Mang has no Nutrients

Picking up writing jobs weekly, this guy.
I now contribute for the Downhome, apparently.
I'm not even sure how I managed this one.
I think I wandered into their office by mistake while I was looking for a washroom, or a place to buy a muffin.
Either is entirely likely.
Bring it on, I say. I'll write snippets for every publication out there.
Farmer's Almanac, I'm talking to you.
As for The Scope...
I am in print and on shelves. I am in a new network of artsy individuals.
My chances for sex have increased. Marginally?
And really, that is my motivation for committing to anything.

In other rot, I have another paper to write tonight. Irish History.
Was the British government to blame for the widespread disease and death of the Famine?
Nay. The potatos were the cause of the disease and death. Well, that and the bodies.
But the British didn't help matters, and they could've.
Then again, the Irish had pigs. They were exporting them.
Bacon is wicked. ...Think about it.
I saw a wet paint sign today on a random post on campus.
Orange.
I had a distrubingly strong urge to touch the paint. I walked past it and almost turned around.
That kinda strong. I have no idea why.
I have ink all over my hands.

Oh. Don't actually answer the question, but what in the fuck did Brittney Spears do? Seriously.
I'm purposefully not reading up on this bullshit, but even I'm getting curious.
Her TV performance was so shitty child services are taking her kids away?
That's the masses for ya; always ready to turn when you stop killing.

I googled myself just now.
And myself turned up.
After some football asshole.