It’s not true that all the good band names are taken. But if believing that keeps you from starting a band, great.
Those hot-shot doctors may think your colon cancer is inoperable, but this week you and your trusty Scout knife are going to prove them wrong.
Confusion over the definition of the word “elope” will soon bring you familiarity with Las Vegas’ surprisingly comprehensive animal-cruelty laws.
You will be chained to a rock, upon which eagles will devour your liver for all eternity, after you steal the secret of a great marinara sauce from the gods.
You didn’t think you were the type to marry a convicted murderer after reading his letters, but everyone else did.
Remember, it’s perfectly normal for your body to go through some changes while you are in the phase known as “post-mortem deliquescence.”
Anger and frustration overtake you when you decide that if you cannot have Betty Rubble, no man will.
After his untimely death, all those mean things you said about Dave will come back to haunt you. As will Dave himself.
A lovestruck man will play guitar and sing underneath your bedroom window this week, which might be romantic if it weren’t Ted Nugent.
You will spend the next few days in the company of people who firmly believe that you hate figure skating because of your lack of ability at it.
You will soon find yourself entangled in a messy accident with a knife thrower, although drunk driving, not knife throwing, is actually the real issue.
Gustav Holst will appear to you in a dream and refuse to leave until you agree that John Williams has been ripping him off for years.
