Your defense lawyer is one of the best, but he will have a hard time blaming those 11 murders on the bossa nova, the dance of love.
You’re beginning to wonder exactly who is in charge of quality control for all those treasure maps.
An otherwise enjoyable week is shot to hell when you have several phone conversations with people from L.A.
You’ve never been one to take offense at accusations of arrogance, especially since they’re all bullshit anyway.
It’s impossible for you to get more tail than a dogcatcher—partially because of your poor hygiene, but mainly because you’re a dogcatcher.
You will abandon your search for the wisdom of the East when it turns out to be devoid of cool kung-fu moves.
Good things will happen when you least expect it, greatly embarrassing you while you’re trying to enjoy a shit in peace.
Having a girl pop out of the birthday cake was a fine idea, but you really should have given more thought to when the cake is cut.
Next week will feature family scandal, almost a dozen murders, a drowned girlfriend, and lots of manic depression, yet it’s not in any way based on Hamlet.
You will suffer dire consequences after toying with powerful forces you do not understand, namely gravity.
Everything you touch will soon turn to gold, giving the cops a glittering, sparkling trail of nine-year-olds to follow.
You are in grave danger of losing whatever credibility you had as a psychiatrist, which is strange, as you’ve been in floorcoverings for 17 years.
