This women is all about the kiss—the kiss of death. But if her sinister lips offer the joy of heaven, followed by the torment of hell, then I’ll be the first to pucker up.
My feathery imagination took flight when I saw this photo. I’ll let you imagine what I imagined.
This guy looks like Humphrey Bogart with a beard. Makes me so jealous I could just stab him. And I would too, if I didn’t suspect him of holding a smoking gun.
I visited Seven Sisters Inn, and all I got was a gun pulled on me. But that’s OK, because I brought a spare pair of underwear. Oddly, I didn’t find the man who stuck a gun in my face the least bit likely to have committed the murder.
With this guy, two words come to mind: Probable murderer. But since he was the bartender, another word comes to mind: Understandable.
There’s nothing like a good murder to remind you that life is short. So are midgets. This guy was obviously not a midget, and that’s why he moved to the top of my suspect list (I arranged my suspects by height, rather than organized them alphabet...
Incredibly, he wore an incredulous look on his face like he had no idea what she was insinuating. Did she just accuse him of murder? I hope she did, because I have no alibi, but I do have a wallet full of motive.
This white guy’s probably all defensive because the black guy accused him of being the killer. But come on, the white guy’s obviously not the killer, because only one murder took place. Now, if there were multiple victims, my money would be on wh...
She looks so serious. Why such a stern look? Oh yeah, somebody’s just been murdered. With all my diabolical laughter, I seem to have forgotten about that.
This guy looks like a murderer trying to look like a normal guy trying to look like a murder. Could he be the killer? Only if M.C. Escher is the victim.
Is that a hairy snake around her neck? Looks like something a murderess would wear. It’s as if she’s broadcasting, Come here and cuddle with my cute, furry boa constrictor. Let me drape it around your bare neck.
One woman is smirking, and another is averting her eyes with disinterest. It’s just like what happens when I bring up politics with strangers.
The guy in the white fedora looks like he’s reading a love letter. I say that only because he looks so confused, what else could the subject matter be?
She’s too sexy to be a killer—but not a murderer. A woman this beautiful gets a patsy to dole out death, and that makes her a lead murder suspect.
When I see two beautiful woman smiling at me, I don’t think threesome. I think, “Oh no, one of us is about to die—and the two women don’t think it’s going to be either of the two women.
When three women all ignore each other, and each ignores me, it reminds me of Dark Jar Tin Zoo’s definition of love. Love is isn’t—even when it isn’t.
Fredrick gazed into the deep blue eyes of Jackson for a few seconds before answering. “I’d like the best room in the hotel.” “We have hundreds of rooms here, and all of them are the best.” “How can they all be number one? Only one c...
Beer has that Olympic medal color,” Rot replied, “but does it have a winning taste? I’d hardly call silver a champion flavor. No, I’ll stick to my red wine.
Love is a gift. Mine comes in a box that’s shaped like a coffin.
A sand trap is like a politician in its duality. It represents two opposing viewpoints. You see, it was designed to trap your ball. So it exists to have balls land in it. But it was also designed to be avoided. So it also exists to not have balls lan...
Sometimes to make no move is to make the wrong move. That’s how I fell in love with a statue. We just sat still and I formed a connection.
