Replacing you with a machine would have been overkill. Your functions are being handled by a hideous piece of public art.
God will offer a heartfelt apology to the human race for His insensitivity after creating you, an obvious human-racial caricature.
Everybody starts his or her life as a tiny blastula. Thanks to a pair of mad scientists and their temporal-reversal ray, you’ll be the first person to end life as one, too.
You’re starting to suspect that the story of how Mommy and Daddy met actually involved fewer rainbows and unicorns and more booze and Camaros.
Everyone worries about what Fate has in store for them, but don’t fret. You won’t feel a thing.
Tom Jones is a born showman and a true professional. He’s not going to stop his whole show, even if he does see you in the audience.
Your spouse is finally getting tired of your shit. Find some other way to spice things up in the bedroom.
After a lifetime of trying to be quixotic, you’ve only achieved a vague sort of windmill-otic quality.
This week marks a personal transformation when you’re doused in kerosene, set ablaze, and somehow transformed into a beacon of hope and love.
With railroads continuing their decades-long slide into obsolescence, one would think you’d be responsible for fewer locomotive crashes.
You have no concept of time, accountability, or common courtesy, which is only forgivable because you’re a pretty house cat.
Well, let that be a lesson to you about going around throwing out bathwater without checking its contents first.
