I tottered on the edge of discovery, my pants around my ankles.
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Zorro is very serious when he smells my lips, so I take no offense (or very little) whenever he decides to lick them.
Miss Jane stepped delicately away from the building’s ashes and as she did so an irritated man in a mouse costume nearly bumped into her, however - astoundingly - she did not immediately over-react with senseless violence, but instead said “Good sir, I do believe you need this more than me,” and handed him her very best flamethrower.
Much to Lydia’s consternation, the trial court refused to consider her having an earworm stuck in her head—specifically “No! No! A Thousand Times No!”—as an affirmative defense in Jethro’s tort battery action against her.
‘Mouse knew he was about to get filthy rich when he realized he could could call Australia on Friday afternoon and since it was already Saturday in Oz, Boot could tell him the winning numbers for the Saturday drawing.
If only I could hold my breath and disappear, pop!
“Now serving 002” ...but I’m the only person here… “BING” ...are there dwarfs hiding somewhere… “Now serving 002” ...there’s no one else in the queue… “BING” ...there isn’t anyone standing at the service windows… “Now serving 002” ...there are 10 empty service windows… “BING” ...there isn’t anyone else here… “Now serving 002” ...I’m the only one… “BING” ...I’‘M THE ONLY ONE HERE!
“It’s a good thing I did’t try say the city sheriff shined the cities shoes instead,” Danny mused as he clapped erasers cleaned, “The straights of Juan De Fuca, The Straights of Juan de Fuca, The Straights of Juan de…”
Danny received detention for a week after he attempted to say “the straights of Juan de Fuca” 5 times fast in lieu of the Pledge of Allegience.
Some say that man is the root of all evil, others say God’s a drunkard for pain,
Me I believe that the Garden of Eden was burned to make way for a train.
~ from Harrisburg
Back in the teacher’s lounge, Ralph was known as The Euphemism King.
After getting the buxom centerfold’s autograph Ralph remembered he needed to check the air pressure in his tires.
I’ve heard it’s healthy to dream about sex, but lately I’ve been healthy every damn night and I’m starting to miss my aliens and end-of-the-world action adventures.
Most days, the closest I come to holding any real power is stopping traffic for a moment while I cross the street.
This morning I saw a very large man wearing a full-length fur coat, but he wasn’t waving a football pennant or wearing a porkpie hat on his head so it wasn’t nearly as funny as it all could have been.
Use the slider to view different tag clouds of U.S. presidential speeches.
“I blame the guy with the camera,” Bigfoot once told me, “because if he could have just held that damn camera still, more people would believe in me.”
Art Garfunkle called tonight and challenged me to a reading fight, telling me that he’d send his list over in the morning; I know I should have said something intelligent, or at the very least acknowledged his challenge, but all I could think to say was that I’d never liked his hair, which I’m sad to say led to quite a bit of awkward silence, until finally I just hung up the phone, wondering if the fight was still on.
An orange by any other name remains a rose.
said with that appropriate insouciant flouish, gauntlets a’swish: fwap!
I’ll take all the cold, mean days you can throw at me, just so long as I can end them with a stew from the land of hilly deserts and fierce, chivalrous warriors.
Peter was lucky enough to inherit his grandfather’s wooden legs, but unfortunately, no one had had the foresight to will him any of his grandfather’s slacks, and as far as Peter was concerned, the legs just didn’t look right standing there in the corner wearing a pair of his own blue jeans, just not right at all.
If I could choose one song and remove any memory of ever having heard it, and never have to hear it or have it stuck in my head again, it would definitely be… no, I can’t do that—sharing an awful earworm is even worse than sharing a tapeworm.
Touche Turtle was always dumbfounded that the Hair Bear Bunch always got the chicks especially since he cut a more dashing and swashbuckling figure.
No, no peeing, you don’t have to pee….think dry, arid desert, think armadillo, think sand…Nobody here but us cacti!
i think we need a “fwap!”, do we have a “fwap?”
Sure, why not use this coffin for a lifetime as a coffee table and then reuse it for your final resting place.
Funny, I too am like my resume—inflated, out of date and not really very interesting.
After buying a coffee I stopped to give my change to a man stamping his feet and moving around to stay warm while he shook his cup; he asked how I was doing so I said, “Good,” and asked how he was, to which he replied, “Cold,” and I wasn’t sure how to respond to that so I didn’t.
