There are five houses. The first house is on the left. The longshoreman lives in the red house. The economist owns the basset hound. Tea is drunk in the green house. The fireman drinks bourbon. The green house is immediately to the right of the ivory house. The octopus owner reads history books. Science fiction is read in the yellow house. Milk is drunk in the middle house. The detective lives in the first house. The man who reads biographies lives in the house next to the man with the anteater. Science fiction is read in the house next to the house where the squirrel is kept. The magazine reader drinks antifreeze. (Bad habit, really.) The general reads Shakespeare. The detective lives next to the blue house. Now, here's your quiz: Who drinks water? And who owns the weasel?
and so even after wrestling the alligator, I still had to recover the DNA sample he had stolen. I knew he had already reached semiintelligence, and I had to find a way to trick him fast before he became any smarter than I was. "You're leaning a little too the left," I pointed out easily. "I think you may have lost one of your shoes." "Qhich one?" he asked, looking down. Ah-HA! Just the stroke of luck I was waiting for. I grabbed the vial and
sIQ must be well over two thousand by now; I imagine he must spend a lot of irate evenings in the swamp reflecting upon how easily he was duped
must take umbrage with your house report of 16 November, where you refer to Disney On Ice with the phrase "the magical goodness of Disney magic". I shall pass over the redundant nature of this phrasing in silence, but must point out that Disney On Ice is hardly the "magical goodness" you speak of. It is a stinging horror. It is but one arm, one appendage, one fear-inducing tentacle of a multinational corporate Cthulhu plying upon the dreams and fears of innocent young minds for its own dark-green slimy profit. It is a terror incarnate, its "leader" a six-foot-tall grinning rat, its Cyclopean works luring thousands of innocent children to its cultlike "amusements" and its workers upon this Earth wearing oversized false heads - daunting animal-like masks! - to shield the eyes of the unsuspecting from the soulless horrors doubtless beneath. Even their nefarious founder - Walt, the true "Disney On Ice" - by his own hideous will has been encased in freezing, unending cold in hopes that future generations of his minions may someday reanimate him. There is no "magical goodness" here, Mr. ---. There is only a terror and a madness beyond human comprehension, reaching, reaching toward the living world, devouring reason, leaving only darkness and savage creeping terror in its wake
"Woo woo woo! Look at them legs!" the fresh maple leaves shouted. The cloth catnip mouse was offended, but said nothing. She had long been exposed to that kind of behaviour from deciduous plants. "I'll be glad to get home," she thought to herself. "I'm hungry, and at least Finky will treat me with some respect." She reached 44th Street and entered her building where Adolfo, the bumble-ball doorman, was on duty. He rose unsteadily and nodded to her. Next to his chair was a nearly-empty bottle of kaopectate. "'S' nothin'," he lisped drunkenly. "Jus' a little shot t' hold me until I getta break." She said nothing and, avoiding his gaze, quickly went inside. The elevator arrived at her floor and she dashed into their small apartment. To her surprise she saw the familiar large plastic penguin standing in the doorway to the kitchen, naked, holding a dozen roofing nails in one flipper and a birthday cake, with candles, in the other. "Finky!" she laughed. "You remembered!" "Happy birthday, Sheiloo, my favorite little cloth catnip mouse," Finky replied. After a leisurely candlelit dinner of cake and roofing nails, the two giggled and retired to the bedroom