Rena could well remember the blackened gum trees that peppered the snow covered landscape, but she suddenly realised that she could no longer recall the smell.
The best advice I ever read was on a bottle of aspirin: “Keep Away From Children”.
“Now, I just can’t be expected to get up at that time, unless I’m going fishing.”
Son, if you listen to one piece of advice from dear-old-dad, listen to this: Stay away from neurotic women.
It’s my damn book idea and you can’t steal it.
Did someone really sit down and say, “hey, let’s make a cake by adding pumpkin puree to yellow cake mix; then make icing from butter, cream cheese and a pound of confectioners’ sugar; but before we ice those cake layers, better not forget to batter and fry them!”?
If I knew who goliard was, I would apologize directly for my un-assing him/her from Scrine’s #12 spot on El Grande Listo de los Postoleros, then I would apologize to all Spanish-speaking people everywhere for my unashamed destruction of their language in the process of apologizing to goliard.
She flew without wings, just a few frosty inches above the calm blue surface of the lake, letting her toes dangle and break the sun-speckled water for just a moment before pulling up and banking to the right, barely missing a yacht of envious tourists.
When Cosgrove’s muse took human form, she appeared slightly frumpy in her poly-blend blazers and skirts, but she could inspire three-page budget change proposals like nobody’s business.
She was an up-talker, the kind of conversationalist who made even declarative sentences sound like questions; for this reason, though she was hardly aware of it, she only attracted men who were drawn to indecisiveness.
Armed only with a ball gag, worn fuzzy handcuffs and a riding crop, the Zipper Masked Crusader snuck through the Gotham night bringing hard discipline to the cities underworld.
If you ever send me a content-free one-line response to a well thought out and complicated email and that response is anything other than, “I’m on my stupid Blackberry and will get back to you properly shortly,” I will never speak to you again, Asshole!
Finishing the last 5 pages of my script is like walking over razor blades in my barefeet - will I finish or won’t I is what we are all wondering- or maybe akin to Hercules killing the Gorgon Medusa or kicking the ass of Atlas (if he ever did that).
Lost: Reward if found and returned.
Okay, let’s just assume that every tornado ever “sounded like a train,” and let’s quit killing trees and wasting time printing that vacuous (but apparently obligatory) quote already.
I’ve been asked to write a one sentence bio, but I can’t come up with anything; Some help, please?
Dear Emerging Class of Mega-Rich: I don’t care how rich you are, or how much you love living in Manhattan; if you need this much space to be happy, maybe it’s time for you to move to the suburbs.
I love you.
By the eighth day Adam and Eve were scrapping around and Eve was nagging Adam about always leaving his fig leaf up and Adam was chastising Eve for taking too long to primp before leaving the garden of Eden to go to dinner, and God had a great big headache and needed some aspirin and a lot of caffeine; thus, on the eighth day God created Starbucks.
Days went by and her legs grew hairier and hairier.
On discovering that my rice + beans taco was unlabeled, while my pork taco was labeled “vegetarian,” I decided that the taqueria guy was either overworked, absentminded or brilliantly perverse.
As Fender’s father rose, both figuratively and literally, up the corporate ladder, his young son privately concluded a sense of humor must not be able to rise above the eighth story, and tolerance tended to drop off around the twentieth.
This is more uncomfortable than that time the door-to-door Wikipedia researcher came by the house and asked me to cross reference the leftist politics of suspected bisexual Burt Lancaster with the left-facing blowhole of the Physeter macrocephalus.
When I was five I told my mother that I didn’t want to give birth to children, only kittens; crammed into a bus filled to the brim with wet, rowdy teenagers, I realized that I would still prefer to give birth to kittens.
For my next academic paper, I do believe I’ll buck authority and cite Scrine as my main source.
There are some snippets of conversation with friends that are so freakishly weird you would just like to pretend that you never, ever heard them.
There should be a special level of Hell for people who stand you up on a Saturday night.
O metal bird of non-blinking whatnot, I’m going to use this arena as an outlet because I’m 5 days away from defending a thesis and my advisor just told me that my argument, which is soundly based on math and science, YOU JACKASS, is baseless, which is only going to make me more correct during the defense and I think she knows this because she’s remarkably intelligent and wily in that way that makes you nervous, but that’s not the point, no, the point is that I feel like the time has come to do what I’d mentioned in a recent comment and follow Mr. Mencken’s advice and ‘raise the black flag…’, even though I realize ‘mouse is a lawyer and may end up prosecuting me for what follows, but what the hell, anger with no outlet leads to reality TV and that’s totally unacceptable, so here goes…If I was the kind of 16-year old in a 35-year old’s body willing to teepee someone’s house, I’d totally do it to my advisor’s hizzy, only instead of toilet paper, I’d probably use a flame-thrower, and instead of soap, I’d probably use napalm, and oh by the way, f*ck you, Auqa Man, for never destroying Sea World and freeing your watery brethren, yes, it’s a tangent, but I figured while I was getting things off my chest, I may as well be thorough about it.
“ring ring, hello twelve-year-old, blablclinton, blablabama, demobla, alreadyvoted, yada yada anybody, on a scale of 0-ten what would i consider the best possible life for me, wait, life? best possible life? wait, how satisfied am i with my health? or my health care? how satisfied am i with my personal life?? WHO IS THIS ANYWAY???
Sweet Mother in Flats Doing a Salty Crabwise Shuffle!
While I don’t want to give up this little tug-of-war in which I’m involved, I know that continuing to tug will only leave me more broken and bloody than I currently am, similar to being told that ‘you can run, but you’ll only die tired’.
(beer.)
The kids playing outside have somehow stumbled themselves into a game of The British Are Coming, and while I’m very tempted to step outside to see if they’re observing the classic rules of play, I can’t seem to find my tricorne hat.
Nothing does your heart good like hundreds of kilometres of absolutely nothing.
“I bet you a strawberry-rhubarb pie that I find [rhubarb] at my market tomorrow,” said ‘mouse, to which Bakerina replied “you’re on;” upon reflection, though, Bakerina realized that, assuming that the loser must bake the pie for the winner, she and ‘mouse had something of a dilemma: If there is no rhubarb at ‘mouse’s market, and Bakerina wins the bet, then no strawberry-rhubarb pie will be forthcoming, since ‘mouse has no rhubarb; meanwhile, if there *is* rhubarb at the market, and ‘mouse wins the bet, he must choose between waiting until June, when both rhubarb and local strawberries will be at Bakerina’s market, or just making the damn pie himself, which violates the whole spirit of said bet.
I desperately try, often without success, to keep the number of emails in my in-box below 88.
All night long my stomach reenacted the Battle of Waterloo, that little puke Napoleon thinking he could get the best of me by disguising himself as an a hunk of unruly steak, but I held my ground, rallying the troops with will power and the promise that history would not be rewritten, and by sunrise, though weary and worn, victory was ours.
If some things aren’t hard, nothing is worthwhile.
I dreamed mirrors didn’t work any more.
Dear God, please let there be rhubarb at the market this morning because I cannot take one more weekend of storage apples.
Just one innocent little visit to goodvibrations.com and for the next several months autofill dumps you back there every time you try to get to google.
Listening to Roy Orbison sing a song written for him by Bono, Bronwyn discovered that the crack that split her heart the day Roy Orbison died hadn’t healed after all.