Talk to the hand because I’m terrified of human interaction.
You call it fishing. I call it a temporary reprieve from a joyless marriage.
I love cats almost to the exclusion of all else.
It’s not a bald spot–it’s a solar panel for a sex machine. And hopefully it distracts you from my enormous gut.
My kid can beat up your honors student, but then he’d wind up in jail and the whole cycle would start again.
Tell me you’re not interested now and save me the $50 bar tab. (Oops, that’s a t-shirt I actually saw on a guy in the Las Vegas airport.)
I’d literally rather be golfing.