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I clench my butt cheeks tightly and strut past an elderly couple, pulling on the front of a cart, sweeping it alongside my body.
Tries to order hummus at every restaurant on the lunch rotation and when told they don’t have it, indignantly asks, “why not?”
I knew the moment Brad's Gucci loafer crossed the threshold of the antique store, that my time had run out.
Not only are my kitchen cabinets sticky and brown, but they contain condos for giant cockroaches who never pay HOA dues.
The song’s not even that long. Like 25 lines tops. This shouldn’t be that hard. Why is it so hard?
I’m here to tell you that for your upcoming, serious, life-threatening gallbladder removal surgery, you’re on your own, kiddo.
The lack of children being born is not due to Millennials having less sex, but rather the funky little houseplants known as spider plants.
Grab brunch with friends, but only half-listen to what they’re saying. Something about a "drinking problem" and "ruining Stacy's wedding."
Think of all the times you said, "I wish I could provide for my family by working somewhere that played realistic thunderstorm sound effects every 17 minutes."
9:15 AM – Bad news. No Bread. When I try to talk to Barry, manager Kyle swat at me and call me mean names like “noisy ass pidgeon.”
I became a bowling alley screen animation because damn it, I love this sport and I love being a part of it.
I used to have 30-45 people in me at once and not a bit of noise bothered the neighbors. Hey! That’s another thing: I’m very noise-proof!