"Surely you joust," retorted the not-so-famous thirteenth century Greek philosopher when pressed for his secret ingredients during the ad hoc bra mitzvah under the Manhattan Bridge.
Yet wearing a codpiece outside your pants is so medieval, all in attendance concur. So why did the plastic chicken cross the country road? Any average-sized thumb could answer that simple riddle.
The bartender nods and points at the helicopter below the belt, rotor blades out of synch coughing. But an uninvited Tracy Emin already beats him to the sucker punch, unequal parts banana and two ripe melons with a dash of bitters on their rocks.
Just say no, just say no, both implore in stereo as the mixed-up conversation suddenly melts, causing him to suddenly sweat.
Who can tell for sure whether the bastard is suffering from total yellow fever though his wife did text for emergency evacuation.
The octopus in the room decides right then to rise and head to the bathroom. Coming to grips with tentacles is often much sexier than any fetish.
LHOOQ goes the pun.
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