If nothing else, 2009 was the year of the zinger. A popular place to toss off snappy, witty one-liners is the Facebook Status Update. Over the next few posts, we’ll present to you the very best. Feel free to add your own below …
I have been put to death by trampoline and high-powered ceiling fan.
I ran over a hobo with his own shopping cart. Quite cathartic.
I set myself on fire. On purpose. I thought I could become Cajun.
I snapped and killed a drifter on his way home from work. Shouldn’t have tried to wash my car, jerk.
Once again my cat’s HPV is acting up … on her BIRTHDAY none the less.
I would give drifters his spare change if I were altruistic and giving. I’m not, so I generally put broken glass pieces in their coffee cans.
I would kiss you, but I already showered today.
Haiku time: “Waiting for you to Sit across from me and stare. Get away, you creep.”
Kissing in the rain is romantic. Kissing in a thunderstorm is dangerous and sexy. Kissing in a tornado is, well … not something I’d recommend.
Looks like my plan to have a dolphin-piloted spacecraft in 2012 has been blown to smithereens.
I embarked on a magical journey through the chocolate mousse forest and the candy-coated mountains, to play with unicorns and koalafish on a rainbow of freezie-pops.
She was of a pristine vintage, eyes that would melt glass and a smile that’d intoxicate you till you were unable to walk and illegal to drive. And yet, her heart sought warmth from the Yukon.
You’re so boring … you’re like a resident of South Dakota watching a 60 Minutes special on “Zoning Laws and Building Codes” with a Michael Bolton album playing in the background and eating a plain grilled chicken sandwich, while the kids play ‘Go Fish.’
I have a hurricane for a smile, and a tornado for a laugh. My happiness devastates the surrounding communities.
Jumper-cables, a defibrillator and potentially a cattle prod.
Somebody had to put the rag on the stick and call it a mop. It might as well be you. (From Red)
Hallways spark the balcony before the wheeze coughs mightly under the forest key.
You are a fireworks display inside my head. A booming, obtrusive spectacle that leaves me slack-jawed. I want my roman candle to be your fuse.
You are a summer flower; all dew dripping off your petals and vibrant color reflecting in the mid-afternoon glow. I wish I could pick you, place you in a bell jar and display you on my window sill, but to do that I would kill you so I’ll just leave you be.
I need to listen to more Swedish dark-ambient-post-industrial-drone. Clearly.
You are a wasted, disgusting piece of flesh. You are a narcissistic, gluttonous mountain of hot air and broken promises.
You are an imaginary hypochondriac on more medications than what ails you. You are a hippo in snake’s clothing and a failed exercise.
All my friends love the word “Doucheasaurus.”
Often times, I will go without a shave or a haircut for longer than the acceptable span of time. People will say “Man, that scuzz-bucket truly let himself go.” Then, I shock the snark out of them by shaving or getting my hair cut the exact same way it was before. To which people will comment, “Wow, you look great!” It’s all perspective, baby.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and an oversized 3-wood to bash the skulls in of the haters who get in my way.
Sometimes, I imagine Morgan Freeman narrating the story of my life in real-time, to make the mundane appear monumental. “Peanut butter and banana. The cornerstone of any nutritious lunch.”
You’re a colander under a faucet. Nothing you say holds water.
A spoonful of sugar helps the psychedelic mushrooms go down.
This is pretty much the end, or the beginning. Depending on from which direction you’re traveling.
Question: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: Fish.
She’s like a Magic Eye. The longer you stare at her, the more you realize she’s art.
Let’s role play. I’m a faucet and you’re a tub. I’ll fill you up and get you wet, and you’ll just lay there like you’re a house fixture. On second thought, that’s not any different from normal.
How to make women want you, by John Gorman … filed under fiction at your local library.
I don’t care if you’d think twice. You’re a sweet girl but you’d pair best with a man with spice. Coz I’m the red curry and you’re the satay. Who told me that? You just did, and you didn’t even have a say.
Every word which escapes your lips feels like a kiss upon mine.
I love vh1’s year-end movie blowout. today … 2 legit, the mc hammer story. Also … I’m certain the sultry host of 5 ingredient fix stands in for Amy Winehouse from time to time.