You’ll be unable to quite remember Sebastian Cabot’s name this week, despite everyone saying, “You mean Sebastian Cabot?” every time you describe Sebastian Cabot.
You’ll find what you need in the sweet, innocent arms of a child, especially since what you need is fresh bone marrow.
You can no longer deny the strength of the feelings growing inside you. Nor can the 18 other bus passengers present for your rippling volley of explosive orgasms.
The old adage that begins “For want of a nail” will take on special meaning for you this week when a time-travel accident leaves you standing empty-handed at the Crucifixion.
Your lawsuit against the drug companies will sputter out when it turns out the major suppliers of top-shelf blow aren’t “companies” in.
Keep in mind this week that anger is fear in disguise, although why you’d be afraid of the soda machine eating your dollar is for you alone to answer.
You’re no detective, but you’re pretty sure the bloody toothprints on the scrap of diaper stuck in your truck’s radiator are a clue.
While the directors of the Palomar Observatory admit the nebula has an unusual shape, they do not believe you caught God masturbating.
The artificial-looking eyes, the strange metallic horns, and the revving sound coming from within the hide should have made you realize that what you faced in the corrida last week was no real bull.
Experts will speculate wildly about your reason for crossing the road when post-mortem tests reveal that you were in fact not a chicken.
You’ll cry because you have no shoes until you see a man who has no shame stretching out his anus to the size of a soup bowl and putting pictures of it on the Internet.
The stars have decided that if you’re going to be such a prick about everything, you’ll just have to find the future out for yourself from now on.