When he grew hungry around midday, Dr Strangepork consulted the periodic table of the delimeats and calculated that the atomic weight of Bolognium and the atomic weight of Swissium made them compatible, but a molecular barrier of Mustard-17 and Pumpernickelium would be needed for the elements to bond properly.
I think therefore I am…I think…At least that may be a reasonable starting place.
I am also just like my resume - flat, terribly white, and full of half-truths.
Somebody, quick, defend New York style pizza to me (if you like it), because the “authentic” pizza we tried last night seemed terribly flat and boring.
Belatedly, he felt it was a mistake to have left her a message - and so it was a mixed blessing when she neglected to call him back.
“What can it even mean” Peter wondered, “that love lurks around every corner in Round Heaven?”
It’s not all bad—I mean, at least I still have my porkpie hat days to look forward to.
Zack watched as the purple cardboard box made its way down the conveyor, where it merged onto another conveyor, and wondered where such a package could be going, what was inside its purple contains, who was the recipient of such a purposeful item and why should he care.
As she began to write about her last relationship, Rebecca secretly hoped that it would start killing him softly with each word, as she told of his life with her song.
My resume resembles me in that it is flat, covered in print, and is completely freaked out.
After sitting on the mountaintop for several months (working out some 700 sentences in his head) the hermit attained what he was sure was enlightmentment and returned to the village to spread the message: There are two kinds of people in the world—those who believe there are two kinds of people in the world and those who don’t.
If I had any sense at all I’d go on an accounting software killing spree, and the nice thing about it would be that I could start right here at home at my own desk.
“We’re sorry, Miss Bakerina, but we can’t adjourn the meeting early just because you feel a burning need to run home and listen to ‘Pulling Mussels from the Shell’ right now.”
Nothing matters but the weekend from a Tuesday point of view.
Realizing that after enjoying his first 3 great inventions people might be very thirsty, Davinci invented beer and then declared “it was good” and he rested.
“That must have been some kick ass party!” Superman chuckled to himself after he woke up wearing Wonder Woman’s underwear and she was no wear to be found.
Davinci’s third greatest invention was spicey yellow mustard, a tasty compliment for any pretzel covered in rock salt.
Davinci’s second greatest invention…rock salt.
Before Peter could become a disciple he had to pat his head and rub his belly at the same while standing on one foot.
Davinci’s greatest invention was the pretzel
Fr. Murphy seriously considred converting to Judaism when he learned that when Jewish people die they go to Club Med which, seems a better place to spend eternity unless you are unfortunate enough to be Mel Gibson.
I have always wondered at the so-called encounter with St. Peter after we have died; Who do Jewish people or Muslim people get to meet?
I’ve found it’s best not to murder a man anytime after 1 a.m. because the bars close at 2 a.m., at least in my neck of the woods, and that just doesn’t give a man enough time to clean up and get himself a drink.
Verta knew not to question her younger brother because all that she had ever heard was “only the Paolo knows.”
Robert, although still traumatized by the massive loss of language printed on wood pulp, looked at the now water free room and imagined a writer’s dream.
Occasionally beatniks will attempt, and sometimes successfully, to sneak into suburban homes, particularly if the odor of food—pretty much any food—is detected.
Occasionally bears will attempt, and sometimes successfully, to break into cabins, particularly if the odor of some prepared food, such as bacon, tempts the animal.
Television censors almost didn’t allow Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer to be aired when animators first drew Rudolph with a swollen neck—a sign that a buck is approaching the breeding season—and insisted that his musky, metatarsal glands not be mentioned at all during the show, even jokingly by the boisterous Yukon Cornelius.
When a few young bucks get together, it’s only a matter of time before they start dialing numbers to ask whoever answers if they’re “stuck in a rut;” if someone says yes the bucks yell, “Lucky you!” and hang up laughing.
Maybe we didn’t start the fire—maybe it was always burning, since the world’s been turning—but at least we invented the “Skip” button for our music players.
Getting ready for this last semester of school feels like I’m packing for four months of seclusion.
It’s the opposite of nonsense and chaos.
It seemed obvious in hindsight but it took Bill years to figure out that work was NOT “where it’s at”.
