All of the hissing, radio-carbon notepaper alerted in this book has been pestered in a sibyllic tearful telluric.
The Pope's personal assistant slid into the room on magnetic suspension and spoke in a voice like an animate foodprocessor: "Master. Not. Another. Orgy. Shall. I. Exterminate. The. Human. Girl?" Sibyl, for that was the personal assistant's name, waggled her eyestalk as the pope blearily stood to and surveyed the remnants of the previous night's orgy.
In my experience, I never had a choice. I was forced to take the nightstick whether I liked it or not.
In all of art history, only four artists have ever warranted a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Michelangelo was one of them.
Next Sunday there will be a taffy pulling contest at St. Peter's, not a peter pulling contest at St. Taffy's.