You’ll set out to tell the tragic story of hopeless love among the beautiful and doomed, but your efforts will result in a full Broadway cast, a Bryan Adams ballad, and endless pages of heartfelt online fan-fiction.
You’ll be allowed one last transcendently happy, almost unbearably beautiful thought the moment before the red-hot fishhooks hit your groin.
Although next Wednesday will be a Wednesday through and through, it will feel like a Thursday to you.
It is written that in the midst of life we are all in death. That may be true, but in the midst of your own life, you’ll actually still be at Circuit City.
Your credibility will suffer when the local news runs footage of your burning pants suspended from telecommunications cables.
Lesions on the brain may sometimes lead to episodes of irrational violence, but yours just make you want to pound the face of country-music star Kenny Chesney against a cement wall until his eyes fall out of his head.
You’ll experience a measured increase in workplace romance this week when a hastily-typed, company-wide memorandum mandates an immediate 30-percent seduction in office managerial staff.
By the time the state finally moves to stop your illegal experiments with inebriated, machine-gun-wielding chimps, they’ll find out it was a self-correcting problem.
The stars suggest that you keep your mouth shut next week when you lose a lot of money in your church’s Pope John Paul II death pool.
While it’s true that sometimes you have to let your friends make their own mistakes, you should really know better than to let them have tedious, unfulfilling sex with you.
Mother Nature wants you to understand that, although she loves you very much and always will, it is time for you to move out of her house.
You will be chained to a rock and tortured for eternity as punishment for stealing the secret of irresistibly flaky, gooey-sweet cinnamon rolls from the gods.
