While it’s true you’re not a salmon, there’s really no reason you shouldn’t at least try swimming upriver to spawn.
Smuggling yourself across the border hidden in a truckload of radishes would have worked, had you been able to control your insatiable appetite for radishes.
If there’s one thing you should try to learn from next week’s events, it’s the precise melting point of aluminum.
Between the drug money, blood money, and hush money, it’s a wonder you have anything left to spend on sex.
Once again, it’s a rotten week for romance in the office, which is too bad, as you are self-employed and work from home.
A last-minute pardon from the governor will spare your life, strangely punctuating what, up until then, had been an uneventful night of TV.
Never in your wildest notary-public dreams did you think the job would involve so little wanton sexuality.
This week proves the adage that the race does not always go to the swift, but to the promoter and concession holder.
You’re not the type of person who looks for a certain physical type in a mate, mostly because you have a seven-person staff to do that for you.
You tell everyone that your belief in Jesus helped you win your long battle with alcoholism, but, really, the whole thing only lasted three days.
You know they’ve had their setbacks, but you’re starting to wonder if the members of Queen are ever going to make good on their promise to rock you.
You’ve never set yourself up as any kind of role model, which is a good thing for all those kids who want to be popular and interesting.
