A Game of CroquetIt was early morning, for Winston at least, as he sat in his bathrobe in the kitchen. He bit into his English muffin with a loud crunch, crumbs and bits scattering over the velvety burr of his dark red bathrobe. His long nose was folded between the inked pages of the newspaper, dark eyes rapt in the millions of tiny printed words. He was gone in thought, only coming out now and then for to sink his teeth into the dry gruff of his muffin.A Game of Croquet
“Uh, sir?” He didn’t answer. The voice went again, “Sir?” “I heard you the first time, Mr. Spoons,” he attested, peering from behind the paper, “I just
MolassesHer voice was smooth and sweet as molasses, dark, syrupy that crept from her throat, coming off her little tongue like it was poured by a silver spoon. Words weren’t just responses or bleated out syllables to tell the world what she wanted. It was a dark exploration of tone, every word she breathed out sewn with meaning, depth and shining like the golden light that lurks in the deep, soupy blackness of a molasses bottle.Molasses
Merry Christmas
Jolly
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And what's the real lesson? Don't leave things in the fridge.
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And what's the real lesson? Don't leave things in the fridge.
I just saw that. I LOVE YOU!
Come back, you've been missing!
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And what's the real lesson? Don't leave things in the fridge.
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So much belly-button fluff...........so little time...........!
[link]
Praise the spam
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Sincerely,
Her Graciousness
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"What're you rebelling against, Johnny?"
Johnny: "Whaddya got?"
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Sincerely,
Her Graciousness
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"What're you rebelling against, Johnny?"
Johnny: "Whaddya got?"
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