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On his fiesta red plate was a hard-boiled

  • On his fiesta red plate was a hard-boiled egg, a stalk of celery, and a jar of mayo. The Garçon made a sweeping motion "Oui, Egg Salad Deconstructed. Bon Appetit!"
  • Since his fiancée wanted to eat in the famous Chez Derrida, he pretended to enjoy the uncooked egg salad ingredients, but when the Garçon brought in a cow and a bunch of grapes
  • he just had to break down and slug back a Colt 45. All this fancy French wacky food and art had finally forced him to be his real self. His fiancee's eyes grew
  • more eyes as she slowly metamorphized into a bug. But that's another story. This one is about the empty can of Colt 45, which was exactly not like a real colt 45 in that cowboys
  • do not exist in technicolor. I promise you, if you go to the desert, it's all grey. Anyway this empty can of liquor was discovered under my porch seat by my cleaner and she gave me
  • her 2-weeks' notice.I don't drink. See, my street has a lot of cops, so when they come home every other weekend from boozing, they shoot my dog, & my maid's sick of cleaning it up.
  • He finished explaining why every time he sees a cop pull up to the light, he goes into a rant. Ethan glanced at me and said,"Why do you prod? I just watched myself lean into
  • the question. "Why do I prod? Or why does *he* prod?" I pondered. "I prod because I must. He prods because I tell him to prod." It then dawned on Ethan that I had multiple personal
  • prods, most of them internal. He already knew about the ones in the nightstand. "Ethan, I hope you don't think I'm a cow." His demeanor contorted with his own inner conflicts be
  • coming resolved. Ethan took the prod from the nightstand. "Don't have a cow, lady," he said and stuck the business end of the prod into the meat of his maximus gluteus.

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