dec 29 in idea barrages

When you type “happy b-day!” on social media, my brain reads it as “happy bidet!”

I like to believe that somewhere there exists his good twin, a humble and mentally stable man named Kanye East.

Whoever first named that Christmas floral arrangement “kissing balls” was the great comedian in human history.

“Til death do us part” suggests a bacchanal of ghosts cheating on their life-partners from the moment of death.

The best part of being stupid rich would probably be that, like, I am definitely more handsome in person than in photos which conspire to make me look like Shrek, so any time I wanted to have a photo online, I could just commission an artist to portray me flatteringly.

Drop a normal human being into a Hallmark / Lifetime Christmas romance and have the people of that world believe they must be psychic because everything in that world is completely painfully stomach-churningly predictable.

A store that only sells incredibly painful 1800s corsets called VICTORIAN SECRET.

The only two things in the world with hands on their face are the star-nosed mole and the clock. I say this only to aid future writers of mystical riddles to allow passage to the hiding places of, like, powerful orbs.