Kate Ryan

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.