When face huggers hit the toad — what then?
Quantity time for sale. Big lots. Buy it by the decade. Get yours now. Quality not guaranteed while sale lasts.
The hut zone caps afternoon entertainment with nibbles from the Koran and moistened grain finger soaks. Admission: Confession of one or more recent sins.
First, an undertaker swaps identities with a straight-talking rock band, and only too late discoverers that there is no such thing, leaving him, her, or it overtaken by events. What a deal, eh?
Close, but no hand grenade — we're automated here.
Convince me once (just once), that the vague cassette object in your pants pocket has a dance ratio of greater than one. (In case that means anything.)
Call me Trud. I deserve it. Meanwhile, I'm working on a name for my first-born. Something like "Advance To The Kitchen Schmidkunz". Or maybe "Death In The Dungeons Jones"? How about "Remember The Depths Abercrombie"? Would "Accepting The Darkness McTavish" inspire confidence in middle school students? Would their parents ever develop trust in "Sounds Of The Country Swenson"? And I know that "Vanish In The Abyss Landsraad" would be good for a certain holiday, but how then about "Lurking In The Elements Deloitte" do? Hmmm?
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Me? Still cooking without gas. (Which the neigbors constantly appreciate.)
