I invite you to fill in the blanks.
Millicent couldn’t help noticing the embroidered, satin-covered buttons on Raoul’s ornate epaulets, which were on his shoulders, nowhere near his penis. “The fleur de lis,” she gasped. “You are in service to the King.”
“I am,” Raoul purred, like a friendly cat. “And from all that I have heard, so are you. I would much rather you were in service…to me.” …
Why do I need a power washer?
At any given moment, most structures are at risk of collapsing under a cascade of outdoor effluvia. The average conifer emits twenty-six tons of pollen — that’s tree sperm — each spring, which means your dwelling is only one lustful pine away from imploding into a mass of splintered timber.
Why can’t I just use a hose?
Your house shelters you 365 days a year like mother protects her child. Would you “just use a hose” to cleanse your mother, or are you a good person?
I think I’d send my mom to…
Viper: The first time I saw that guy stomping through the heather, I said it right away. I said, “Guys, I think we’re done here, and Pirate Gandalf over there is gonna be the reason.”
Copperhead: He did have a real “You shall not pass” energy with that walking stick, for sure. He marched right off his boat like he owned the place. He hadn’t been on Snake-ri-La more than thirty seconds before he stabbed Boa in the eye and started shouting.
Boa: “I’m sick of these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking island,” as I recall.
Mamba: That was the…
You’re out of your jingle-jangling mind if you think I’ll tolerate demands that I “run, run as fast as I can” in my own house, let alone from some Manic Pixie Dream Cookie that just hopped uninvited out of my oven.
It takes a lot of damn nerve to ask ME, a MOM IN DECEMBER, to do ONE MORE THING, unless that thing is “put your feet up and eat these snacks — immobile snacks, as God and the Barefoot Contessa intended — while I wash dishes and fold laundry.”
Who the hell do you think you are? You have…
It’s really cramped in here.
MADISON (to camera): We’re looking for a princess castle with at least eleventy-hundred rooms, a movie theater, and a bowling alley. And we really need to be close to mud, but not too close.
HOST (voiceover): Madison and Henry are relocating to Henry’s backyard to play nicely — despite their three-year age difference — while their moms, who met in a goat yoga class at a local craft brewery, snark over lattes.
MADISON: The mud’s ‘cuz I’m a grown-up with a grown-up job, which is baking magical cupcakes in this oven that my fairy godmother gave me. Would you like…
My oozing brethren, I come to you now — as our neighborhood’s elder statesman of gore — to groan the words you should all be thinking, if you have any BRAAAAIIIINNNSSSS…
Ahem. Sorry. As I was saying:
No more unto the breach, dear friends; no more unto the breach. The center cannot hold. Over the years, we’ve graced suburban lawns in an escalating array of factory-extruded terror, but it’s time to accept that it’s become impossible to keep up with the Joneses.
The Joneses see more terror in five minutes on Twitter than they’d see in five hours of trick-or-treating…
Open your mouth as wide as it will go. Pick up your hot dog while loudly chanting snakes got no teeth, snakes got no teeth. Use your fingers to shove pre-sliced hot dog segments directly toward your trachea.
You must turn your face blue before another snake tries to steal your hot dog.*
You will need two glasses. Use the wooden stool that has your name on it to reeeeeeeeach into the cabinet in the Room Where We Eat When It’s Special. Retrieve the sparkly glasses that are only out when Grandma comes for dinner. Hold one glass…