It was liver spot roll call time. There were some new faces.
As he lay dying in a hospice, Seymour Franklin, was in a serious predicament. The lobe in his brain that catered to his communication skills fried out during the last stroke, his third, if you are counting. He could hear. He could smell. He could comprehend. But he could not move, nor speak. It sucked to be him.
“This is what it looks like when oysters taint. This should never go near your mouth.”
You should have known better. You never eat raw oysters in an ‘r’-less month, and never ever at a Chuck E. Cheese’s® all-you-can-eat buffet. You should have had the common sense and the wherewithal to have stopped after eating one, especially since it tasted like reeking socks. It is morbidly sad that you know what sock tastes like. Your nagging curiosity always manages to get the best of you. You should have known by the texture, raw oysters are usually slimy, and not dry and crunchy. Most surprising, you ate close to a dozen.
Shame on you Facebook® for fooling me once, twice, and thrice; and shame on me for loving that chicken from Popeye’s®.
It’s a fact; in fact, it is true. All of our Facebook® data is out there and it can’t be taken back. This, because of some stupid quiz one of your thoughtless friends took. I hope they’re satisfied knowing which Smurf they are most like. In case you’re wondering, I manipulated my answers, thus I’m Papa Smurf, the only sane one of the bunch of blue idiots. Sure, you can mope about it, and while you’re at it, why don’t you just cry yourself to death?
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Chip Masters was fed up, and it was apparent in his posture. Usually, he stands at 6’4”, but today, he was compressed, hunched over at 6’1”. How many more phones could he possibly lose this year? He lost count after nine, and it was only March.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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