Don't touch me until you have taken a shower

Don't touch me until you have taken a shower and a bath, she said, somehow turning me on in spite of it.

I truly love my wife of 48 years but I also love cats. Rosemary is highly allergic to cat hair so after a long day helping with charity work at the cat rescue home, I find myself

forcibly rubbing gobs of cat hair directly in her face. I invite two of my friends into my home who pin her arms to either side, making it impossible for her to escape. Then I sit

on a dirty napkin and begin to recite Homer's "Odyssey" in an obnoxiously shrill voice at such a high pitch my windows shatter. Then I stare directly into her eyes and begin to

sing to her a passionate love song in my nasal goatish whine. Her icy heart begins to melt, then goes pitter-pat. She grabs me by the ears, her elbows flapping wildly, and she puts

her finger in my face and told me to shut up. She told me that the only person she can stand to her singing is Scott Weiland, and now that he's gone the music has died in her soul

hole, aka her economy apartment. She destroyed every LP in her vast collection, distraught over the death of the Stone Temple Pilot. Then she dismantled the player, delicately, and

d of a sex type thing with a dead & bloated, sour girl on a plush bed, situated in a wicked garden. She woke in a cold sweat. What a creep of a dream. She reached for the vasoline,

a gooey condiment of sorts peppered with a hint of spearmint, & rubbed a dab under each nostril. “The dead await,” she whispered opening the cadaver’s chest & removing the heart!