Kash in
Don’t be looking for Weetabix here. This ain’t no Frosted Mini-Wheat situation.
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Don’t call it a misspelling. It’s a poet’s prerogative to play with language like a Slinky.
It’s not just her ear. It’s not just her past. It’s your very heart in the presence of Jaguar. They’re all a little shredded.
Marsala means mushrooms. Marsala means wine. Marsala means marvelosity of major proportions.
All cats are great. All cats are good. Comparison is the thief of joy. But sometimes, dangit, there truly can only be one.
It is universally known that Max was a king among cats. So it’s only right that it takes a full battalion of “normal” felines to replace him.
Oh, kittens. This time the words have finally failed me. I am besotted. I am befuddled. I am totalement tongue-tied.
Let’s get this out of the way. I realize “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” is universally considered a terrible movie. You realize this. Morelli Rosenberg (more on him in a moment) realizes this. Unlike the rest of you with your sophisticated tastes, I do not care. I am among the proud, lonely 28% who gave it two […]
Take one melon-round head. Plunk it onto a plug of a neck; attach a body shaped like a sausage (more accurately, a “saw-seech,” per my grandmother). Pin on four stubby legs. Expand belly repeatedly. Congratulations: you have built yourself one Sadie.