I was walking at the park this morning. Up ahead on the path, a couple was walking toward me. As they passed, they greeted me; and I said hello and waved. Then I realized something: When I wave, I make the same gesture that police do when they tell traffic to stop.
These aren’t true, are they?—I think they’re from one of those fake news sites.
Some people rescue injured animals; I rescue my own stupid Facebook comments.
About rap, I’m opinionated to the point of obnoxiousness; so I must slam on the emergency brake before this comment box becomes a manifesto.
For all practical purposes I like the name Ran Ray By.
Thank you for distinguishing between all of those regular old humdrum satans and the official all-caps SATAN. It means a lot. [blinks a fiery teardrop]
Thomas is Ahura Mazda and I’m Angra Mainyu. Together we form Zostrianos, whom we believe is probably the uncle of Zarathustra. You’re welcome to join in on the fun – simply choose an ancient costume and pretend to destroy things.
My entry for today is 80% recycled waste and 20% brand new waste.
I thank you for all of the 3,000 thumbs. I have always wanted 3,000 thumbs. I am presently framing them and hanging them on my wall. And forgive my arrogance, but, yes, I, too, agree that I should be a famous rap star. The things that make me most proud to have been born in the U.S.A. are Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman and jazz and rap. And since rap was born about the same time that I was, I don't know how to end this comment.
No worries – I enjoy needlessly forgiving people for crimes that they did not commit.
All of the people of the Internet have informed me, by way of a giant message on our sports stadium’s scoreboard, that they are eager to know what your comment would have been if the network hadn’t eaten it.
I sense that a career in liner notes awaits you.
The French language is so soft and pretty, whereas German is maybe even better than American English for competing against percussion.
I want to know anything that anyone is willing to publicly disclose.
MARGARET: “The lobotomy has nothing to do with your rap.”
BRYAN: “Give it time.”
My future is so old that its attempt at contemporary references now requires a history lesson to explain.
(I usually earn a halfhearted chuckle from my audience.)
Tender feelings arise within me, thinking of those days when music was contained in solid objects like discs. I miss being able to use a cassette for a bookmark.
Moneymen tend to water down the recipe
Like the internet, I always hated the telephone. I resent things precisely because they leave us no choice but to use them. I wish that I were rich enough to pay people to talk with me in person.
I'll definitely put the Yukon River in my next media blitz, because my goal is to become the first U.S. President who is allergic to politics.
Our world is in great need of greenhorns. (It’s nice to have my robotic double towering over me in silence.)
We've had enough TV shows about sex, violence, and riches – it's time to celebrate the art of garbage truck driving.
MARGARET: “Has God ever accidentally stepped on you before?”
BRYAN: “God has indeed claimed that his stepping on me was an accident.”