His hair line fascinated her. She was nine

His hair line fascinated her. She was nine inches taller than him and his hair transplant job was as obvious as a row of telephone poles crossing a flat barren desert. Neat spots

smooth as a prickly pear needle-less leading her thoughts to wonder. His hair moved as she exclaimed

"My hair has the power to subvert gravity!"

screamed the angry professional-wrestler-turned-nun. However, it was a lie, as her hair flopped over as if admitting defeat. It was a shame she was allergic to hair spray, really.

Fortunately for our flaxen-haired battle nun, her existence transcended petty hair products, as she rained hellfire from her bosom, evoking a godly power only prophets dream of.

Suddenly, the sky opened and shafts of sun rays lit the land like longinus' lance piercing sacred flesh. God himself descended from the high havens to witness to this blasphemy

with a glass of wine in hand. People gasped as they beheld his majestic figure. "Oh, don't mind me," his voice boomed, "carry on."

Instead they began advancing on him with a hungry, desperate look in their eyes. He'd seen that look before, and knew what was coming. This couldn't be happening *again*, could it?

himself, for he had a grave decision to make: front seat or back seat? Gotta make up my mind, which seat do I take?