"I think this'll pique your interest, Mr.

"I think this'll pique your interest, Mr. Tell. It's a bow and arrow with target lock technology. Now, there's no way to tell it what target you want to lock on to. Let's just say

a word that has absolutely no value, for instance, let's just say, "Gollee." So Mr. Tell and the Bow maker said "Gollee" together. They smiled at each other. Something wasn't right

When the jugged hare turned out wrong and poisoned the chef cooking it on the Food Channel Top Chef competition. The hare wouldn't cooperate from the beginning.

The hare chef was threatening an on air self-immolation by serving Hassenpfeffer. The show's producers were not about to lose so public this game of Chicken. So they called in a

real chicken, eggs and all. The chicken set to work immediately, swearing and attacking the hare chef. "You motherclucker!" The chicken shouted, and pelted the chef with eggs

some were fresh others distinctly rotten. The sulfuric odor filled the room with eye watering sting and the flames of the grille ignited them. *Kaboom!* The whole room burst into

. "What kinda toast did you want with that?" asked the waitress as she chewed her gum and gazed out at the desert, daydreaming about her no-account boyfriend. Far away, a small

sillouetta of a man appeared on the horizon. My waitress dropped her pen. "Scatamoush!" She cried, tearing off her apron as she ran out the door. "Whole wheat!" I called after her.

As she waiting she began to read this fold as I wrote it. It sounded so familiar. Like the litany of existence the monks taught him so long ago, on that first sunrise.