Despite having taught deer sex-ed for sixteen years, Mr. Shilling never understood why the young bucks always laughed whenever he said the word rut.
I’ve always found deer quite stinky, come to think of it.
Horace Grelling, the retired circus freak, disclosed on his death bed that all of his best love poems had been written using only his third arm, or, as he liked to call it, his write arm.
Everyone knew—they just knew!—that Keith was going to write a really funny Scrine sentence that day.
What goes on in my neighborhood late at night when I’m sleeping that leaves so much underwear on the sidewalk?
Either the world is full of sour-faced people, or else everyone is giving me dirty looks.
As inspired by: a 'mouse, a national holiday, and a drought
In the little bed the young girl slept fitfully, her eyelids seeming to twitch, and she seemed racked with pain, seeming almost to cry silent tears as she slept, and as the camera of the story’s eye swirled around the spartan room, and through her hazel eye, we found her dreams and we found her standing alone, alone in a big red land; and as Becky stood in the middle of the scorched, dying, red, red desert she pivoted slowly around, her eyes flitting over the rocks and rock wallabies, watching this land die, but looking for signs of moisture, some sort of droplet, a little sign of life, just the merest hint of rain, but all she found was dust, flames, rock hard and lifeless ground and ashes, but she couldn’t give up, this land was hers and she wouldn’t let it die, so she spread her arms wide as she continued to turn and as she did so the searing air began to shimmer and curl, seeming to split and fly away in ribbons, each ribbon a shade of blue, a blue like the ocean, a blue of a young girl’s eyes, the blues from a bowerbird’s collection, a blue of the late night sky, and as each ribbon curled away into the sky, it became a tornado of blue, swirling higher and higher above Becky’s head until she was at the centre of a psychedelic storm and with each movement that she made, the storm grew and spread, reaching out across the scorched and scarred land, going up towards the centre and the red, red shores, spreading to the right and roaring through its deep green valleys, reaching further down through the myriad of lands, all the way to the bottom to its crisp white lines, swirling in larger and larger circles around the land, sweeping up the dust and the ashes and the pain, sweeping up the burnt carcasses and broken hearts, but leaving in its wake a river of gentle blue, a caress that called out to the people of the land, made them leave their hovels, exit their homes, come out into the street and dance under the blurred stars, so blurred because of the water falling from the sky, the moisture filling the air and filling their hearts, rain that, as it fell on their heads, caused their papery, dry and dusty limbs to cease crackling, a rain that started their brains to spark and their hearts to beat, a rain so gentle and long lived that they would speak of it for decades to come, yet it was not a rain of damage and torment, it was not in all the wrong places, it did not roar out of the sky ripping out trees and flooding roads, it just came and stayed and stayed until it was not needed anymore, it came when it was called and it was as blue and as beautiful as the Earth itself.
Emil threw pickling sauce at the green things and as he did so, they cried, “nooo, nooo, our sodium levels!”
“Take us to your olive producers” said the gaunt and mildly-obsessed looking green thing.
Jesus’ heart sank as he realized that the woman approaching him on the road was the hateful and slimy Stacy, whose singing voice was like a thousand angry raccoons.
Once I’d figured out how hard it was to warm up potatoes in a microwave, I got right to work on my underground potato-lined survival shelter because, as far as I’m concerned, it’s only a matter of time before we’re attacked by aliens with tripod-mounted microwave guns.
It’s important to change Jesus’ batteries at least once a year; I usually do it on the same day as the smoke detectors, just to keep things simple.
I don’t know what oft-repeated phrase wears me out more: “It is what it is” (delivered in a tone of disappointment after you’ve worked your ass off to give recipient what s/he wants), or “We need this for our WalMart meeting” (delivered in demanding, vaguely smug tone).
As inspired by: Keith's Buddy
Buddy’s philosophy (that enlightment always exists within walking distance) was first published after Buddy started rooming with Dietrich, whose philosophy was that one should never live further than walking distance from a pub serving good German beer.
Few people are aware of Buddha’s long-lived and abstruse younger brother, Buddy, whose sole philosophy to life is that enlightenment is always within walking distance.
After finding himself transformed into a hideous cockroach overnight, Br. Ezra resolved to stop reading Kafka so close to bed time.
