Strangely, no one will congratulate you when you finally win your lifelong battle with oxygen addiction.
You will learn that you are 1/64th Chippewa. Honor your heritage by finding a use for every part of the burrito.
A vision of Christ will appear before you, page through His Heavenly Book Of Geminis, read your chapter to Himself, and disappear laughing.
You will make
This will be a lucky week, indeed, since no one enjoys a good concussion more than you.
When you boasted last week that “nothing can stop me now,” you apparently forgot about syphilis.
The Publishers Clearinghouse Prize Patrol will cruelly prank you this week by presenting you with an enormous novelty check for 63 cents.
Your near-illiteracy and slavish devotion to ’70s retro kitsch lead you to shock and disturb your friends when you unveil your new Pet Cock.
Investigators from several federal agencies will conclude that the failure of an 89-cent O-ring caused you to explode over Florida.
Your innocent inquiry regarding the origin of the term “panhandler” incites three bums to beat you to death with cast-iron skillets.
Your attempt to double-cross the mob ends badly when you discover that most crooks are not as bumbling as Disney had led you to believe.
Your fascination with the Vietnam War, combined with your love of romance novels and vampire myths, cause you to produce the worst work of fiction ever.
