Frank pants? No. Anderson Frangipani pants.
Francine just ate my laundry. I keep asking her to wait until the rinse cycle ends, but she says it ruins the flavor.
Franny got a panny to do her baking in. It was blue and green and crinkly hot and all her cookies exactly hit the spot, etc.
Frantic rants. Can't get enough.
Rildoniss Sporkmaleny, Mom's private exorcist, says that I'm not allowed back in the clubhouse until he can remove all the demons from my wallet. You know — all the dead white guys printed on paper — Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, Franklin. All the dead. I'm waiting this out, on advice form my pet rat and legal advisor, Beelzebuddy, 3rd Deputy Associate Prince of Semi Darkness (Squeaky Division).
Was it Frank Zappa who said that only assholes get broken hearts? Well, I'm a broken-heart-free non-asshole, despite what Mom says.
Fran said I looked old, so I tried punching her but it didn't take because I'm feeble too. So then she pounded me good. My gal Fran.
In case you weren't paying attention, neither was I.
Insert more frantic rants about here.
There was a sale on smoked hermans this week, and though I do enjoy them, I'm currently dallying with caramelized francines.
I've formally retired from all lost opportunities.
Zoot Fooky.
The End.
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Me? I'm buying two this time. Still not sure of what. (Could be worse.)
