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[Feb. 11th, 2011|10:27 am] |
My dog brings me her ball and wants me to throw it, but she doesn't want to drop it. It's a Fetch-22 situation.
I always wear two pairs of pants. That way, when I announce I am taking off my pants, instead of people being all, "Hey, no way, not here," they think, "Cool, now we get to see what the other pants look like!"
I'd feel more at-home with my GPS if it had a setting interspersing with its directions veiled references to my weight and comments about how my eyes lingered WAYYYY too long on the waitress' cleavage.
Don't you hate it when the car behind you rams into yours and you can't get mad because that person's car was actually already parked and the driver wasn't even there when it happened?
I disagree with my psychiatrist's assertion that I'm depressed because I have a serotonin imbalance. I'm pretty sure the real reason is: My life sucks.
My life doesn't revolve around sex. Sex's immense gravitational field long ago sucked my life into its event horizon and shredded it into elementary particles.
I hung my Swiss Army knife from the strap of my smart phone. Now there is nothing nothing nothing nothing in the universe I can't do.
Give an undertaker a dead body and you feed him for a day. Teach an undertaker how to kill people and you feed him for a lifetime.
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