Mr. Reynolds, the black dog craps at midnight.
In woman’s tennis, I always bet against the heterosexual!
Five-seven-niner-six. A bean’s as good as gone in Cleveland. Buick!
Is that a mattock in your garage?
Deliver the head of the blind harpsichordist with a side of fries.
The rain in St. Petersburg falls lightly on the Volga at this time of year. Grandma’s cookies are in the oven.
Dang, I was expecting the secret massage thread!
The microfilm will be in the scheduled drop at midnight.
(I know it seems like it’s not very secret, but what it really means is “Regular coffee and a glazed donut for me, thanks.” Just don’t tell anybody, OK?)
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My dog still has worms.
How now brown duck.
The rooster crows at midnight, and the chickadee is flitting about.
The stool pigeon is coming home to roost, I repeat, the stool pigeon is coming home to roost.
It’s my own special brand of fowl language.
“Little does he know that I suspect him of foul play”
“Little does he know that I have never played with a fowl in my life!”
The carp are flocking to the rooster’s coop, but may be biting the heels of the anglers while wrestling with the mud hippo.
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I will not pay you $4 million for the Booty Burgers acquisition; if you’re going to change the name to A-1 Burgers, then you can deal with it yourself!
A-1 steak sauce rules, expecially in Slurpees… hell, it rules with everything!
Thanks for saying that I am the bomb… it’s SO true!
The U.S.S. Hornet was really a bad memory, okay? Sheesh!
Reuben, the sandwich is in the mailbox.
The Big Cheese gets his at low tide tonight.