Persuasion is the act of greatest intimacy, the intimacy of knowledge, followed by totally rounding second base.
“In closing,” said the counsel to the jury, “I just hope everybody in the courtroom can overlook the parts of the case where I started settings things on fire and browbeat a woman into a heart attack. And if you don’t I will personally come after you with an electric riding crop, SO HELP ME GOD.”
Violence is never the answer, except in self-defense. Or if the guy stole something from you. Or if he looks at you funny because he’s probably hitting on you, and that’s not cool. That’s gay.
“So long! So long!” she cried to the lonesome man standing on the platform, as the train pulled away, as she shot him.
Maniac Magee sure was a hoot to hang around with. Then the stabbings started.
The tree elves flitted from tree to tree, playfully laughing behind each one as their dewy hands touched the bark and set it ablaze.
“THERE IS A FIRE IN MY EYES AND HEART AND IT WILL NEVER BE EXTINGUISHED AGAIN, AGONY RUNS LIKE WET SOUP DOWN MY SOUL,” began the middle schooler’s book report on The Lovely Bones.
Quiet and giggling was the brook as it whispered sweet nothings into the ears of would-be suicide victim Jeff.
Prejudice is an ugly monster, and probably lazy too.
The neon lights gently flickered on and off, playfully throwing shadows onto an empty night street, a detail lost on the LA riot mob.
“She and I, we were ready for second base. They said our relationship was impossible, eccentric, yearning to break free the very fabric of what is moral and immoral; and, as we felt our bodies become one, we knew they were so so wrong especially after we started using the second base canvas bag as a spanking machine,” Jeff read aloud to his drivers’ ed class.
For Jeff, the dictionary seemed to hold all the wonder and mystery of the world. For the dictionary, it wished Jeff would at least browse with pants on.
Jeff drank to forget the pain, which he remembered by eating. Turns out, Jeff has Crohn’s.
The hieroglyphs seemed to shimmer in the night light, quivering, as if waiting for a preternatural force to infuse them with light, as if a fat enthusiastic man was holding it and jumping up and down.
In retrospect, “Saints: Martyrdom or Delicious Death Fetish?” was a poor choice for the preschool’s Christmas play.
