Millions of Americans are unable to quit their jobs to join choirs. It’s a crisis of affordable how-sing.
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I want to sip warm rooibos chai in my hipster dwelling. It’s my loft tea ambition.
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The Founding Fathers approved of suburban spawl. When I gaze upon the endless tracts of houses in cookie-cutter subdivisions, I am reminded of their words, that “all manor created equal.“
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I live in a leaky German submarine. It’s my humble uboat.
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So annoying! A UFO came and put a lien on my house.
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If you want to make whoopee, it’s best to move into a fartable housing, toot suite.
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My new landlady made a pass at me. I declined, because I didn’t want a Hi, mate tenants, relationship.
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I spat gum out onto a wall – and now it’s gotten stucco.
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I bought a house next to a Portapottie. Ah, leakfront property!
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If you get nostalgic about childhood camping trips you are just living in the past tents.
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