Wake up from your tryptophan nightmare, bitches—November is over. While you'll be spending December on a chaise-lounge pleading to your therapist—Why did I kiss my cousin on Thanksgiving Eve, why?—let us guide you through some of the rough lows of fall's harvest. This is our cornucopia of malaise, our thoroughfare for the shitstream of November, this is our Sparta. Inspired by the heroically unimpeachable Rob Ford, this month might come off the rails a little as we try to bite into the penultimate month's chicken wing, looking for a bone. Or maybe we're just looking for a seat. Yours, that is.
