My new nickname for the poet who lives in the basement.
“When I tried to write happy / Yo I knew I lied, I lived a life of crime / Why play ya blind?”
Let me tell you a story about a dog named Chuck.
When he heard this news he took a huge shit right next to my bedroom door.
Your angry email should have the words “dew claws” somewhere in the subject.
He should be glad that I didn’t buy any nipple rings during my travels.
If Mormons did genealogy on dogs they’d trace Chuck back to Tanzania. And then have him baptized in the name of his ancestors.
He knew this would happen when he saw what I’d brought the girls from Africa.
This cat may never enjoy a name of its own except in my household where pictures of it are a high commodity.
Taming all his luscious locks is not as easy as you might think.