Ren Vasey

Lines By Ren Vasey:

And I was wearing the wrong pants. "Holy Cat Ass!" I thought to myself as I looked down at my 50 inch JNCO jeans.
The years of litigation has taken a toll on my finances, so I live alone in studio apartment on the outskirts of town that costs $35 each week and sup on two boiled hotdogs and a glass of water each night.
Seriously though, my parents were children of the sixties, and, true to their subculture, they had named me Baskin Robbins as a way to stick it to their middle class upbringing which they perceived as dominated by materialism and greed.
The tremendous output of methane gas from her posterior had forced the royal health inspector to sequester her in the abandoned tower overlooking the kingdom.
"Hey Laura. How you been? Why don't you get me a slice know what...a DOUBLE slice of that triple D cake. Today's gonna be a good day."
"Holy Cat Ass!" I thought to myself, trying to stay calm.
She was particularly fond of unpasteurized Stiltons—indulging in a slice with her afternoon tea—but the royal health inspector forbade such reckless consumption of this most unholy of microorganism-infested milk food products.
The 'Dirty Dog Doozie' topped the charts for 12 straight weeks and inspired a rather risqué dance that required super natural balance and coordination.
As I took my first bite of that ice cream cake, my mind started calculating fast. I should call Dan. He'll know what to do.
my hands slipped over the slick surfaces. I stifled a cry. This was not the expected outcome of the experiment.
I dig up some quarters from the depths of my pockets and walk over to the payphone. It's covered in dust and grease. A long forgotten remnant of the past.