On a real humid afternoon, this one king announced that he’d had it up to here with vacuous theory, and that from here on out, no virtue counted that couldn’t be seen.
Speaking from an alleyway, a guy told me with some pleasure in his voice, “I’ve filled my head with such agreeable crud that I’ve begun to find crud agreeable.”
Message from a subversive fortune cookie:
“If you’re going to walk along the side of the road with a man with a game leg, choose your position with care.” (This is not to be confused with an earlier version that said, “Skeet shooting for the blind is not a team sport.”)
This man tried
to deal in antiques,
but time kept
speeding up on him.
Since local zoning laws wouldn’t allow giving one’s residence a serious-sounding, anthropomorphic name, this one man wants to have his own name legally (or otherwise) changed to “Mister Dupe Of Dreams Or Slave Of Genes.”