Good Butling

Plant a congressman. Maybe one day he'll grow into a beautiful bagel-shaped manhole, named Miranda. If not, you'll at least be able to sue his taxes and get a refund on that withdrawal. And if he still has his wallet when he exits the shower at your local bank, it means that he's just traded a subsidiary waffle cone for something along the lines of a gross domestic house-cat by wiring his money to an old German woman who lives across the street and refuses to wear socks. All I know is my puts are lower than my calls, my calls are made by phone, usually to a girlfriend, I put calls on hold sometimes, and I call my puts "butts" whenever I feel like synthesizing an investment portfolio made entirely out of yeast. Let's get fiscal, baby.

I once met an area code with a scalpel, which led me to believe the butler did it. We don't really know what he did. We just know he did it. He is so good at the butling, though, we couldn't call the police to arrest him for whatever he did. So instead, we'll just force him to marry that harpsichord. Convincing me otherwise will do nothing to change my mind, and that's all I have to say about the matter except for this one extra thing: we don't want your carpet people. They keep grabbing my toes and melting, and frankly I've had it. I don't know what it is that I've had, but whatever it is, it's been had. By me. I've had it.

It starts out as a simple complexity, but it soon sprouts into an appointment with your doctor. It's at 2 a.m., so you better hurry.

The skittles are in a jar, and you can't reach them because your hand is too fat. If you would just hand me the remote, I could change the English channel, and we could finally watch something American carpal tunnel. Like that tulip over there. It looks pretty patriotic. I think you'll be safe as long as you aren't throwing hatchets at everything, which is a little too rude to ride this ride. You have to be this tall. Try again next time, Gimli. I'm gonna go grab a bite to eat. It won't be my bite; it'll be somebody else's. But still. Also I'm getting my hair cut... Just the one.

Okay, okay, story time, kitties. This one's about a hairball that wanted to be a dinosaur when it grew up. Unfortunately, it was fated to predict its own prophecy about the fortunes. Sometimes I stand up in Taco Bell and just yell really loud. I am the Chosen Juan! Let's bee honest; I'm an insect. I should probably be shot for that one, but I'm getting a tetanus booster anyway, so feel free to pick a brochure on your way out. We have excellent ears. Thank you, dear, that was very sweet of you. Go sit in the corner and think about your life.

When the headlines read, "ROBBER MAKES OUT WITH LOTS OF MONEY" I always get the wrong impression. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm that robber. I stole the entire cash register and left the money. See, I knew what you were thinking, because Carl Orff  is a terrible name for Germany, but you have to listen to my dirty clothes hamster. He talks like a buttered puppet with a lisp the size of Texas. In fact, I'm pretty sure his day-job is just spitting on people. It's possible she replaced him with a potty train, but who would buy something so flagrantly charitable, you malapropism! Soon enough they'll think people can run around naked like animals do. Well they can't! The pigs are hard to relate to, and my analysis isn't going to burn itself! So help me canter around like a headless amoeba, but without disestablishing the careful arrangement of hipsters in my attic.

Stop tickling my fancy!