Tater tot burns. Half of them, anyway. The other half I think are maybe from lit cigarettes. Not sure. Just woke up.
Cecil, you astonish me. Are you such an uncouth philistine? This is not a hairdo, old boy. This is a silicon breast implant. Only the most über-chic sport these head adornments nowadays. I had mine surgically implanted just last Wednesday. Must come out of your hole more often, old boy. Now there’s a good fellow.
It has come to our attention that you have been cutting your own hair and washing your socks in the sink. This is a zero-gravity, alpha security deck, Mr. Ralston, and though you are a guest of The Galaxy Twelve Federation, these things are not permissible.
There is also the question of hypersleep for the nine-month trip to the Outer Nebula Docking Station. Why are you not in your sleep cubicle, sir?
Medicated lotion. Don’t know’d da name of it. Put it on yore arm and it takes the heat rat away. Ya can git it at Sam’s Club in da ten-gallon drum. Name’s written rat on da side. Maybe in Chinese or Mexican—can’t remember, but its written in big ledders.
Juz ask fur da stuff in da big drum. Da label on it says it’s fur waterproofin’ boots, but what you wanna fur is sunburns. Always a colored coupon fur it in da Sunday paper regular as rain.
Your little white boy’s got it goin’ on down below!
If they put electric chairs in museums as exhibits, I’d go to museums. I’d even pay money at the door if they have an electric chair to look at. I’d even pay extra to see it if it had the nickname, Ol’ Smoky. I have no desire to look at paintings or old moldy books and coins. But if there’s an electric chair on the premises, I’m there with bells on.
Before the Big Flood, fish didn’t have foreheads. Afterwards, foreheads. But not before. It had something to do with there not being enough room on the Ark for fish.
God gave Noah a rainbow promising no more floods. No more forehead-less fish. Evolution can’t explain why fish have foreheads, and that’s why. Evolution can’t explain rainbows, either, for that matter.
Evolution can’t explain a lot of things.
I was left behind, I think. I woke up and I don’t know who I belong to. Do I belong to you? Do I work for you? Do yard work? I smell like gasoline and grass. Maybe I do yard work for you. Maybe I sleep in your garage and do yard work and you feed me.
No. I’m older than I look. It’s the baby fat. I’m one of those rare, blessed individuals who still has his baby fat in adulthood. But only from the neck up. From the waist down, I’m all man. More man than most women can handle. From the neck up, women just want to breast feed me. Do you want to breast feed me?
Just thought you would like to know: Someone’s hanging out in the men’s room, shredding toilet paper all over the floor, and testing to see which stall doors are unlatched while people are trying to use the bathroom. I also think he is using the toilet brush to comb his hair. Very weird.
Build a dam. That’s what I’ve been saying for the past hour: Build a dam. Isn’t that the answer to every problem? Kids need braces, wife needs a pair of cement shoes—build a dam.
That’s what we do. That’s who we are.
Gawl dang! I went and ate half a can of Comet cleanser! Now dat weren’t too smart, weren’t it? Dat’s about as smart as when I had my credit card number tattooed on my arm! Gawl dang it! I bedder sit down! Maybe drank sum milk and ate sum crackers! Put my head betwixt my knees befur I'd throwed up!
Say…! Do you have a twin brother? Coz I’d swear on a stack of tax returns I seen you befur!
As long as you believe in me, Megan, then I can exist. Bottlenose dolphins with grocery bags on their heads can only exist if children believe in them. As long as there are children in the world, and child-like faith in wonderful things, then I will be here for you, Megan, riding shotgun.