Are you kidding me? Are you all so perversed?

Are you kidding me? Are you all so perversed? I read over all the lines I could possibly add to, not finding one fit for me to even humor. I sit, sipping my nightly beverage,

trying to get my creativity on, and only lusty missives from mental midgets -- wait, should that be mental little people? Damn PC conscience pile drives every quip or banter that

is actually funny into the lame zone. I decided that I would add, "Uh-uh honey." To everything I said. At least until Tuesday. Then I would hit the little people in the nuts with a

plastic shovel and after making them poop themselves from the pain I would check to see if I find any golden mini-turds which I would eventually sell, so that by Monday

You could fry an egg on it. As they sat in the Mojave contemplating the steaming radiator, an 18 wheeler approached from the South. Myrna waved and flapped her arms

as if trying to achieve lift-off, but to no avail. The 18 wheeler thundered by kicking up a cloud of dirt in its midst. Wiping the sand out of our eyes, in the distance, we spied a

fast-moving shiny object, headed straight for the speeding rig. We could do nothing but watch as the object collided with the trailer, exploding out the other side, and continued

down the road. The trucker swerved to the siding and looked at the damage of his rig. Suddenly, a bespeckled teen on a broomstick flew by. "Damn quidditch..." the trucker muttered.

Ever since the Equality of Muggles and Wizards Act has passed commons, such things had become too common. The trucker patted his Glock. "Soon, baby, soon," he said with a smile.