Japenese cinema mavin Hiro Morimoto was hit suddenly with divine inspiration while reading about the iguana with two penises last night drinking saki; his film would center around a giant iguana who ravishes Tokyo by humping everything in sight until the government once again called on Godzilla, Rodan and Mothra to save them from total destruction.
Senator Obama cringed when he heard about the poor iguana’s erection and thought, somewhat wrly, we might see more of this if Hilary should get elected president.
He shivered under the bedclothes, trying in his grogginess to figure out if it had suddenly gotten very cold or if he had turned off the heater and become once again the victim of his own parsimony.
It’s a sad sad day when the computers at school operate on just 16 bit color.
I’ll admit it, sometimes when I fall asleep in my chair, I dream of roof sex.
that my googlereader picks up myriad scrines posted today, but scrine itself seems to be stuck on wednesday, january 24; yours?
[yes, here this is, in the control panel, but on scrine? nada. or i would have put this second, parenthetical part in the comments, honest!]
I note the 500 word competition with some regret, as it comes to my attention on a day when the most official course of action available to me could be summed up thusly; “can’t be stuffed”.
The only thing I love more than that cold scentless scent that indicates that snow is on the way is that hot scentless scent that indicates that our radiators have been switched on.
Regardless of how hard he tried Kevin was unable to explain to his wife why their pet goat was wearing her underpants
If you appear to be an obnoxious tightwad, the retainer fee I request of you will be double that of a really nice person who presents as a (presumably) normal payor.
Tragedy could have been averted had Humpty Dumpty been hard boiled as his mother had wanted but PETA had launched an all out protest; All the Kings horses and all the King’s men were greatly dismayed but now all they could do was make an omelete behind PETA’s back.
Cowboy Troy terrifies me!
“We could sit here and continue playing ‘whose ass hurts more’ or we could salvage our dignity by saddling up and riding off like men,” declared a testy Cowboy Troy.
Dr. Lory knew that the young calf with 2 faces was really an alien from the planet Uranus and, while she wasn’t talking, assumed she must be a politician or an ambassador.
Confronted, Henry denied knowing the call girl, but was soon caught in his lie when the topic of ducks came up.
Oliver proudly placed the Weblog Management degree into his briefcase and headed out into the world, anxious to begin his new, rewarding career.
OK, Ladies, gird your loins for battle…Noreen is in triage and DR. L.L. Pantzonfyre is the Attending….it’s going to be a LOOOONG day.
I awoke from my long and scary nightmare, sweaty and breathing like a hard ridden horse, in the early dawn of that fateful day in late October, the day that would live forever in my mind as the oddest and yet the very best day of my life, in which I actually Found My True Calling (that is as long as one believes, as I did at the time, that working for a living setting up clunky bowling pins to be again and again knocked down by chubby hairy drunken middle aged men while they leer at you and spill beer and make lewd comments to one another about your boobs is not exactly worthy of being considered one’s true calling) as the Girl Who Brushes Sweat off of Hard Ridden Horses, feeds them, mucks out their stalls and whispers in their perky ears all the while flirting with the little gay jockeys (wondering all the while if having sex with a jockey is quite like the time she got laid by that midget during her brief but extremely interesting stint as a carnie in the course of the summer of her junior year at Brown before she got her degree in Public Engineering and Policy Administration which prepared her in no way whatsoever as to how to rid oneself of a profoundly horny and rather heartsick –but fabulous in bed- midget who turned rather suddenly and threateningly into creepy stalker guy) as they pranced about the stables (the jockeys, not the horses) in their teeny tiny little breeches and complained how “hungry” they were and jumped on and off of their scales and vomited up their teeny tiny little lunches which were comprised of a few pale limp lettuce leaves and no dressing at all leaving the poor horses with not a soul to brush off their sweat, once hard ridden, and muck the smelly piles of poop out of their cramped wooden stalls and whisper in their perky ears when THEY are the poor creatures that have to do the sweating and hard riding and carrying of the anorexic teeny tiny little men around the dusty race track while chubby hairy drunken middle aged men cheer and shout at them and spill their beer and make bets on who will finish first (and second and third) on this racetrack that I stumbled upon accidentally when I took a wrong turn on my way to the podiatrist where I was to have some large and quite painful (not to mention unsightly) verrucas removed from the bottom of my left foot, had a scary but not injurious (to either person or property) fender bender with a bookie who instructed me to follow him to the parking lot of a nearby track to exchange insurance information and identification (just in case of any problems that may arise in the future) as a result of the accident, and I saw the lovely horses in their stalls, and I Found My True Calling.
