Author - Chris Weagel

We've had a string of those tornadoes that only affect children's tricycles. Sweep through mighty powerful. Winds up to 80. They only suck up tricycles. Throw them clear across the county. Leave everything else untouched. From the leaves on a tree to the hairs on your head. Like nothing ever happened. Perfect. Cept now your tricycles are flung and mangled every which way. Awful. It'll pull one right out from underneath you. Nature doesn't care about your pleasure ride. This is business.
And from the looks of it, we're easing up on that 17 year cycle of flooding that only affects guys named Bill. Whole town does shifts walking around them, holding up garbage bags.
Can't knock it. That's how I met Alice.

The turning point in American decline came with 6 out of 10 adult males self-identifying as “Heavy Diorama Enthusiasts.”

I attach a lot of significance to the kind of foreign postage people affix to their face prior to important job interviews. Helps me get a feel for their loyalties and it tells others they are unafraid to stick things to their heads.
Pinball machines will float, you just have to let them.

Technology is so advanced now, you only need two people inside a full-size dragon costume. Only two!
One to work the arms and another to sit there in its belly, ruminating, growing bitter, wondering what they've done to earn this punishment. Forever questioning what series of choices led them to be trapped, confined and locked away from all humanity, caught in a living death, rank and unforgiving.
And next year that'll be done by a computer!

The Popsicle and Frozen Treat Lobby killed my boy.
This has nothing to do with industrial freezers…

A great cleansing tidal wave of Fruity Pebbles is what this place needs. I can see it there on the horizon. No skim milk bullshit, either. 2% all the way. Solid.

There's nothing better than our current definition of “Freedom,” the essence of which is allowing all the freedom to starve to death while shooting off entire arsenals of Class C fireworks.

It's very funny to carry an umbrella. To use and hold an umbrella is very odd. It is to make oneself exceptional from the weather. Which is a polite way of saying, “God's Judgement.”
God is not happy with this new leg wear. Hence this fog. God wishes there to be fewer mimes near that hospital: Lightning storm.
The umbrella can only be taken seriously as a cousin to more formal dinner utensils. An ersatz gravy boat, perhaps. Or gravy trough. But as a portable, public spotlight, the umbrella remains taped between swimming goggles and those awful little rubber thumb gloves secretaries wear.