I’ve got everything lined up so this grilling experience won’t be sullied by past mistakes. Remember the infamous Frankless Fourth of July?
“Merci,” I respond. “Incroyable,” the driver says, slowly taking off his sunglasses, “You really know your stuff.”
All that yarn wasted connecting pictures of faces when it could be connecting the rose petals of my hand-knit floral sweater.
For me, satire is more than a literary genre. It’s the freedom to say whatever I want and not be accountable for any of it because “I’m just kidding.”
Enjoy public performances like "George Bernard Shaw on a Precariously-Balanced Manhole Cover" and "David Mamet in the Penn Station Bathrooms."