I dunno, but, somehow in 2006, I set off a bitter torrent of email exchanges with a Bob Walker of Hutchinson, Kansas.
What the heck was I thinking?
Mike: Bob, you are so large ... you drive a spandex car.
Mr. Walker: May an Oprah viewer weep into your cake.
Mike: May you be bald by Dr. Phil.
Mr. Walker: May a weird chef sautée your sister.
I have no sister.
Mike: May Macauley Culkin testify about your ways with old-fashioned potted meat can screws.
Mr. Walker: May Ma Kettle fiddle with your fixins.
Mike: May Elly May Clampett jilt you for her rope belt.
Mr. Walker: May Mr. Drysdale foreclose your mother.
Mike: May a confused Shrekkie mistake your pudding bowl for a swamp.
Mr. Walker: May Puff the Magic Dragon spew soot on your sister.
What sister?
Mike: May [an obnoxious used car dealer] give you a ride on his bowtie.
Mr. Walker: May Don Ho leave a tiny bubble in your sitz bath.
Timely. Go back to my sister.
Mike: May the Pirates of the Caribbean put teeny eye patches on your potato.
Mr. Walker: May Johnny Depp squirt squid ink on your sister.
Thank you.
Mike: May the sweet morning breath of Calamity Jane's ghost knock the wind out of your broomstick horsie.
