This is what my summer has come to: me, out of a job, aimlessly driving around the city looking for places to write, places to read, places to occupy my time.

You should be calling 911

“Now God,” Mr. Smashface calls me out by name.

I rummage around to see which of our many countertop appliances might do the trick. Yogurt maker? No, I need something with more muscle. The Cuisinart--just the thing! I pick through the detachable blades—where’s the isotope shredder?

Ed wants to watch the last half of the football game. His wife wants him to mow the lawn.

When detox-man drives away, the windows down, the radio playing on the classic rock station (The Eagles), he thinks about moving out of town.

Face it girls, you want to claw my eyes out, don’t you? Or whack me across my 36 DD’s with a golf club, am I right? Well don’t blame me if I’m young, gorgeous, full-breasted and obviously the cat’s meow.

Her eyes stared wide with panic, her teeth chattered intermittently with impressive intensity, and with her ineffectual stabs at the air she completed the portrait of distracted mania.

Just bring me his head, that cerebral kiln of hot, ruddy verbiage and cadence.

The phone owner pre-writes his or her dying words! The app stores them and releases them at the moment of his death!

Azure became silent. She never thought of her death before, nor thought about actually fighting creatures and saving people’s lives.

For Hector it was animals. Rats, dogs, fish, and quite often horses – sometimes even lions. But for Achilles, it was always dead bodies.

She drew her hands out of the chest cavity and looked at the clock. ‘Time of death,’ she said.

Who is the moron that invented the Snuggie?

Butch the Labradoodle sets some necessary boundaries.