Daily Comedy Brief · October 26th

In Indianapolis, a local library protest turned heads for all the wrong reasons when onlooker Alec Vinton marveled at the impressive beard of a white supremacist. Vinton couldn't help but admire the beard's flawless grooming, lamenting that his own attempts at facial hair resulted in a patchy mess. His girlfriend, Stephanie Paulson, echoed his sentiments, wishing her partner could sport a similarly striking beard—minus the extremist affiliations, of course.

Fashion expert Cary Harper weighed in, noting that it’s unfortunate how often the worst people have the best style. He pointed out that even at protests, some individuals display a surprising flair for fashion, which complicates our instinct to judge them solely on their beliefs. As the scene unfolded, Vinton found himself distracted, even contemplating the white supremacist's sunglasses. It’s a strange world when a beard steals the show, even if it’s on someone you’d rather not acknowledge.

A Santa‑Monica house of four has become a modern‑day, drug‑fueled echo of Fleetwood Mac, not because they’re chart‑toppers but because they’ve turned the band’s notorious love‑triangle drama into a full‑time roommate arrangement. Sandra Perkins, Riley Lee, Tamara Mazlin and Tanner Banks spend most of their time passing cocaine, swapping beds, and turning the fallout into lyrics that read like a diary of a very specific kind of chaos.

The group’s origin story reads like a Craigslist ad gone sideways: after the original member, Steve Manning, vanished into a cult, his replacement, Tanner, demanded that his partner Sandra move in too. The condition set the stage for a revolving door of intimacy and substance use that now defines the apartment’s daily rhythm.

Sandra occasionally breaks out on her own, managing a solo pad and a steady supply of coke, but the pull of “one last hurrah” with the others draws her back before long. It’s a pattern that suggests the house is less a home than a rehearsal space for perpetual break‑ups and make‑ups.

Even the building’s owner, John Arms, stays in the periphery—he doesn’t join the bedroom shuffle, but he’s on the same cocaine schedule, keeping the whole operation oddly cohesive.

There’s a guy at the gym who’s taken the concept of “working out” to a whole new level, and by that, I mean he’s basically turned it into performance art. Forget running forwards; he’s jogging backwards while lunging, because why not? He believes that if you’re not pushing the limits of gym equipment to the point of destruction, you’re just wasting your time.

He’s not just riding the stationary bike; he’s doing wheelies. The Stairmaster? He’s walking down it. And the elliptical? It’s a gyroscope. Machines often break down after his workouts, but he seems to think that’s just a side effect of his genius.

While others are doing their mundane reps, he’s trying to make the recumbent bike hover. Stretching? Forget the yoga mat; he’s using your machine to contort his body in ways that look like a scene from a nature documentary.

He’s got a real disdain for gym etiquette, especially the illustrated instructions that come with the machines. Those red X’s? To him, they’re just invitations to explore new frontiers of exercise. He’s even combined machines in ways that leave staff scratching their heads.

So when will he be done? Probably when the treadmill is at a 90-degree incline, and he’s sprinting into the sky, setting it on fire for good measure. But hey, it’s all in a day’s work for the gym’s most unconventional user.