Here are a few of My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles…
As I butt fucked the President, I gave him a reach-around to demonstrate my endorsement of the trickle-down theory.
Wouldn’t the reversed situation actually be much worse?
I am writing this because so many people have asked me “How has Scientology changed your life?”
In the brief seconds encompassing the time between the moment Jeremy obediently jumped and the instant the murky water beneath the bridge consumed him, the horrified expression he glimpsed on his ex-wife’s increasingly distant face awakened in him a clarity the likes of which he had never known previously – a clarity in which he finally understood what his Aunt Pam had meant when she constantly chided his much-younger self for taking things too literally.
“There were projects, endless projects, but all Jim wanted was to stay in the chat room.”
“Many years ago, I was younger than I am now, and I believed things that I no longer believe, because I know things now that I didn’t then.”
It is the best of times, it is the wurst of times, thought Bill as he bit in to his balogna sandwhich.
“She firmly grabbed his love syringe and guided it to her ravenous, moist love cave, the sentry of fur standing at attention, glistening and quivering as she was getting ready to devour his man-juice.”
It was during a slow moment on the second day of the political convention that Delvis Frend first took a merry gander at gerrymandering, chuckling into his glass of ice water.
Bzzzzing! The .45 calibre, high-velocity, armor-piercing pistol bullet ricocheted noisily off Red Rexford’s tenor sax.
His pointless quest was unnecessary, which rendered its futile objective even more inane: the ultimately unproductive goal was not only inconsequential, but irrelevant… and his tactics to achieve it useless.
Woodruff walked across the dusty floor, contemplating the footprints left from his other treks across the previously shiny oak planks. He noticed that he walked with his feet pointed outward, at a 15.3743 degree angle and and that in his left footprints, he could not see his little toe. This brought back a rush of memories, of that sunny day in 1943 during the great war when men were dying to protect our rights and Father hated the fact the packets of yellow dye supply with the margerine because of the butter shortage did not help the taste of the pale white spread. He also remembered his mother bringing him a bowl of home made ice cream to calm him down after the ordeal of at the creek, when a much younger Woodruff tried to smash a turtle with a rock and missed, hitting himself in the foot. Little did he know at the time that the damage was permanant and good ol’ Doc Blanchard, a country doctor if there ever was one, would have to remove the toe due to gangrene. Suddenly Woodruff was shocked out of his memories by a voice that sounded familar, but different in an Anglian sort of way, and he looked up and the boy dressed in red, white and blue when the voice resonated throughout the hallway again. “Hey mister, are you going to pay for your pizza or stare at the floor all day?”
So there I was, eating a sandwich in Fresno.
It was in late October that the dreams began; the ones in which Bertrand found himself staring endlessly at a blank grey wall.
I just got the following spam to get past my spamfilter:
sounds as good as good a candidate as any.
Little did I know, when I answered the newspaper’s ad for a secretary’s position at a small brokerage firm, that I’d be on the run from Islamic terrorists led by an insane midget albino mullah, or that I’d have only two days to get across the country and warn the President (who, as it so happens, I would find out was really my father) that, if he didn’t act decisively and find their hidden base in the Rockies, the terrorists would blow up the Superbowl, which, since the Chargers had finally made it, would be especially disappointing, but in fact, that’s exactly what happened.
It was gay marriage that started it all.
The story of my life started long before I was born, I learned later: from the most primitive clumps of cooperative cells in primeval swamps; from the warmth of the sun to the rumblings along the Ring of Fire, cosmic destiny has inevitably and inexorably led to the apotheosis of humankind, perhaps even the next step beyond-- ME: yet modesty forbids me from bringing this to the attention of my co-workers at the Taco Bell.
My skills at bad sentence writing got me what turned out to be a bad writing job writing bad paragraphs, which it turns out is a completely different different skill than writing bad sentences, and I was bad at it: maybe good enough to fake it in front of the badly washed, but not nearly bad enough to fuel an entire bad paragraph writing career, leaving me with only bad choices.