Deviled eggs that contain trace amounts of a gypsy curse.
Split in separate directions: a coma growing enough false-positive corners to quilt a sleeping bag at odds with its host's tastes.
And so thanks to an empty, uncharred can of Pepsi sitting atop a heap of ash in the crematorium, the group of mourners are afforded evidence of the existence of portals.
As if the reinvention of antacids weren't enough, the question as to why the crack pipe so suited the goat's mustache was also enthusiastically tackled.
The horrible opinion of the mailman – that my Toyota has all the qualities of an enchanting conversation piece, best moved to the back of the house at the risk of drawing all the city's mailmen.
At the risk of the dandelions in my front yard being savagely trampled.
The myth of the office water cooler debunked.
It is a troll in a white UN helmet.
MC Hammer reworking his entire existence into an impossibly complicated scientific calculator – so that his buttons may be touched, but NOT his soul.
Withdrawal, cold sweats, green bumps erupting all over his neck and back – Ernie longs immediately for his wife's hand's fingers' reinsertion into the holes of the bowling ball; he's addicted to how handsome his wife's hand looks holding the heavy black orb, and cannot imagine seeing it otherwise preoccupied.
Postmortem, played on loop like artfully styled ping-pong.
'Bmeep-bmeep!': for to the brick moved slowly by telekinesis, that sound, made by the Roadrunner overtaking it in a mushroom-stalked plume of dust, sounded heinous.