Ever wonder at which premier spot exactly the sandwich was dropped from a flying saucer? I will tell you. It was dropped at a premier surfing destination.
No kidding.
Ever wonder how a dirty menu can be utilized as a costume? I don’t know either, but I do know a skunk in my garage which dons a ski mask at full moon, then looks like a slanted-eyed puppethead; it thinks it is safe as long as you tell it what to say. Menus do that. Even the dirty ones – the ugliest menu can feel bloated on self-confidence as long as it believes the items you read off it are words you put in its ‘mouth.’
I feel bad about the sandwich. It was I who dropped it from the UFO. And I feel bad about the skunk – to make up for it I gave it that Stockholm Syndrome training device which it dutifully straddles when the moon isn’t full and really grinds those tiny tendons in its front and hind legs, its little claws scrabbling on the treadmill and causing the hairs on everybody in the vicinity’s neck to stand on end. Before long, I don’t think it would have any difficulty saying, ‘YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING.’
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