Your approaching birthday will make it harder and harder to stop imagining your parents busy conceiving you.
Certain events of this week will serve to correct your misconception that salt is a good thing to rub in wounds.
Having a rusty spigot forcibly implanted in your abdomen might hurt, but you’ll soon come to appreciate the convenience.
Life is a dream from which you are trying to wake. Fortunately, God has an “alarm clock” which may help.
The stars have foretold that you will soon take a long, cool drink of water. You know, sometimes they don’t even try.
You can certainly understand why the other cowboys joke about people milking bulls. The bulls really don’t seem to like it.
You will go against the dietary laws of God when you indulge in a delicious meal of vermin and boiled gyr-eagle.
You will win your long battle with cancer through the implementation of an ingenious plan to kill off its host.
Robert Graves, recently fired fom his job on Biography, will follow you around this week and drunkenly narrate everything you do.
There is no logical reason your life should suddenly involve a mullet-headed, swing-dancing lesbian witch, but that’s the kind of gimp you are.
Your existence, and that of every person on Earth, is unaffected by your knowledge of the atomic number for tin.
You will soon reach the pinnacle of your prestigious and lucrative “putting things on shelves” profession.