The man-Friday stood sweating heavily and breathing like a hard-ridden horse, his mind spinning out of control on its own flashbacks and tangents as his benefactor—the master-baker who was wearing her new, crisp, starched-and-ironed, strawberry-print apron she’d received from a secret admirer/Internet correspondent (who was really the man-Friday himself pretending to be a 300-pound Samoan man living in his mother’s basement not-too-successfully pretending to be a teenage lesbian nymphomanic blogger by the AOL IM name of “hotJessica15”), droned on and on about possible ingredients (cinnamon from Madagascar—where once the man had made a two-year expedition seeking undiscovered orchids, only to nearly die from a rare form of dengue fever that left him weak and feverish in a bush hospital run by an Australian doctor and his defrocked priest lover; nutmeg from Indonesia—he’d lost months of his life there, nursed slowly back to health by seventeen Buddhist monks who treated him with noxious jungle herbs and 24-hour-a-day chanting to cure the rabies he’d contracted from a monkey bite—another orchid-related accident—he really was unlucky in his search for those accursed flowers; vanilla from the island of Taha’a in French Polynesia - he’d never been there, but he’d have to put it on his list, since where vanilla (which is a form of orchid) grows there should be other orchids to discover; 147 other spices and aromatics carefully arranged in alphabetical order by the man, and labeled in impeccable calligraphy which he drew using an antique Chinese camel-hair brush; and, at the end of the 14-or-so feet of spice-shelf, the baker’s very favorite ingredient, black cocoa from King Arthur Flour Company—which when brought off the shelf always triggered a lively discussion not only about the relative merits of dutch-process cocoa, regular cocoa and that king of cocoa, King Arthur black, but also inevitably led to stories of the Baker’s training at King Arthur where she’d first learned the secrets of ganache, eggs, gluten and so much more), recipes which she was forever talking about, scribbling on milk-stained post-it pads, tweaking and rushing off to try, and most important— suddenly piercing his molasses-and-rum-raisin soaked consciousness—the critical subject of the day: What they were going to bake this very afternoon, when and if they managed to break their respective food- and orchid-based reveries, and then the Baker made her pronouncement, “Tollhouse chocolate-chip cookies, but not just any Tollhouse cookies, these are going to be made from 1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, gently pliant to the touch, 3/4 cup granulated sugar, 3/4 cup light brown sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 2 large eggs, 1 teaspoon almond extract, 1 teaspoon instant espresso powder, 1 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in 1 teaspoon hot water, 2 cups (measured by dip-and-sweep method, about 11 ounces) all-purpose flour, 1/4 cup (about 2 ounces) Dutch-processed cocoa powder (or better, 2 tablespoons “plain” Dutch cocoa and 2 tablespoons black cocoa from King Arthur Flour, and 1 pound of cappuccino chips, which you, man-Friday, (and you, dear-reader), shall make and enjoy with a cup of fresh-pressed espresso-roast, Kona-bean cappuccino.”
