Exactly eight minutes in ... regret. I started feeling sluggish,irritable,dopey from that mystery-gas they pump through the air-con to make customers buy shirts,bed-linen and gyozas in that order.
As the dark coronavirus plague descends and the panicked villagers rush for toilet rolls,hearken to the words of the mighty Conan.
If you tell a lie enough times people will believe it.
I’ve washed them so many thousands of times the last few days that I have scrubbed off every loop and whorl of my fingerprints and clogged up every pore with soap.
Nobody in the so-called"responsible"media will tell you this,so it falls to me to screech an appropriate warning about the great baboon escape yesterday. The Danger Has Not Passed.
This was a friendly,old-fashioned KNOCKA KNOCKA,and I thought,hmmm,why’s a friend popping around in the middle of a working day?
All the critics agree:The Chinatown Dumpling Window Show is even better than The Sushi-Rolling Airport-Food-Court Extravaganza.
A park bench. A bulging paper bag sits on the ground. The faint sounds of the song Howzat carry over the park. Friends Guildenstern and Rosencrantz carry an air of befuddlement.
Under the sand,an artist-colony of sand-worms created beautiful abstract art-squiggles,while a passing crab scoffed and mumbled,“Pffff,my kid could’ve done that…”
A pissy $2 potato-peeler always peels better than any $20"ergonomic"version that you have to hold back-to-front and upside-down.
After you turn 30,every chatty rando with an interest in canine sphincter cysts is just a new best friend you haven’t met yet.