You will bring shame to your town coroner by causing him to laugh uncontrollably throughout your autopsy.
You are beginning to frighten your family with your insistence that you are Chuck Negron, lead singer of Three Dog Night. That part of your life is over now.
You will discover a new, non-Nietzschean snack chip that neither kills you nor makes you stronger.
Try as you might, you won’t be able to shake the feeling that someone is ignoring every move you make.
If Lady Liberty doesn’t crack a smile, and soon, Leo’s gonna shove that goddamned torch right up her ass.
The stars wish you’d stop asking them for advice all the time. You’re not the only person in the world with problems, you know.
Life often imitates art, but until now, no life has imitated Rodin’s
A collision with a gas truck will kill you dead as canasta, which, surprisingly, is still played regularly by several thousand devotees nationwide.
Your tendency to heed the advice of nebulous celestial manifestations over that of flesh-and-blood people is your greatest asset.
The events of this week will strangely mimic those of every other week you’ve ever had.
Remember: Faking your own orgasms may be okay, but faking those of others is not.
Your inability to distinguish between right and wrong is mitigated by your inability ever to do anything worth mentioning.