It happened one day in the full light of afternoon, on the day before Johnny’s birthday party, as she carefully adhered all the ears on all the Styrofoam mice laid out in front of her on the table, as she mused over the perfection of the day to come, and wondered if her husband would make it back from Iceland on time, given the vicissitudes of the weather as well as the pilot’s strike, when who should appear at the door dressed like a UPS man but her former lover, Juan Francisco, whom she could not help but imagine dressed much like the mice she worked on so minutely and blindingly, and savagely she took him in her arms, planting a juicy tongue-kiss on his well-turned lips, as he stood dumbfounded because truth be told his name was Pete and his twin brother Juan now lived in a West Virginia suburb thousands of miles away, and this incident only cemented his conviction that yes, he was gay, as if he didn’t know already what with the boyfriends and the furtive encounters in off hours with other like-minded drivers, and yes, he needed more than anything else to get the hell out of his current job; it was hell on so many levels, including the driving of the damn truck which was so large and unwieldy, and the shorts, the shorts, the terrible ill-fitting shorts which now comprised half his wardrobe at least, and sometimes alone in the truck he cried out, “Horrible horrible shorts, how I hate thee!” very poetically, because after all he had a Ph.D. in Classic Literature from a prestigious university in Florida; but suddenly he was aware that the kiss had not yet stopped, but rather he had forgotten about it in his reverie, so he pushed the woman away and asked her what the hell she was doing, and she said, Juan, I remember you Juan, and he said No, it’s not me at all, I mean, I’m me, but I’m Pete, and Juan is my twin brother who lives in West Virginia in the suburbs, and can I use your phone because I need to (he trailed off as he entered the house to look for the phone) and Kate yelled that the phone was in the kitchen and he was welcome to it; that’s when she went into her own reverie about her magical romance with Juan, who had been by far the best lover she’d ever had over to her small room during college; they would lie for hours in her bed and he poetically described the angle of the light playing on her body, which of course was all she needed to take up their happy lovemaking again, but wait, she was brought up short, how could she want him when her husband was on his way back from Rekyavik, and how did you spell Rekyavik anyway, and what happened to that driver, she thought quickly, and that was all.
Some say Henry disappeared one night on his personal blimp, but others say he’s just hiding in the basement from his wife.
As inspired by: heather's reality check
Bakerina’s rules:
500 words, minimum. No maximum, but no bonus points for longer sentences, either—we want sentences to be correct in both form and content. Colons, semicolons, comma comma comma play, ellipses and dashes are all acceptable. Endlessly repeated single words (i.e. “dorky dorky dorky dorky!”, a la Kotzwinkle) are verboten. Magical punctuation (i.e. “ZOUNDS!————!—————!”, a la Laurence Sterne) is similarly verboten. I recuse myself from judging or establishing deadlines, but will gladly donate prizes.
That’s it. Stir it up, little darlings, stir it up.
Edit: Oh, yes. Sweating heavily and breathing like a hard-ridden horse are both mandatory.
[Keith, feel free to box this up, pretty it up, de-sticky it, take my name off it or whatever… -‘mouse]
As much as I like my new humanoid friend, I can’t find any way to tell him that his girlfriend is just way too tall for him.
Once upon a time I knew how to do it all, but time bit into my brain and put its talons on all those bits of fluff and set them free, free, free into the wind, a pandemonium of twisting bits of nothing.
Juan considered the morality and ethics of vegetarianism and veganism and he was quite impressed; Juan ate his bacon cheeseburger with great pleasure and he was quite impressed.
Ernest Hemmingway, if he were alive today, would most likely be an avid scriner but might find much opposition as his sentances had the tendency to run on and on and on and on because he had very little regard for punctuation other than the occasional comma, his favorite way to write was to use conjuctions such as “and” and to use them rather frequently much to the chagrin of those poor high school english students who had to read his novels such as “A Fairwell to Arms”, “The Sun Also Rises” and “For Whom the Bells Toll” and I am sure we can all agree that would suck and we can breathe a sigh of relief that Ernest Hemmingway isn’t alive and well and living on scrine.
Chief Inspector Morse found that one of the best ways to intimidate your detainee was to use the fuzzy hand cuffs (the ones with the purple fringe) and the kevlar chaps.
“I am going to be a dirty old man when I retire,” Ralph announced, “I have the overcoat, the support stockings and the clunky old oxfords.”
We noted with trepidation that every model in the new housing development featured nine-foot tall doors, and wondered if KGHomes knew more than we did about how tall our future cyborg masters would be.
If you were Carl Hiaasen, I would laugh if you called me a wretched nematode, but you are not, so please don’t.
Forget the compass, the survivalist’s best friend is the sharp stick.
When I finally lose enough hair to be officially declared bald I am going to shave the remnants off and go and buy the worst toupee ever so that everyone who sees me will say, “Does he know that rug is the worst hairpiece ever?”
Ralph left the 12-Step meeting disappointed once he discovered that the stories of the honor bar was just the cruel teasing of his psycotic sponser.
Darn, I’ve misplaced that strip of synapses with the excellent sentence I wrote in my head last night.
mr. autrey wallowing right in the middle of the trough?
