make up some fake, inscrutable adages and post them here

If you want to catch birds, slam a stick into a bush

shopping chastens the man who loveth to spackle

fair ladies are like coupons for Burger King, often portenting a ring in the alcove

many is the heart which pineth after a Dove Bar, few are the chocolateers willing to suck soap

when a man visits your house clutching a jar of Vlasic Pickles to his bosom, best to burn any unsorted laundry posthaste

when your Rice-a-Roni begins to boil, consider a move to Detroit

a man without slippers may lie contentedly forever. a man without a subscription to Vanity Fair will fail to elicit hugs even from his undertaker

a Belorussian playing football is like a pagan turning water into Gatorade; only the gnashing of teeth can follow

when in the vicinity of a Wendy's Restaurant, best to pocket one's sherbet

why pine for McDonald's french fries, when there are children in El Dorado with no 7-11 Taquitos?

in the event of Pomeranians, best to urinate outside of a Motel 6

there are two virtues to defecating in a Sbarro's pizza. neither of them involve anchovies

counting tampons before menstruating is like petting an igloo during a heat wave-- neither will fatten your wallet or bring gladness to your heart

there are only three things that would-be bartenders love more than promotional coasters-- upended swizzle sticks, henna tattoos and the Delaware state lottery

if you meet an Udmurt on the way to the carwash, best to put down one's fruit basket and undo one's buttons

15 years ago the swiftest road to misery was living in a luxury apt. building employing a concierge who moonlights as a Jay Leon impersonator. nowadays it is having Arsenio Hall as your houseguest for a month

Scattered are the remants of tuesday's ghost

Until you beat your chest to the rhythm of the snow queen don't shave your legs

ran adrift the reign of Thunder Balls

if you haven't been in a magazine, then you can't tell me anything about the law

Near a tree by a river there's a hole in the ground
Where an old man of Aran goes around and around
And his mind is a beacon in the veil of the night
For a strange kind of fashion there's a wrong and a right
But he'll never, never fight over you

Ears are windows to the heart.

Whipping shitties in the field is sure to grow next autumn's yield.

you can't read the leaves in a teabag