“I once got attacked by a bearskin rug, two days before it was a rug.”

“I skinned a skunk to make a rug. You know, for the bathroom.”

“I have a bedroom rug that I feed. It’s not very flat, and it meows when I step on it.”

“My facial features smell as rugged as a rose looks. Isn’t my nose the most romantically smelling thing?”

“Hoping to get a head start on the next day, I eat breakfast the night before. That way I can sleep in until two in the afternoon.”

“The moonlight filtered through the trees like water from a strainer. Agatha’s hair was the color and consistency of wet noodles. I said she might look sexy as a redhead, and she asserted she’d be staying a creamy alfredo. I touched her tight skin they way a drummer might strum a guitar. She called me Mozart, and I didn’t know how to reply so I simply belched. Before I had finished, her open mouth was on mine, and she was huffing my essence like David Hasselhoff hoofing it to the liquor store. I remember what color panties she wore. They were transparent with the texture of flesh. I rubbed her back while she purred. Her skin was as soft as a fur coat. We made love for what seemed like days, but was in fact 3:58.95—a personal best for me. I felt like Roger Bannister, and she felt like a cheetah. Literally. I told her she’d look good on my rug, as a rug, and she playfully pinched the folds on my stomach. She explored my naval cavity with her pinky, and what started out as foreplay turned into a scavenger hunt. While she might have expected to find lint, nobody could have ever suspected she’d find the lost Templar treasure.”

“When the going gets tough, the tough give thanks for their mountain bike. I’m so rugged even cavemen would call me Xtreme. At least that’s what that Neanderthal barista who made my drink said under his breath when he uttered—or muttered—“This guy is extreme.”