If the penguins at the zoo seemed to be acting suspicious this morning, it was because they were. They were planning either a heist or a revolution leading to a coup, whichever occurred first. At the risk of sounding like a close-minded penguinist, it should be cited that all penguins are lazy. Happenstance dictates their behavior. Furthermore, they all look the same, smell like rotting fish and sponge off unemployment like nobody’s business.
Vince was in the middle of a serious conniption fit. His nostrils were flaring as his breathing went ape shit, fluctuating wildly between long and short breaths. This made his face turn a shade of red somewhere between envy and wrath. As it were, he was the rare one out of six hundred people, who could actually make visible steam come out of his ears, so like a dog who licks itself, he did. His intense gaze, if isolated and taken out of context from the rest of his face, looked like he was choking. His fists were so tightly clenched, they turned ghost white. All the while, he stunk to high hell, for he had avoided showering for a third day.
[Translated from German]
Hans was drinking a piña colada. It lingered on his mustache, until he licked it off slowly. He was daydreaming to take attention away from the gnawing blister on his lip. He had been smoking a joint earlier and as he inhaled, he sucked in too hard, and the heat just did its thing.
It was the middle of March in Chicago. To be precise, it was the Ides of March, the historic day whence Julius Caesar [Inventor of salad and a hairstyle] allegedly spoke the words, “Great ghost of myself. Et tu, Brute?”
It was 70 degrees, and the sun was shining brightly as if were 82. As any good native of Chicago knows, this was a bonus day, as in, it was as rare as an edible pre-packaged thing of apple pie, as in, probably definitely a byproduct of the impending global warming, which will certainly devastate us all, as in it could easily snow the next day. By the by, it did, followed by reasonable tornadoes the next.