Jack and Hilda went up the hill to fetch a mountain of valley.
I’m so silent I can hardly hear myself think. But that’s why I bought the scissors and the condom.
Orafoura told me my writing is all nonsense. “Nonsense,” I replied. “Glad you agree, “ he said.
I can feel my cheeks through your cheesecake buttocks.
I tie my smile like a shoelace.
I’ll gyrate my hips at irate guests to generate income for the generations.
The rooftop of the mouth is where the chest must sing love songs.
It’s hot as a watermelon in this cantaloupe called pineapple. And that’s a fact.
I wear a jockstrap with my gun holster (loaded with fruits and vegetables).
My name is MooMoo Cowlishaw, and I’m as vapid as vapor. Gaze at me grazing.
It’s amazing how nostalgia filters out the bad and focuses only on the good.
I floated like driftwood in the ocean. I wasn’t worried about sharks, because my bathtub is much too shallow.
Doors open up for you when you work hard. Doors also open up for you when you walk with a limp and act gimpy.
Between was and is you’ll find me—but most of the time you’ll only find me in pictures.
The past—I’m looking forward to it.
I think guns would be more effective if bullets worked like boomerangs.
If I get on the elevator on the ground floor, the building has no basement, and someone says, Going up? I like to give them that blank road kill dead in the eyes look.
Male or female, if my name were either Don or Dawn, I’d be up at sunrise to celebrate the glory that is me.
The picture is grainy. But that’s to be expected when photographing bread.
Love is as iffy as Kipling.
America’s problem, in a word, is politicians. In two words, it’s politicians and lobbyists. In three words, it’s politicians, lobbyists, and lawyers. And finally, in four words, it’s politicians, lobbyists, lawyers, and bankers.