With the harsh light of day streaming through the window, she gazed upon her countenance in the mirror. Turning slowly, she saw the rippled flesh of her thighs, two great dimpled mounds of buttock, the jagged stretchmarks across her hanging belly, and the pale sag of her upper arms. As she took in the sight of her naked body, she thought, “Good GOD, but I’ve got knobby knees.”
Understanding that public servants are addressed by the title of the highest office they have held, even after they have left that office (which is why former presidents are still addressed as “Mr. President”), is “General” really the proper title for a former Attorney General?
I have always wondered whether paleontologists occasionally make things up just for the fun of it and I think that in the case of the bi-plane dinosaurs I may well be on to something.
It may be supersitious but it is quite possible that the lovely Maria Sharapova is descended from the lineage of Giants you read about in the bible
Dorothy found it strangely amusing that the cowardly lion was so…well…cowardly and yet feral at the same time and yet she didn’t mind as he was great in bed.
The Scarecrow and the Tin Man were pissed for the third straight day when once again the Cowardly Lion neglected to clean his litter box.
In retaliation for the all the haiku death threats he received, Brandon’s professor forced him to speak only in iambic pentameter the remainder of the week
The management at the Velvet Mongoose secretly replaced Lionel Ritche with Barry Manilow to see if any one would notice.
Where else but Scrine can one read about puking robots , clergy, and death, while simultaneously watching poultry porn? Nowhere, I tell ya.
After vomiting oil, the robot klatu donned a top hat and cane and treated the crowd to an interpretive Fred Astaire number.
Last night in the check out line I was standing behind a Rabbi, a priest and a Baptist minister who, after buying beer and cigarettes, were heading to a Van Halen concert in Little Rock.
Pee Wee Herman was framed!
In the middle of the night Marco’s pants decided they had had enough and they bludgeoned him to death with a rolling pin.
Knock, knock…
“Red eggs sound gross.”
Miss Jane found she needed, rather impolitely, to raise her voice to be heard by the woman dangling outside the open doors, “I think it is just possible you may not be aware that at 6.30 in the morning many of your fellow commuters prefer to sleep a little, rather than listen to your raucous, vulgar and, above all, loud commentary,” and as she rattled the woman slightly, she added “so, may I drop you off somewhere?”
The chickens busily hid their plans, knitting needles and bongo drums as Keith strolled towards the hen house, camera in hand.
You know, you’re trying to ignore Scrine and get stuff done and then someone makes mention of chicken ears; it’s really not playing fair.
“Juan, I don’t care how depresed you are by the price of houses, ‘Buy Lottery Tickets’ is not a viable strategy.”
“Frito Lay is people!”
Following a recent police misconduct in Salem local law enforcement found their night sticks replaced with large salami’s.
The afterlife is an open grass field populated by naked hippies and to the best of my knowledge that’s it; there is no tunnel of light and no life review, just hippies.
As inspired by: 'mouse's On Chickens and God
Elizabeth felt strangely ashamed when her mother caught her in the henhouse examing all the hens’ ears.
When, at the age of ten, Elizabeth independently confirmed that the color of a chicken’s ears really do indicate the color eggs they’ll lay, she concluded there is a God and she’s one twisted diety.
“Believe me, it’s so much more satisfying to receive those yelling angry phone calls when you can write a bill for 250 bucks at the end of it.”
I was fifteen days into the trip before I realized Topeka was populated entirely by robots, but even then it took me another three days to notice these were new robots, and not the ones I’d met back in 2136.
Somehow my new dryer manages to produce many, many more socks than I put in; I’m suspicious about that massive wormhole I’ve noticed that ends in the backyard.
It has come to my attention that while I am walking about under my volition I have really been deceased for some time
Through a complex series of mathmatical formulas, courtesy of string theory, I have proven that my dryer is a wormhole that empties out on the other side of the universe…somewhere.
I’m falling into the ocean on this one.
My masseuse and I have a standing appointment at 3:30 every afternoon at my house, but unfortunately for the poor girl, she must be bad at directions because she’s never made it here even once.
We call our clothes dryer Thunderdome, because two socks enter, one sock leaves.
It’s all about the packaging.
Financial aid is good, but financial aid forms almost never are.