An alliteratively-named celebrity was having

An alliteratively-named celebrity was having violent sex one day after consuming mass quantities of food and drugs. Many animals

enjoyed. She was. He didn't. Too bad. I'm going. Be good. Not you. Me too. Loving animals. Yes, her. She did. Not softly. That's all. She's celebrity. Rich blood. To

-night is staccato night. At the Olive. Garden. The endless bread. Sticks. Were not enough. So we decided. To sell pasta. Rhythmically. Thursday night is

nospacesnight.Everythingwasputintoabigbowlatthecenterofthetabletobeeatenwithbigwoodenspoons. Olive Garden enjoyed lexicologic themes. Friday night was every vowel missing

night, so they served Lynyrd Skynyrds twyndyllyng pygmy wyrms & myrrh. Next their creative consultant Christian Bök wanted to cook his way through a complete course of hyphenated

meat. Squirrel-meat-kabobs. Salamander-meat-terriaki. Turtle-dove-pop-pie. "Home Cooking" was going to be the best

placated her. I'd never shared that recipe with anyone before. It was a family secret. I realized my mistake. Now I would have to marry ol' Martha to keep it in the family. Dammit!

I turned to Martha. "Will you marry me?" I asked, unenthusiastically. "YES!" squealed Martha. Ah, the secret family recipe would be safe. Just to make sure Martha would never blab,

I made her sign a highly detailed nondisclosure agreement that stated she would forfeit the right to all of the millions that recipe would bring in, and lose her half her tongue.