A demon with the head of a hamburger and the sash of an alderman materialized in my backseat. Flaps of hormone-infused beef formed his accursed lips.
If Keith's dad had to pick between his son having pre-marital sex or spreading a dangerous virus to 80 loved ones, how quickly did he choose wedding?
All of West Tampa’s aristocrats, from Hulk Hogan to the purveyor of Oxyclean, would cavort around his twirling menagerie of slushie machines.
Despite everything I do, the only thing anyone can remember is a rumor that I mistook chicken poop for Runts candy.