Nobody likes a whiner. And quit yelling.
Make you a deal: trade some of my kerning for your QUILT.
You, Descartes, and my maternal grandmother.
Thanks, I’ve had plenty.
“Well, I’m not picking it up, either.”
Trust soft serve, trust cone, trust swirl.
The daughters of Jesu Cristo sway and sing, devotedly coordinated. From the back of the rows, a thick drunk voice yells, “Rock it or get out of the house. What’re you on, America?”
You can’t tell the library what to do, they’re know-it-alls. Wasting your breath. Try across the street, the big domey building.
Looking at it this way: if the world ends, I won’t have to keep looking for a new apartment. Win-win situation, that.
They miss the point so completely that it’s almost cute.
But it begs the question, what would god taste like if he were a candy bar, and could be enjoyed? I say salty nuts.
From the back of the class comes an exasperated sigh.
“Hello? The answer is ‘everbody.’”
Three imaginary boys.
“Hi, do you know Jesus?”
“Who doesn’t know Jesus? Dude gets around.”
NEVER reply with a joke answer unless you want company for the walk from Civic Center to Sutter. Please note that anyone asking the first question may not read your flippancy as such. When you’re asked how long you’ve been walking with Jesus, feel free to shrug and say something about Jesus building your hotrod, as Evangelists are almost universally not fans of Ministry.
Free with purchase of soul!
