On his fiesta red plate was a hard-boiled

On his fiesta red plate was a hard-boiled egg, a stalk of celery, and a jar of mayo. The Garçon made a sweeping motion "Oui, Egg Salad Deconstructed. Bon Appetit!"

Since his fiancée wanted to eat in the famous Chez Derrida, he pretended to enjoy the uncooked egg salad ingredients, but when the Garçon brought in a cow and a bunch of grapes

he just had to break down and slug back a Colt 45. All this fancy French wacky food and art had finally forced him to be his real self. His fiancee's eyes grew

more eyes as she slowly metamorphized into a bug. But that's another story. This one is about the empty can of Colt 45, which was exactly not like a real colt 45 in that cowboys

her 2-weeks' notice.I don't drink. See, my street has a lot of cops, so when they come home every other weekend from boozing, they shoot my dog, & my maid's sick of cleaning it up.

He finished explaining why every time he sees a cop pull up to the light, he goes into a rant. Ethan glanced at me and said,"Why do you prod? I just watched myself lean into

the question. "Why do I prod? Or why does *he* prod?" I pondered. "I prod because I must. He prods because I tell him to prod." It then dawned on Ethan that I had multiple personal

prods, most of them internal. He already knew about the ones in the nightstand. "Ethan, I hope you don't think I'm a cow." His demeanor contorted with his own inner conflicts be

coming resolved. Ethan took the prod from the nightstand. "Don't have a cow, lady," he said and stuck the business end of the prod into the meat of his maximus gluteus.