Hey, buddy, hold on there. How would you feel if I lit your friend on fire?
Oh, I did? Well. How does it feel? How do you like it?
Milton was failing miserably to escape from a conversation with a disagreeable man for whom basic dental hygiene had long since moved from the back burner into the space between the stove and the wall.
Twice he had tried to get out of bed, failing the first time and succeeding the second time only in falling from the bed to the floor. But Thomas had prepared for this eventuality, and there were pillows and blankets on the floor by his bedside. He remained there for the rest of the day.
"We're finally here," he said. "Off the edge of the map."
His traveling companions were not so enthused, as the map went only as far as the fence around their yard, and was drawn hastily on a napkin, besides.
Lately, things between Dr. and Mrs. Vandertramp had been tense; she had been holding three of his henchmen hostage for a week. The nefarious Dr. Vandertramp refused to negotiate, but felt pretty sure he could storm the living room and free his men when his wife fell asleep watching midmorning talk shows.
Trying very hard to impress a room full of total strangers, Maureen maintained excellent posture and poise, but failed to notice the litter of puppies on the floor, which she accidentally kicked and stumbled over.
George was a human cannonball at heart, but at the insistence of his controlling father-in-law, he got an office job, where he frequently got in trouble for the explosive way he entered rooms and for the smell of gunpowder, which never seemed to leave him.
"Your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen. There is no cause for alarm. Unless you count fires."
"Oh, you do consider fires a valid cause for alarm? OK, well, to modify my previous statement: there are, like, at least ten causes for alarm."