Staked

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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The Timmie's on York Street sported a garish green-and-yellow-striped awning, a fire hydrant out front in case of donut grease fire, and a convenient signpost pointing the way to public parking. “What kind of ungodly breakfast meat do you want from here?” I asked Oberon as I tied him up to the sign.

my hound replied, a pedantic note creeping into his voice.“What?”“Bacon it is. Now be nice to people who look scared of you while I'm in side. Do not pee on the hydrant, and no barking.”

Hounded

Staked

Three Slices

Three Slices

Three Slices

I know that when ye think o' love you're supposed to think o' kissy faces and scented soap and hummin' happy songs together, but there's another vital part to it that people rarely admit to themselves: We want somebody to rescue us from other people. From talking to them, I mean, or from the burden of giving a damn about what they say. We don't want to be polite and stifle our farts, now, do we? We want to let ‘em rip and we want to be with someone who won't care if we do, who will love us regardless and fart right back besides.