Children's Letters to Dogs
I have been very upset lately and am hoping you dogs can help. Mommy and daddy haven't talked to each other in weeks and this is causing some major problems! I clean my room and pour daddy his bourbon into the big cups like I am supposed to, but when he gets home from working overtimes he looks at me and breathes real heavy and starts throwing dishes all over the place. At first I thought this was pretty funny but we ran out of dishes and I had to eat macaroni and cheese out of a Frisbee yesterday! So do you know where we can buy cheap replacement dishes? Thanks!
I am a dog. Your ignorance is no concern of mine.
Listen up, cause I got problems. There is a new kid at school and everyone has been picking on him! He is in a wheelchair and people have been throwing soccer balls at his head from far away so he can't catch up with them. Those kids got in big trouble though. Do you know of any mean things I could do to a wheelchair kid where I would not get in trouble? I am fast and can run from one end of the playground to the other in 40 seconds (I have a digital watch). This kid also talks funny if that helps.
Taco wants to eat people food.
Confusing Metaphor Detective
It was Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday where the air is ripe with Febreze and sun-dried tomatoes. Rain drizzled down my office window like corn syrup passing through an hourglass. My secretary didn't take a single call that day, so I proceeded to nap with my feet up on the desk like some governor who'd just canned his last bushel of summer peaches. Then she walked in. Hair like a speedboat, lips like two fat women fighting over a surfboard, and a body built by Benjamin Franklin himself. Said her name was Mary, but I couldn't see her as much more than a minor-league softball trophy in a tight black dress.
"Have a seat," I said, smiling, "You look like the cat that forwarded its mail to the wrong address." "What?" she replied. "Spill the canned beets, dollhouse." She sat herself down like a partridge and gave me the skinny: "I'm wanted for murder." She swallowed, hard. "But I didn't do it!" I scoffed. "Listen, Ziggy. I've been served the same dish at every Denny's from coast to coast, and this one tastes like a grilled cheese sandwich stuffed with cigarette butts." She crossed her arms and scowled at me. "Just what the hell are you talking about? You're not making any damn sense," she said, eyeing my cigar box like she was fit to lead the parade out of Oakland. My eyes met hers. "You'll have to excuse me," I said, "I just had a stroke."