Gently informing a DJ that there is a problem with the sound system:

No music is, um, on.

A German bouncer at a gay S&M bar telling an underage customer, who is standing in line, that he cannot let him enter the bar:

Ya, get an ID, robust, subordinate gay.

A father trying to connect with his estranged son by offering him some pizza:

Son, I’m odd. Domino’s?

The head baker at a bakery instructing a new employee about how to deal with customers and then suddenly noticing what the new baker has made:

Snub no man. Nice cinnamon buns!

An American tourist angrily correcting his cab driver after landing in Italy and discovering that the driver is taking him to the wrong city:

No. Rome, moron.

A dialogue between a man and his young son. The man is trying to teach the boy the name of a piece of fruit and the difference between singular and plural:

– Son, say a papaya.
– Papayas.
– No ‘s’.

A butler politely asking the young son of his rich employer to go to the bathroom as he gets him ready for bed:

Emit debris, sir. Bedtime.

A comment said to a friend about the size of his old jeans, after he’s lost a lot of weight.

Massive Levis, Sam.

A scientist’s reaction to what he finds in a Petri dish.

P.U.! Organisms in a group.

A guy explaining to his friend how he feels about operas as he accidentally runs into a beehive.

See, bro, operas are poor – Bees!

A poem about a lonely man in a strip club, who contemplates the age-old battle of the sexes when he becomes infatuated with two of the club’s dancers, Tina and Stella. As he watches the strippers, the bouncers watch him. Soon he begins to lose control of himself, proposing marriage to Stella and fondling two other dancers. At the same time, he starts to develop a gnawing sense of self-awareness, discovering that he, like the other men in the club, is as much a spectacle as the very strippers they are watching. Still, he cannot escape his own nature. And when he finally gets too intimate with one of the ladies, she wallops him with her boobs, turning his thoughts about the battle of the sexes into physical reality.

Sexes. Eh, the sexes.
Never even. Still, it’s DNA.
Never awed, I spot a boob.
O, wow! O, now two. Wow! OK.
A still animal sits afoot: one vamp, a lap maven.
O, timid loser, I sedate ye.
Yes, live devil, as I tip it, it is.
I tip it. I peep it.
‘Send a man a gross orgasm!
I am, Ms, a crass, base dud.’

Ah, supple holes made me dire.
Lame fate got old, a most ogled omen.
O, did I tap a tit? A pat? I did.
Boobs or pasties, a bosom . . . Mmm –
Uh oh –
Ahem, pal!’
Fast, I toss a tip.
‘Mr, ass?’: a warning.
I sat ogled.
O, men! O, me, to tame Tina!

To gits I’m all animal.
‘Sit now,’ I say, as I do.
‘Got it!’ A pull … up it now I peer … camise
yonder I keep.
I tip, I riff, or on one post untied, I ring.
I say, ‘O boy! My, my, baby. Ticklish?’
Alas, a bossy baby. Ergo, nope.
Yes, I rise. Yes.
‘Ah, can I flow on, Miss?’ I hit it.
‘Oh, madam!’ Stress all astir oft.
‘Ah, we’re too hot.’

Ah, we met a rebel god as animals.
I won’t nod. I’ll act.
Eyes open, I fall.
It’s we few, dim, all ill.
I’m in a man-made reverie, babe.
Now on one pole: Stella!
Ever I wonder, Miss, as I tip (also ten, if stiff).
It’s o so still. A creep’s eyes peer.
Call it so.
So stiff, it’s fine to slap. It is ass.

I’m red now.
I reveal, ‘Let’s elope!’ ‘No.’
Now one babe I revere. Damn! A man.
I’m ill, ill amid we few still.
A fine pose yet call I don’t.
Now I slam in a sad ogle.
‘Berate me!’
‘What?’ O, hoot. Ere? What for?

‘It’s all,’ asserts madam, ‘ho tit.’
I hiss, ‘I’m no wolf in a chase.’ Yes, I rise. Yep.
O, no. Grey baby’s so basal.
Ah, silk city baby, my, my. O boy, a sign!
I ride it, nuts open. On or off, I rip it. I peek.
Ired, no? Yes, I’m a creep.
I won’t. I pull up a tit.
‘O God,’ I say, as I won’t.
I slam, in all, a mist.

I got an item, a totem.
One model got a sign in raw ass.
Armpit. Ass. O, tits. A flap! Me!
Ha, ho, hum. Mmm. O, so base.
It’s a pro’s boob.
Did I tap a tit? A pat? I did.
One model got so mad.
Lo, to get a female. ‘Ride me, damsel.
O, help push a dude’s abs.’

Sarcasm maims a gross organ, a mad nest.
I peep. I tip it. I sit. I tip.
It is a live devil’s eye.
Yet a desire’s old. I’m it: one vamp, a lap maven.
O, too fast I slam.
In all, it’s a K.O.
Wow! Ow. Two now. Ow.
O, boob, a topside war.
Even and still it’s never even.
Sexes. Eh, the sexes.