It was the usual cliched Bollywood plot: boy meets girl; girl ignores boy; boy follows his heart and girl into countryside; bandits attack girl; girl conjures Cthuhlu; spontaneous singing; Cthulhlu eats bandits, boy, and girl; ends with a dance number.
Mary had a little lamb,
With seven cups of tea;
And everywhere that Mary went
She took the time to visit the restroom.
Pappy’s catheter sprung a leak,
And started spraying crazy,
The cat jumped clear
Then gave a cheer,
For the dog was slow and lazy.
we walked through the storm until our feet left the ground and our futures weren’t the only thing up in the air.
Her regrets about her past actions caused her to grow sullen and resentful, and the constant tabloid photographers didn’t help.
I was idly thinking, what if you could pay someone to clean your house, and that’s when I realized I’d invented the cleaning lady.
The skin on her hands had turned translucent with age; looking at my own hands, I had a glimpse of their future likeness.
Nothing pisses off the popular media like a successful, contented gay man.
When Juan (the lawyer) realized that Bronwyn (the baker) was developing a gluten intolerance and he was developing a distinct aversion to paper, he devised a plan to swap careers.
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.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the time of iPods and hip real estate acronyms, it was the time of handwritten cardboard signs and street corner regulars, it was the time of demise, the time of failing language, the time of false promise and useless hope—it short, it was the time of precarious balance, when looking the other way became the drug of choice, the only thing that kept the balancing act from collapsing under the crippling weight of its own imagined brilliance.
Takeout, shmakeout, whispered God, and the next thing I knew, I was biting into a sandwich made from a baguette from the wholesale artisan bakery a mile away; fresh basil grown by the folks who own the fruit and vegetable market around the corner; real prosciutto de Parma; unsulfured dried plum tomatoes; sherry vinegar from Spain and olive oil from Crete; and a ball of mozzarella made an hour before I bought it, still warm when I cut into it.
You haven’t truly tackled the vagaries of the English language until you’ve tried to explain to a seven year-old why getting addicted to drugs is a terrible idea, the worst idea ever, while being addicted to caffeine is ... um, not so bad.
Got a gallon of milk the other day which the homogenization had failed on and it was nicely topped with cream which I scooped off and plopped in the budding teenager’s coffee cup and she pronounced it the best thing she’d ever had and then she complained for a solid five minutes about the evils of the nanny-state and its stupid homogenization and pasteurization agenda and the demise of the milk-truck delivering milk in jars that would cool on your porch and form cream on top and… I have no idea where she gets it from.
After years of therapy, I was finally able to admit that lying about owning a house giraffe was actually nothing more than a lifetime of pent up frustration regarding my mother’s embarrassingly long neck.
“I’ve never eaten a mango.” [Keith]
“Grinding your teeth while meditating is an act of aggression against the entire group.”
Sure she’s pretty, but I’m betting more neurotic than all of my old girlfriends put together, thrown into a pot and boiled down into one big tube of Super Glue, which I assure you, is not something I’ve ever thought about, very often.
Jeremiah was a certain green amphibian with whom I was in close aquaintence...he was quite difficult to comprehend but his taste in alcoholic drinks was quite impeccible.
For every adult that avoided the sad sentence, stepping around with averted eyes and thin smile, there was a child, oblivious to the sadness, or perhaps not, poking at it with a stick until it broke and the words spilled out at their feet.
After running over Odin’s toes with the mower, Jorgyn, Norse Goddess of Failing Light and Things Fall Apart, caught a train into the city, all the while trying hard not to think about how unfortunate the whole business was, especially the uncut grass.
Mom used to keep sweets away from me by putting them somewhere up high, where I couldn’t reach, but now that I’m older, she just puts them down by my toes.
He slept well and dreamed of cookies.