I used to run a radio station. it was easier than you'd think, since radio stations mostly don't have legs.

in our last episode, Father O'Sullivan consoled the Widow Davenport, still reeling from the knowledge that the man she thought was her late husband was in fact her late husband. Meanwhile, the twins Syndessa and Darknessa Lightsman fought the Angel Purelliel for control of the Lugecorp board of directors. And romance was finally rekindled between Martin Flambe and Julia Ramirez after they realized that the taco stand was really a hospital, and they had been drunk for the last three years. But danger looms on the horizon - a malpractice suit from Kathleen Billows, whose botched face-swap with Ballantine Brooks has left her unable to discharge her duties as an elite military hand model.

It would seem that prophecy has legs. Sure, the kneads are stiff and the feats are weary, but there's still hope always. After all, what goes around goes in the ground...

 NoEnzLefttoSplit wrote:

So our conscious being is just floating along on existences' wretched tireds and dry rotted inner tubes between outcrops and maypops on some kind of cosmic gulag archipelago adventure? That is rough, bro. 

 oldviolin wrote:

never forget that consciousness is just the detritus floating on the flood of existence (borrowing the phrase from some English philosopher)

 Lazy8 wrote:

and no hobo tapioca like a dance with dearth...

These things all exist. They all exist because if they didn't, then neither would we. I dreamed that you dreamed that it was all true, and that truth was lost in the moment, wounded and alone...

So I sent her a dozen roses. but the florist got it wrong, and thought I asked for a dozen Druzes, and that's how we both wound up in prison for human trafficking.

I did get the date, though. too bad she turned out to be left-handed.

Look, if you just say "look" often enough, you'll get some wiseass to come back with, "how high?"

then all you have to do is come back with "your mom". you can just sit back and savor the smugness.

Look, if you got drafted into the space army, assigned a shiny white uniform to wear at all times, and ordered to shoot pretty much anyone who looked at you funny, you'd probably "forget" how to aim, too.

Look, I thought the tunnel looked fake. the frame rate was weird, and the aspect ratio made no sense, and I swear there were compression artifacts near the edges. So yeah, I drove off the side of the mountain instead of driving into the tunnel.

And it would have worked, too, if that damn duck hadn't handed me an anvil. 

Well greaseball, you need to decide: are you a lubriCAN or a lubriCAN'T?

She said I was looking a bit rough
I said I am a bit rough, so it's so
She asked what was responsible for my rough appearance
I replied that perhaps it was a rough disappearance, in tow
She puzzled my trailing response
I committed to my dusty repose
in the bailing twilight 
toward a thorny midnight 
where a rose is a rose is a rose

I have spent the last eight years trying to create a hybrid of Trix and Lucky Charms. So far I just keep getting arrested by the vice squad and harassed by the Irish embassy.

You can't buy love, but you also can't fall in money with someone. So that's something.

FUN FACT: It turns out there is a business like show business. It's the no-show business, in which no one puts on a show, no one shows up to watch it, and no one cares when somehow it makes the producers a trillion dollars while everyone else goes broke.

There's no rush...like a bum's rush.

The only times when it's acceptable for a gentleman to [REDACTED] are on his birthday, his thirteenth anniversary, and after winning the quadrennial hot-dog-eating contest at Eton.

I saw a capybara once. It ate half my cheese, two-thirds of my hat, three-quarters of my chocolate bar, and a finite but unmeasurable quantity of my girlfriend's coat.

Interesting. They better all be home by midnight else the great pumpkin seed might could want to turn into a gourdian knottsberry farm charmer...