Seven Reasons We Never Met for Drinks at the Sand Dollar Lounge

I meant to call but then there was that cheese fire at the old folks' home and you know I don't have the kind of hair that can pull off a flambé.

I was going to drop by unexpectedly, like the Black Death in 14th century Europe, until the car started leaking philosophy fluid.  It took a whole volume of Nietzsche to get to the library.  I forgot to renew that book on razor clams.

In another life I was an ant.  You poured boiling oil on the Huns until they cut off your head.  Prayer flags make the best parachutes only if your spirit has the atomic weight of antimony (Sb).

Email was out of the question since the last time I started the computer it sang erotic nursery rhymes in a breathy voice and said byte me in 23 different languages whenever I pressed ENTER.

The mailman fed my postcards to his canary.  They were stencilled on paper made out of sock lint from my dryer and the edges were gilt like a dead queen's fingernails.  I hope that damn bird choked on the rhinestone-laced corners.

City bus #45 never stops for me.  I tried putting my shirt back on but the Picasso smile of the driver made my skin itch.

I might have walked over, drawn by the tink of a three-piece combo, pulled by the harlequin voice of a middle-aged Mata Hari drifting through the night like a Super-8 film in slow motion.  I might have stepped across the void between wax and flame.  I might have caught a new religion between my legs, but your answering machine cut me off.  
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