Batter-dip JUSTICE

If you are having a special-offer fish fry on Wednesdays for hungry young lumberjacks who travel to the distant Upper West Side to avail themselves of its possibilities, the JUST do not run out by the reasonable dinner hour of 8:30 PM. The sea never forgets slights to her majesty, and JUSTICE will come for you, smelling of Old Bay seasoning. Especially if you make said delicate lumberjacks ill in the tum with their alternate orders. I am a salty old sailor, my harpoon trained on an albatross called JUSTICE!

Because someone was too busy practicing for his 'Nashville Star' audition...

I’d like to find whoever designed this fucking cardigan

so I can tell them what's up. Every time I wear it, it rides down my back just a little. As in, it won't stay up around my collar where it should. And yeah, I think that the guy at Reiss – Mr. Reiss – who somehow got the shoulder dimensions wrong, or had the misconception that this would look effing slouchy, should be confronted with his error. So last week I went in there wearing it, just to, you know, make the obvious point. And THEN I was looking around at the sweaters on those steely racks and (OUTRAGE) a lot of them were the same sweaters from fall '07. So this problem isn't being addressed; it's being perpetuated. Admittedly, my cardigan wasn't among the items reproduced for an encore sales season. Still, this friend politely demands JUSTICE!

Justice is needed

I really miss you guys.  I just want to feel connected again.  

Don't worry--we can start slowly.   

Thanks New York Times -- for always stating the painfully obvious

Russian Billionaires Still Like Valuable Art 

in case you were wondering

Drunken Sailor

Would you let him tattoo a tiger on your butt?

Crackdown!

The evenings are getting brighter, so we work harder, so the days run together, so we forget to post on Justice!

Then through the weary cloud of our travails comes a bolt of affirmation -- Justice! rings eternal in the halls of the Ivy League.

Sometimes to find Justice! one need look no farther than the pages of the YDN. Perusing an almost unreadable tale of legal smackdown makes you glad you convinced your, er, friend (read: ex) not to suggest on his resume that he was a National Merit Scholar. ("I think that's, like, really easy to check," you said.)

And yes, Gawker was right, this sentence is perfection: "The revelation that someone could infiltrate Yale shatters the mystique of the Ivy League as an impregnable bastion of the elite. "

Yale was pregnated. But then... JUSTICE!

In Our Free Time

The Justice! Team: we're not just funny.