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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Suddenly, on May 20, 2006, Juan realized that he had lived 39 years on this earth and never once eaten a real marshmallow, and so he set to work with sugar, gelatin, corn syrup and the Kitchenaid mixer and (8 hours of cooling time later) remedied the situation.
After the ugly, troll-like creature with bags under its eyes stared woefully at him from the other side of the bathroom mirror for the third day in a row, Juan decided to remove all the mirrors in his house.
Juan awoke confused from the dream in which the giant 120-foot tall noble fir tree in his front yard fell across the street, completely destroying his neighbor’s house, because there was no such tree in his yard and he had no harsh feelings about his neighbor.
"Iron gut don't fail me now," thought Juan as he bravely (foolishly?) ate that last, week-old piece of chocolate cake in office fridge.
Juan watched the most stunning sunrise of his life with awe and trepidation.
Juan smiled at the irony that the local cadre of anti-abortion thugs couldn’t be bothered to show up and harass unfortunate women outside Planned Parenthood due to a drizzle of light rain.
Juan became famous for creating a new term “going bank” to replace the outdated “going postal.”
As the earth tilted toward winter, the moon and the stars joined Juan for his morning swim.
Juan noted to himself that it was “fuggin’ hot” before he remembered he was trying to cut down on his cursing and that he planned to avoid talking about the weather.
Not knowing what to do with the day off, Juan gave the house a serious spring cleaning, though technically it was only spring in the other hemisphere.
Henrietta stormed into the pub, pushed Bob off his bar-stool, slapped Juan in the face, threw a pint of perfectly good beer at Henry’s trousers and shouted “Pay attention to me!”
After things had quieted down a bit Patrick subtley inclined his head indicating Henrietta and confided to Juan, “She’s my client and you know what? I love it when they’re batshit crazy like that—I double their retainer on the spot—I don’t mind working for crazy, but I’m damn well gonna get well paid for it.”
Juan awoke from a nightmare that someone had demolished half his house only to discover that he had demolished half his house.
Aloicious wondered when the curious people would start appearing in Club Alphabet, as he ordered another round of ‘in their honour’ cocktails -- Juan, Miss Jane, Bronwyn, Becky, Henry, Bob!
Juanita did not find the equisite torture of watching their retirement become fodder for future generations of rocking-chair-on-the-front-porch-based Great Depression storytelling nearly as enjoyable as Juan seemed to find it.
The problem with growing old and losing one’s short-term memory, Juan discovered, was that his kids would take advantage of it to collect their weekly allowance far more often than once a week.
Feeling obnoxiously OCD, Juan scrined zealously at 12:00.
Minimalist Jones had only one dream,
And it certainly did not involve rain,
So when Juan asked him over
To help work on the roof,
He knew his poor friend was insane.
“Believe me, I wish I could blame the radio silence on Facebook, because I hate that bastard Zuckerberg…but no, it’s because the man who wrote this is now my yoga teacher, which means I’m doing a lot of yoga now, and it’s all Juan’s fault.”
Bronwyn also dreamed of the day when Juan would stop pointing and laughing at her shoes.
Juan had no choice but to break his vow not to whine about the weather to point out that his yard is dried-out dead and this winter’s precipitation-to-date is THREE PERCENT of normal
Juan found that if he put the handy towel he’d started carrying on advice of The Chief over his head, the world around him conveniently disappeared.
“I forbid you from seeing him again—not even to break up - I want to read the email where you break it off!”
Juan bleakly deserted his tramp.
“These muffins my wife made for me are either flavored with almonds or laced with cyanide,” Juan said, offering Officer Poppy a bite.
Juan noted with a deep sniff that the men’s restroom, which normally smelled bad when it wasn’t smelling worse, had a wonderful odor of fresh fruit danishes.
Juan to horse-mounted officer: Officer, Sir, I really don’t think you’re in any position to give me a ticket for texting and driving when I clearly observed you crossing the street while texting and riding.
Juan eyed the unopened bottle of Very Good Scotch and thought, Gee, it’d be a shame if there were an earthquake or fire and this bottle got broken before I had a chance to drink it.
Looking at his 17-year-old daughter as she frolicked through summer vacation with a car, spending money, time and sweet youth, Juan realized what was behind that odd flash of emotion he’d seen on his father’s face oh-so-many years ago.
Jorge confided to Juan (after three or four beers) that whenever he wrote T-‘s name in his dayplanner he wanted to surround it with hearts and smiley faces.
Juan’s children confided to him that they found the idea of him experimenting with social media just slightly grosser than the thought that he’d had sex with their mother at least once or twice.
The problem with using neuro-toxins on the bugs around your house is that people too have neuros, Juan observed, noting the bitter metallic taste in his mouth and the residual dizziness the next day
When Juan found that his phone knew all about his work-computer-based searches about Australian serial killers and even wanted to help him find more information, he realized he was going to have to unplug and wrap anything important in tin foil if he wished to retain any privacy at all in this brave new world.
Having just dealt with a single rental and the cast of characters that brought out, Juan wonders about the application-silliness war stories the Chief could tell over beers.
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