In the event that you perchance upon a mythological entity, and said entity or, dare I say, entities, have desired coconuts, the directions for capturing said coconuts is as follows:

Step 1: Determine if entity — say, your brother — is malicious in intent, or simply a selfish flesh-eating neanderthal.

Step 2: Break his ankles, or perhaps if you feel lucky, both pinky toes.

Step 3: Steal said coconut, bash open with rock and/or machete.

This of course can only work in aforementioned mythical kingdoms. If your brother is Pelops, and you are Tantalus, then you are fully fucked. Perhaps...

There isn't a thing you could do to make my situation better.

You people like to think that you could change my lucky stars if you wanted to, as though you are angelic beings who can pluck we lepers from our squalor and dirt on a whim. If I cared to share with you, it's likely you wouldn't believe my story anyway.

The world is a bigger place than you would ever imagine, with an expanse of experience broader than your mind can fathom — neither bad nor good, but certainly considerable experience.

I have studied astrophysics, Shakespeare, and written...

He stares into her bloodshot eyes, her glaring furious and terrified back.

She has not slept in over 24 hours and it is by sheer will-power that she manages to remain erect and alert. He must not win.

It must be over soon, she dreams, hallucinates, cries to heaven and God and all her nightmarish waking hells.

Freshman Biology.

First it was the night sweats. Then the spontaneous attacks of anxiety. Her boyfriend left after the sleep talking began, screaming about failing and nonsense and the like.

A test? No, more than a test. This was it.

Her delusions extended...

"Bitch don't know how to swim. Bitch need to learn how to swim wit da sharks."

"What?" my Grandmother said.

"You see, whatchoo need he'ah is a metafough."

"A what?" she spluttered.

"A metafough!" he insisted.

We weren't in uptown anymore.

"I think what the kind doctor is trying to say is that it helps to use metaphor to explain your condition, Grandma," I said, waxing poetic to his accented jargon.

God love her, but my granny is a racist old bitch. Nobody would be more happy to see her kick that bucket more than me, were it not for...

One left, one right. Two by two, on and on, ad infinitum.

No one has ever had any doubt about Johnny's prowess. The man has a fucking PhD in horticulture, and all without a day of instruction or a minute of in-class study. A natural, they said.

The trick was in the wrist. A little dip-and-flick, and they soar into the dirt with just enough force.

A master seeds-man, with few adversaries.

Damn 'munks don't know how to take a hint.

Bury them he did, but sometimes the little cretins would stumble upon the treasure troves and gobble the pre-germinated...

Without a doubt, the hat makes the man.

Douglas VanHornersmeltser knew this. He also knew that without removing his hat, the bald spot atop his head would never receive the proper tan he needed for his date at precisely 7 p.m. on the night of Saturday the 11th of January.

A prudent New Englander, Douglas had rarely ventured to concern himself with tanning, his chaste, leathery skin almost always coated in the finest sheer of exfoliated heaven. Yet on this very occasion he sought the affections of the lady up 12th Avenue, Lydia Snout.

An elegant woman with slender legs...

The first time I saw Tommy, I knew he was a total douche. I don't allow my sister to date douches; shit — no brother should. That's rule number 2.

Rule number 1, in case you are wondering, is that you don't interfere with your sister's romances. But I take exception with douches.

Of course, there's a perfectly civil way to address his low-life status without resorting to a politically un-savvy term like "douche," which can alienate the polite, women, and my parents equally well, but anyone who knows me will say there ain't a bone of misogyny in this...

I am breathless. My heart is in my stomach and pounding around like an indoor hockey match. Staring deep into the eye of my accuser I beg: "mercy!"

The clock ticks furiously past the minutes. One, two, suddenly five have passed and I am sure to pass out from the sheer weight of the moment.

Does Miranda find true love in those five minutes?

Oh curse you fickle fate, you demon of home electronics and urban sitcom.

My bladder yearns at attention but suppress its screams I must; the DVR needs repairing. The show must go on.

In streams and,...