Cousin Paul has his spleen out. He gets transfusions as often as I get pistachio milkshakes. Every Christmas, he comes poorer and sicker and angrier. The rivers of veins swell close to the surface, especially near his right temple. His nostrils are permanently flared. I don’t know if these are symptoms. Every Christmas he’s a
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“I love football, fuck you.” “I love football, fuck you,” my wife barks at me simply for making a humorous, although disparaging, remark about her silly Patriots Football Team. Beginning to wonder if perhaps her focus, allegiance, and obvious attraction to these youthful macho hunks is something I should be concerned about. . Way back
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Time for me to fly from your gargantuan claws nest heavy in your squat tits like mountaintops sagging from overuse wrinkled neck rings numbering your years once a beauty displaying to the gods naked dance lines into the woods now… you’re just shit-faced featherless and bald. ————- Stephen Jarrell Williams was born in Virginia, his
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As Mr. James walked into the airport terminal after passing through Colombian customs, he spotted a hastily scrawled cardboard sign with the words: Marrying Wifes. The sign was being held by a thin man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform and a New York City policeman’s cap. Mr. James edged crabwise, dragging his suitcase behind, and said
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“Um, Professor Defrancesco, I don’t think the flux capacitator is on right?” “It’s fine son, it’s just fine, now go on with your symposium presentation!” “Um…OK…um, Professor Defrancesco, is it supposed to be that color? “That’s perfectly natural, son–” Ten minutes later, after Jenny Blotnick is rushed to the hospital with a flux capacitator lodged
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