ribs.” It’s a lie, and we all know it.

Now let’s talk form. A true wing has structure. You eat it with your hands, you work for the meat, and there’s a primal satisfaction in navigating bone and gristle. A boneless wing? It’s a uniform chunk of processed meat, shaped into convenience. You eat it with a fork if you’re trying to be classy—or with fingers and a wet nap if you’re honest about who you are. That’s not a wing. That’s fast-food chicken given a spicy rebrand.

Let’s be real: the only reason boneless wings exist is because we’ve collectively gotten lazy. We don’t want to deal with bones, napkins, or the possibility of chomping cartilage. We want all the flavor and none of the commitment. Fine. That’s fair. But let’s at least admit what we’re eating—chicken nuggets for adults.

The restaurant industry knows this. That’s why “boneless wings” are cheaper to make, easier to mass-produce, and far less messy for kitchens to handle. It’s also why they outsell real wings in many places. But just because the market is flooded with lies doesn’t make the lie true. Call them spicy chicken bites, call them buffalo chunks, hell, call them nugget noir if you want—but stop slapping “wings” on the label like it magically grants authenticity.

Some might argue, “But boneless wings taste better!” Great. So do milkshakes, but no one’s calling them protein shakes. The issue isn’t taste. It’s honesty. Chicken nuggets have long been the snack of children, the drunk, and the desperate. Boneless wings are just that same food pretending it grew up and got a job at Buffalo Wild Wings.

So next time you order boneless wings, embrace the truth. You’re not a rebel against the tyranny of bone-in tradition. You’re a fan of spicy nuggets. And that’s okay! But let’s drop the charade. Boneless wings are nuggets in a leather jacket—trying hard, but still nuggets underneath.

Let’s get straight to the point: cereal is soup. There, I said it. If your immediate reaction is to scoff or recoil in horror, that’s okay. Denial is the first stage. But once you calm down and examine the cold, crunchy facts, the truth becomes inescapable. Cereal, in its milky glory, fits squarely into the culinary definition of soup. Let’s break this down logically, like a philosopher in a grocery store aisle.

First, the textbook definition of soup: a liquid dish, typically savory, made by boiling meat, fish, or vegetables, etc. That’s the traditionalist’s view. But definitions evolve. We now have gazpacho, fruit soup, and even dessert soups in multiple cultures. These dishes aren’t boiled. They aren’t savory. Sometimes they’re just fruit and cream—sound familiar?

Cereal, like soup, is a liquid-based dish served in a bowl and eaten with a spoon. It’s a prepared food composed of solid elements (flakes, puffs, marshmallow moons, whatever) suspended in a liquid (milk, almond milk, oat milk, that weird green matcha stuff someone inevitably tries). The preparation is simple: combine, stir if you’re fancy, and consume. No cooking necessary. Just like gazpacho. Just like vichyssoise. Just like cereal.

The “but it’s breakfast!” crowd doesn’t have a leg to stand on either. Plenty of soups are eaten in the morning around the world. The Vietnamese enjoy pho at sunrise. The Japanese eat miso soup with rice and fish to start their day. Just because American marketers decided to put a cartoon tiger on the box and call it “part of a balanced breakfast” doesn’t disqualify it from soup status.

And let’s not pretend that “sweet = not soup” is a hard rule. Ever had chilled strawberry soup at a wedding? Or fruit compote in syrup? These things slide into the soup category without protest, but add some Frosted Flakes and suddenly it’s heresy?

The truth is, people get emotional because “soup” sounds too serious for their whimsical morning routine. Cereal is comfort. It’s nostalgia. It’s Saturday morning cartoons. But those feelings don’t change the facts. This isn’t an emotional question. It’s taxonomy. Cereal is a sweet, cold, ready-to-eat, pour-and-go soup. If you want to argue it’s not, you’re not defending logic—you’re defending your identity as someone who refuses to eat “soup” before noon.

So let’s embrace the truth. Let’s stand tall, pour ourselves a bowl of Corn Pops, and declare with pride: “Yes, I’m having soup for breakfast.” It’s bold. It’s defiant. It’s technically accurate.

And honestly? It just makes the morning feel a little more epic.

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