Lord Byron always found his manservant’s insistence on speaking his native French a Sardonic rebellion.
Sometimes I sin because I know I can come here and confess and be absolved.
As inspired by: 'mouse's Short story
Think, then act!
Jimmy Nickles vowed to find the man who dropped the dime on him as he felt the steel of the handcuffs click snuggly against his wrists.
You can be pretty sure that when a rhino is checking you out and what’s going his brain is the word, “NICE,” he’s not thinking about your tits.
Send up a prayer for the bees, even if you’re a Unitarian.
Julia hung back, hoping to be the lost sock in the load of laundry that was the tour group from her small Texas town.
having finished his 100th floor of 100 rooms with 100 walls each, the carpenter still felt lonely.
As inspired by: littledevilworks's spice cops: excert form episode 13
Coroner Johnson to the lead officer, “Ok, we’ll parse Lee for any evidence and give you a clear palate for any further investigations.”
tomato had always assumed he was a vegetable—wasn’t everybody?—but lately…
“It’s just that I feel so un-a-peeling today,” she said, looking down at her pale yellow skin.
“Dear,” said the late-season cherry, “we’re going to be late, and, no, I don’t think the watermelon makes you look fat.”
“Pear, no, apple, no, banana, hmmm, no, kumquat, oh, no, no, dear, um, ooh, watermelon,” said the tomato.
An evocative little word, wouldn’t you say?
I’ve been watching the ducklings in my front paddock grow up over the last few weeks and I can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness that soon they will be all grown up and all familial bonds forgotten as need drives them to fight over mates and territory.
“Aww honey,” the forensic pathologist clucked to herself as she examined the corpse, “that wasn’t very sage of you ratting out that mafioso.”
“Okay, in retrospect, she was having a bad day, and I guess I wasn’t the first guy to ask Thyme, ‘Have you got the time?’ but I still don’t think she should punch me in the face like that,” said the new guy as he requisitioned an icepack.
Dear Abby, could you please remind your readers that it’s impolite to call your neighborhood drunk after 9pm when I’m drunk or before 10am when I am hungover.
Officer, officer, somebody call the paramedics, I’m breaking out in CHIVES!
As inspired by: Keith's Spice Cops: Excerpt from Episode Nine
Sgt. Curry reviewed the day’s “most wanted” list with his men and then announced in a gruff voice, “Let’s make these assholes suffer.”
As inspired by: boot's Spice Cops: Excerpt from Episode Eight
Chief Inspector Jenkins was a real ladies man, and always used plenty of old spice.
“Read more books, read more books,” said the young woman who, coincidentally, was standing in front of a bookshop.
Scrine, for me, occasionally feels like I’m on a ship in the night.
“Calling all cars, calling all cars, this is an all spice alert, I repeat this is an all spice alert.
Nearly missed.
“What is it with boys and their fascination with big. hard. disks?”
I just lost my text-messaging virginity.
It’s a little-known fact that bacon is in fact good for you, supplying vitamin p (for “phat”), a nutrient that goes straight to the ass.
Thanks largely to Carl B.‘s expert bacon testimony, my friend Schuster says he better understands the acceptable consumption limits of pork, but even more importantly, he now knows how to successfully argue a temporary insanity case involving the murder of anyone who takes the last slice of bacon.
The first time she experienced cunnilingus, Rhonda thought this guy is trying to impress me.
She danced.
As the state’s leading bacon expert, Carl was called upon to testify at least once a week, earning him a comfortable living, with the exception of whenever he ran or tried to touch his toes.
Feeling this good has gotta be illegal, Juan mused as he found himself skipping across the parking lot on the way to work Saturday morning.
Being the responsible parent that I am, and concerned that the boys might start the day off with too many sweets, I did what any good father would do in my position and polished off the cupcakes.
“Because you need more than three hours of recliner sleep,” I tell the party boy who stumbles into my office, “so why don’t you head back to chair.”
The party boys were scattered about the living room, tossing and turning as their bodies fought off the sugar and late night television.
It must be weird to be certain fruit.
I bet if you’re in hell and you think you’re on a road to somewhere, then sure as heck you ain’t going nowhere.
Half-way to 666; that’s one hell of an omen.
The good news is that the terrible week from hell is over and I will be posting more frequently now; the bad news is that the terrible week from hell is over and I will be posting more frequently now.
Rosemary gingerly tested out her bionic leg; after her last boyfriend accidentally fed her peg leg into the woodchopper she had decided it was time to spice things up a bit.
The writers’ strike is impacting my life considerably: no longer can I watch the upper echelons of evening entertainment, the Jay Lenos and David Lettermans of the world; rather I am forced to watch the Jerry Springers and Geraldo Riveras; perhaps this is why I have had intense nightmares about broken bones, large noses and obnoxious men.