In summer of 2002, it was night-time and I was asleep on the ground. I rolled over and got stung below my right eye by an Arizona Bark Scorpion.
My face swelled up and all that jazz. Once the swelling went away, I was left with a small bump that kind of looked like a pimple, but nothing ever came out of it.
This morning though, the bump actually looked like it had a head, so I gave it a good squeeze. Much too my surprise, the stinger from that bastard arachnoid came out of the site.
I’m still grossed out!
It’s easier to illegally get into the U.S. than it is to legally get into the Superbowl.
Tootsie Pops for Valentine’s Day — how do I love thee, let me count the ways…a one, a two, a three…CRUNCH...three.
What Would Charles Bukowski Do?
“How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” came the happy refrain around Woodchuck Hollow. He tried to join in, but the sound left him in agony and with no cure for his self-imposed illness.
Poor Harold Woodchuck had gone and done something stupid the night before and was paying for it now with a hangover. His head throbbed, his stomach churned and his body trembled as he fought off the need to throw-up.
And all he could remember of the night before was Cecil Groundhog chanting, “How much wood-grain alcohol can a woodchuck chug?”