Listen to me: Do not make the classic blunder of overeating before they bring the best. In this temple to gluttony, show restraint. There’s a steak you want, and if it’s not the first to be knifed onto your plate, ask for it. It’s the picanha. Pee-cahn-yah. You won’t find it in an American steakhouse—Brazilian butchers carve up a cow’s rump differently. The top is covered with fat, seasoned with rock salt, and cooked over flames so the fat seeps down and blends with the salt to remind you that you didn’t climb to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian. Ask me where I’d go for my last steak and I couldn’t say exactly. Maybe Marius in Rio, or Plataforma in New York, or Porcão in Miami. I’d keep waiting for more picanha, and the meal would never end.

It appears that the departure of Ed Rollins from the Bachmann campaign has had the effect of removing the braking mechanism from a rollercoaster. And give the woman credit: If she’s going down, she’s going down while letting let her freak flag fly. It helps to understand what she’s on about if you can make your eyeballs spin independently of each other, and in different directions.

Translation: Now comes the boring part where I drone on, trying to dress this up in some larger, more meaningful way. But frankly, this is all boilerplate hammered out by staffers. At this point, you’ve stopped listening because I’ve said everything I’m going to say on Libya and you know I’ve got nothing to say about the Saudis. So let’s leave at this: bad man, easy target, too much possible innocent blood, no U.S. boots on the ground, and no serious responsibility to rebuild afterward. It’s what you can stand right now, and it’s what I’m comfortable dealing right now. It’s as simple as that, people. God bless America.

My official last meal is a banana-nut muffin. It’s not even a particularly fresh one. Some advice: Look at your next muffin. Really fucking look at it. Imagine that muffin is the last bit of food you will ever stick in your mouth. If I could do it over again, I’d make sure everything I ate was an endangered animal’s heart on toast with foie-gras crumbles and black-truffle shavings. I mean, fuck. A goddamn muffin.