This morning, an umbrella. You have to walk to work today but yesterday left your umbrella there. That was a Tuesday. It did not rain on Tuesday but it is raining on this Wednesday.
She paid $0.00004933 for 1987’s Piss Christ.
The car parked in the fire lane ignites. Never shake a baby or stop on rail- road tracks.
On some Wednesdays the levees open above New Orleans to alleviate pres- sure. As the waters receded the flood plain one such night, a three foot Lady of Guadalupe sat with her stockings wet in murk, waiting.
Alice fell into the rabbit hole. The Secretary of State had no comment.
Loren goes at the bench press but has a poem written in his clenched hand. I ask to see it and we agree: Do not open until Christmas.
Seattle completely fell into the ocean. Just fell! Is the Puget Sound the Pacific? How many Red Lobsters were lost and where can we go on Thursdays?
Cats is the best-selling musical of all time. That’s bull.
Marty’s suicide note is in Mother’s safety deposit box. We went—my sister and I—to play dress up, to borrow the jewels. There was no note. The chimney?
Jake wanted to name his band Gay Witch Abortion but played no instru- ment. In other news, punk becomes scene and everyone dances.
Whatever happened to Angela Lansbury?
Archangel Gabriel slipped it in Mary, frightened her, pissed off Joseph, and nine months later a savior was born and unto you a savior is born.
Something about some shepherds and three wisemen looking like a United Colors of Benetton advertisement.
Where the hell is my umbrella?