This story is probably true.
It looked as though this time it would be squirrel people.
It’s Manless Friday, I have no ideas and I might be an imaginary racist. Brilliant.
I can’t make an ellipsis, and it’s killing me.
It’s usually fatal, yes. Kraaa.
You think, insists the pteranodon, that you’ve made a mistake.
‘I beg your hand-delivered gilt-edged unconditional royal pardon?’
Sometime in 1981 a man named Edward Packard sat down in front of a pinboard covered with meticulously linked system cards, had a sudden idea, and wrote a time-bomb into my life.
‘How are you even sitting on that horse?’
The Boy, it appears, is a natural. When he was eighteen months old and burbling random syllables, he once crawled over to me, looked up, clearly said ‘cuntface’, then went about his business.
A crow is looking at my nipples and it’s all the fault of Henry David Thoreau.