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My friend Professor Reed made a triptych for me, and he painted fire on one panel, a typewriter on another, and the face of a beautiful, intelligent woman on the third.
The triptych is entitled What Happened To Beatrice and I cannot look upon it without weeping.
"A woman wearing a scrumptious pair of turquoise tulle knickers promotes in herself a sexy superhero feeling which exudes itself as a confident and positive sexuality."
If Kevin were here, he'd say, "Deedle-deedle queep."
Everybody knows that Artistotelian two-value logic is fucked.
Is the speed, the weight distribution, and how far you're willing to go for a physics project.
Now, I don't want to grow into a loose-fleshed old woman.
Because I'm a man.
But there's something about corrupting yourself into a farce that really sparks the heart-rate.
An apparatus made of wood sat next to him -- looked like head-gear.
I grabbed a piece of paper taped to his face and it told us what he'd done.
And we knew it was true because we all had heard about it, and saw his eyes, straight-line with mine, looking for doom.