Your imaginary friend’s imaginary dog has a birthday, because even hallucinated mammals demand catering. The dog has no body or anus. It expects more than your bowling-alley childhood disaster. How to throw a birthday party for your imaginary friend’s imaginary dog begins with confidence, theatrical waste, and permanent exile from brunch. Confirm the Birthday Dog…
Your living room now smells like a farm lost custody of itself, and one lampshade contains an egg nobody can emotionally explain. The chickens are offended, the carpet is crunchy, and your landlord has developed the serene facial expression of someone pricing a new yacht. This is the hangover after a live chicken rodeo: no…
To stop your dad from putting his colonoscopy photos in the family slideshow, seize the laptop, hide the HDMI cable, and cut a deal with his ego before he cuts one at the reunion. Nobody at Grandma’s 90th needs to see where the sun doesn’t shine, rendered in 4K. Dad got his insides photographed by…
No. Getting kicked in the balls will not make you sing like the Beach Boys. It will make you sing like a kettle that witnessed a crime. The premise of “can getting kicked in the balls make you sing like the Beach Boys” assumes there is a secret falsetto button hidden somewhere inside your scrotum….
Stop keeping emergency gravy in your glove compartment. A parked car turns that pouch into a bacteria hot tub, and nothing kills a first date faster than brown sludge sliding into somebody’s lap. Yes, gravy is glorious. Yes, a dry biscuit is a hate crime. The glove box exists for registration papers and the condoms…
“Just relax” is nurse for “your body is fighting me, and your body is winning.” It is not a suggestion. It is a status report. Somewhere under that gown, a muscle you have never once thought about in your life has clamped shut like a bank vault, and it has no plans to reopen. The…