Kate Ryan

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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