Robert McEvily was here. He'll be back.

Jimmy Timmy Diddy Leroy Chad Marv Abdullah Sir Roderick Mashawn Clint

I like to munch-munch on a pretzel As I read my Hansel-Gretel Get up all inside your face and redesign the classic Edsel And I do it sans short pants On the outer coasts of France When I bike I rock the mike like that thin dude they call Sir Lance For me the treat's swiss cheese and ham It's all I eat when on the lam While watching Flintstones for my daily dose of Pebbles & Bam Bam I'll punch you out when you're not lookin' Eat up all your momma's cookin' Then I'll rap and set a trap to catch my Uncle Raymond schtuppin' Dude's been cheating on his wife Dude's been screwing up his life Dude's been tryin' to eat his Wheaties with a mofo butter knife!

Peace out, yo! Live your dreams!

Whoever said "honesty is the best policy" wasn't being honest.

"I can only give you three pills," he said. "That's our policy."

She needed ten. Her next endocrinology appointment was in ten days, and he knew this. Her supply had run short, and she suspected he'd messed up the count last time.

"I need to take one of those pills every day," she said. "Every day."

"I'm sorry," he said. "That's our policy."

That evening, she asked ChatGPT how to make someone disappear.

The next day, she waited outside Walgreens for just ten minutes because she knew when his shift ended.

The most honest conversations I’ve ever had were all in my head while folding laundry.

Owls are just cats with wings, and we should be way more suspicious of whatever secret meetings they’re having at night.

Every evening, Henry took the same walk through his neighborhood, a ritual of fresh air and quiet contemplation. Nothing irked him more than passing someone who didn’t offer a nod, a wave, or even the slightest acknowledgment. He started keeping count—seven tonight, ten yesterday, twelve the day before—ghosts, all of them, drifting by as if he weren’t there.

One night, determined to prove a point, he stopped mid-path, planted his feet, and stared at an oncoming jogger, waiting for the inevitable nod. The man ran past without a glance, his expression blank, his breath even, his body moving with an eerie weightlessness. When Henry turned to glare, he caught his own reflection in a darkened window—alone, as always.

"And how are we feeling this morning, Mr. Andrews?"

These are mandatory meetings. Andrews is playing the game, doing and saying what's needed to get himself approved for release.

"Well, thanks."

"Do you find me attractive, Mr. Andrews?"

This is surprising. She's never asked a question like this before. He's unsure how to respond but has no time to think.

"Yes."

Andrews is sentenced to another six months.