and in conclusion pt. 6
People assume that famous people are more interesting. They are not. The terrible truth is that everybody and nobody is interesting.
If there was a hit TV show starring a hamster, most people would get all giddy about being in the same room with it. Over a fucking hamster.
It’s so cold out that you don’t simply get back into bed, you retreat under the covers. Which explains the bugle on my nightstand.
When people are talking in their sleep, it might just be aliens practicing controlling them.
There are just some people you meet who you imagine their asses have a lot of pimples and nothing will change your opinion.
Every time I watch a UFC fight, I keep expecting an adult to climb over the cage and break it up.
I’ve always been a sucker for those scenes in movies where the character is presented with some bad news or intense situation where he does some crazy thing in response, either violent or brave, only to find out a few moments later that it was only in his head and in reality he did something much more meek or expected. I have that happen so often now I sometimes get lost as to where I’m actually at. Sometimes I’m back in childhood and sometimes I’m years in the future, or so I think. I’m moving like a ping pong ball back and forth between what is and what I’m thinking. My consciousness is like a badly edited foreign film, with low production and poor acting.
Having finished a story that began “I have a dream,” I realized that many people will immediately think of the famous MLK speech and my story is only slightly more memorable so I decided to delete it.
Little known fact: After a dip in icy waters, members of the Polar Bear Club will often times kill and eat a seal.
You’re never sure when it happened but one day you look at your dress shirts and you see a shiny colored one. Then for some reason you’re wearing it and then you’re dancing.
It’s a rare and wonderful moment when someone sincerely asks for your advice and you know deep down in your heart how bad badly you’re going to blow it.
When someone is practicing the shotput, do they use a bucket of shotputs? And who’s the big fucker who brings that out to the field?
If there is an afterlife, I wonder if you can still whack it.
Critics always say my books are disjointed. I would counter that most writing today is too jointed.
Manion’s Marital Aids: A long plastic device that automatically offers up a chipper “Good morning Honey!” to start each day so your spouse wakes up believing you care. Oh… and it’s also a vibrator.