A Whole Nother StoryeBook - 2010
Automobile travel -- Juvenile fiction.
Moving, Household -- Juvenile fiction.
Families -- Juvenile fiction.
Inventions -- Juvenile fiction.
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If I could give you all just one word of advice, it would be . . . well, an incomplete sentence. Besides being grammatically iffy, I'm sure you'd agree that a single word of advice is rarely of much use. Even the phrase "Look out!" (which could prove to be life-saving advice--especially where large falling objects or missing manhole covers are concerned) is two words.
All gifts are not created equal. Historically speaking, there are good gifts and there are bad gifts.
Good gifts: A bottle of champagne, a box of fine Belgian chocolates, the Statue of Liberty.
Bad gifts: A bottle of shampoo, a box of fine Belgian matches, the Trojan Horse.
There was a time when, if you encountered someone with a tattoo, you could pretty much assume he was either a sailor or had, at one time or another, been in prison. There was something, it seemed, about men being cooped up together that made them want to draw on themselves.
As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a leaky boat. Well, except for that fact that boats are not generally round, orange and on fire. Hmm. Come to think of it, in no way whatsoever did the sun, in this instance, resemble a leaky boat. My apologies. That was a dreadful attepmt at simile. Please allow me to try again. As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a self-luminous, gaseous sphere comprised mainly of of hydrogen and helium.
He's getting away you idiots! Shoot him. I'm wearing Spider-Man underpants!
A red eight-sided sign always means:
C) Danger! Red octogons ahead!
"I'm one-half Cherokee, one-half Irish, one-half Turkish, one-half Australian and one-half Korean."
"Excuse me, but that's five halves," said Maggie.
What's a wingding? Why, a wingding is, uh...it's just like a shindig but without all the hullabaloo.
Gone are the days when the old country doctor would drive out to your house and amputate your infected leg for a basket of goose eggs and a rhubarb pie.
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