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I cooked them scrambled eggs and made sure they had enough beer. Dad regaled them with a story from his childhood where he conned a man into buying a bag of turds for a dime and the wife's head popped off and flew around the room, shrieking imprecations at the heavens.
The secret is in getting the gym shorts to rotate so that the waist opens up on the descent, thus providing ample space for the all important cranial insertion, the angle of which determines the final position of the shorts on the contestant's head. Actually landing a full wimple or rastafari is an incredibly rare event.
I bet Madonna would bite off bat heads if her tiny tricycle broke.
It's the first proof that the comic strip appreciation gene I got from Dad might have legs. She certainly doesn't get it from her mother, who looked at me rather oddly when I told her that her two-year-old now had her own subscription bag at the comic book store.
I'll wake up one day tied down to my bed by the rubbery strands of gigantic slime molds domesticated by the great-great-great-great-great grandkids of an E.coli bacterium that saw me destroy the best cells of his generation.
Baby don't like jazz, and baby don't care for metaphor. Baby is, after all, an accountant.
The second hardest thing is to learn is to avoid tired old clapped out baseball metaphors
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I've always thought that reading the comic strips is a highly subjective experience; I've no other way to explain the continued existence of Cathy.
