If I hear his fake laugh one more time—that slanted cascade of cackle paired with wild eyes and a gum-exposing joker smile; those booming guffaws; the come-and-go-lightly hoot that is habitually preceded by some lame comment and stalked by a sharply punctuating sigh-moan—I will rip my intestines out, twist them at intervals of 4 inches, hang them in a smokehouse for a week, brown them on a sizzling skillet and serve them with eggs and pancakes.
Laughter should never be forged.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Don’t come to breakfast at my house...
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment