The Socks of Destiny
I hate anuses who talk about “recharging the batteries” like time off from work makes you more inclined to go back to work.
“Group shit”—creating the saltpans of democracy: Everybody face outward and let rip.
I make legendary smells. Even the angels, high above in their magnificent cloudy realm, discuss my smells...until they’re sucked up into a jet engine and have to tickle the stewardesses to let them go.
Don’t look at me like that you crab fiddler.
A bird in the Bush is worth two in the hand, purely for its comedic value.
They made for her a little crystal helmet out of old Christmas decorations and pieces of plastic champagne cups. She wore the helmet with an exaggerated smile and sharpened her knives. They would eat her mushroom soup, and she needed sharp knives to cut up all those bags of mushrooms.
You’re part of the brain game: the solution to all our problems.
Rip out a snorter from behind the shelter shed. You know hot pies when it’s raining should never be eaten with fly-catching fingers.