I am not making this up. I am not exaggerating. I am not even embellishing, not even a little. Oh, how I wish I were.
You know how some guys seem to exude an aura of pheromone-saturated virility which inspires lovely, nubile women to practically hurl themselves at his... uh... feet?
'Kay den... I was out jogging today, and I passed by an apparently not very successful yard sale that was wrapping up. The participants were in the process of re-boxing the last of their unsold items. As I ran past, a man at the sale called out to me (and I swear I am not making this up):
That painful, haunting line from Bride of Frankenstein springs to mind: "We belong dead."