Champagne and Lemon Drops

I've heard of a third eye, but I didn't realize it was a googly eye. I thought it was mythical.

Shit storms are no fun to walk in with your mouth open.

That woman could spread gossip faster than the flu in a whorehouse.

She depended on him to smooth her brow when her shit-on-a-stick life got too covered in poop sprinkles.

Your inner child was showing.

Sometimes you were handed a second chance, and all you had to do was close your eyes and step into it.

You can't raise happy kids in a happy family if you aren't happy and don't know who you are. You can't pin your life on someone else's happiness.

You can't have the past. Only the future, and the future is, of course, completely uncertain.

Why not surround yourself with things that make you content? After all, there's no place like home.

Because when life handed you an opportunity you didn't turn your back or drag your feet. You made a choice and you leapt.

You see..." Nash said, acting doctorly, "you've got to keep the testicles away from the body's heat for optimal sperm count." He snatched two chicken balls from the container in front of him and cupped them in his hand. He laid a spring roll between them. "That's the biggest source of the sperm count issue for many men: their choice of underwear keeps their testicles snug up against the body. The testes become overheated.

You realize I have to buy it now? How much is it?" he asked, reaching for the tag. She snatched the shirt out of his reach and carefully plucked off the tag before handing

My apologies. I meant no offense." Except that his tone told her he didn't mean a word he'd just spoken.

God hated her. It was the only viable answer. Yeah, yeah, everyone said life wouldn't throw more at you than you could handle, but she knew that was a great big, massive load of smelly crap.

That bitch. How did she always come out smelling like roses?