While it’s true that you’re a sharecropper’s son, it’s because you forced your father to take up sharecropping at the expense of his lucrative banking career.
You will be honored but embarrassed when Nobel Peace Prize winner Jimmy Carter visits you to “see if further trouble can be avoided.”
It’s time to admit that you would be far better off living in a reputable rest home, despite being a healthy 28-year-old.
You’ll feel a greater sense of security once you finally get used to the strain of holding that ax over your head all day long.
There’s trouble at work again this week as you continue to be undermined by your smarter, more charismatic black Secretary of State.
They think they’ve won, but take heart: Only you know that they haven’t found all the nurses yet.
The pain of your loss will fade with time, but every now and then you’ll swear you can still feel it itching.
Now that he’s hit everything else, John Updike has no choice but to write about you.
Accept it: She’s dead, and nothing you can do will ever bring her back. Except, of course, for the Lazarus serum—but you promised her you wouldn’t…
Though you never intended to be a role model for children, you must admit that your grindingly dull life makes you a pretty decent one.
In spite of the praise, accolades, and awards, you can’t shake the suspicion that they paid the caterer more.
Sure, life may seem pretty dark, but wonderful things are going to happen any minute now. Any minute now. Any minute now. Any minute now.
