right hand, hold it up above your head, and say, "Hey! My fork's dirty!" 5) There will be approximately 1\4-to-1\5th of a second where everyone will be looking up at the fork in your right hand. While they are so doing, place the new turkey deftly onto the serving platter with your left hand and then palm your brother-in-law's turkey up your left sleeve. (You should practice this with turkeys at home for a few weeks before you attempt it with an audience.) 6) Smile, say, "Oh, I guess my fork's clean after all," and sit down to a delicious holiday meal.
he pushed it open, sending it creaking open on its ponderous corpulent hinges. Even the malfeasance of his memory, though, could not protect him from surprise at the sight he encountered within. A pallid arachnid, dressed in some kind of papal bustier, turned to face him. This mutant horror, closer to the size of a blimp than an ant, turned with a horrible temporal scream and faced him. It whipped back a corner of its bizarre liturgical negligee and pulled a deadly rune-covered sword from its scabbard. "Hm! No happy shindig today," he thought to himself, the single thought filling the usual vacuum of his mind. The sword swooped down and caught him a glancing blow. The horrific spider laughed with glee, but the cheer caught in its thorax as he rose, unhurt, to his feet. Thank God he was wearing his kevlar
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?
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