How late is the hour, Bob?
Is there really a way out of here, Bob?
And isn't worth a matter of relativity?
Joker and thief are the same. Steal a laugh. Sly fox.
Footprints get larger in the snow as the sunlight attacks them and then they become a rut in the slush as the mud takes over. I wish I was more fleet-fotted. If I could bounce across the surface like a squirrel I wouldn't leave such a bloody mark.
Tommy Farnsworth died the other day. He asked that there be no funeral. "A funeral is a celebration of a life. Nothing worth celebrating in mine." He wanted to be cremated and his ashes flushed down the commode at WalMart. I sure hope it isn't stopped up when one of us sneaks down there to return Tommy. Hell! We don't have a receipt.