The open zipper at the bottom revealed two important details: her ass was as luscious as he had imagined, and she wasn't wearing any panties. His palms started to sweat. How was he supposed to fasten her dress when all he wanted to do was tear it off?

Daddy had a strict rule about firearms. Anything we killed we had to eat. No amount of barbecue sauce would make a hairy guy like you palatable.

Colorful characters are the odd shaped pieces that fill the holes in life's puzzle.

In the nineteenth century, The Romantics viewed Nature as benign, a glowing reflection of God's grace. Now we know better. Nature is brutal and, if it is feminine, she's not the kind of woman you can trust. Human beings may be her finest achievement yet, but when you get right down to brass tacks, we're meat. AIDS and organisms like streptococcus don't give a crap that we subdued the earth or produced a Shakespeare...

I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.

With riddles as black as coals, and answers as invisible as our past, I can only depend upon the crest of the rolling wave I now traversed; a romance worshiped only by the dreamer in us all, a psithurism of trust making its way through the years of our ascension to one day climb above the kaleidoscopic canopy of this mortal coil.