The armies assembled, because each believed their leader to be the most virtuous, and so at the appointed hour, they flung poo at each other.

After much shouting the rancor died down and he admitted they hadn’t really been talking about love; they had been talking about hemorrhoids.

He ran under the steel gray sky until he couldn’t run anymore. He stumbled into a bar breathlessly. She called me scrunchy, he said, feebly.

In the dawn’s light she says, My phlegm is better looking than you, and he gets dressed and leaves and tells his friends she was too phlegmy.