Mall Mavens Pillows

Stuff: You Don't Really Need But Still Don't Have.

A Punk Rocker Cocoon.

Medieval headlines.

'Isn't that the ghastly couple we met last summer in Rock?'

The Cattle show Week.

'No-one buys these stylish frames for their eyes, usually it's for their Facebook photo's.'

Lady in Card Shop sees Sympathy Cards section with 'Bear Market', 'Falling Dollar' and 'Inflation' categories.

"I have to start thinking out of the box."

"This doesn't have anything to do with the falling price of oil, does it?"

'I'm being denied access to the Warren Buffett within me.'

'My micro is so good it's beginning to grow into the macro.'

Dracula Admires His Offspring.

'There are shortcuts to making home brew, but taking a swig of malt extract and letting it ferment in your mouth isn't one of them.'

"I was going to transmute it into gold, and then I read that the base metal market has made a remarkable recovery!"

"You can't beat the prices of these big box retailers."

"Ma'am, do you know how well you were driving?"

"Wife and two hernias to support!"

"You can afford to retire at 65, but you'll need to die at 70."

Stunning politeness.

"All you had to do was ASK us to leave!"

"excuse me...what town am i in..?"

Wall Street .

Houdini tries to get out of dinner with his in-laws.

"Whenever someone scoffs at dreaming the impossible dream, I tell them to think of Bloomingdale's –the way it was long, long ago, and the way it is now."

"27 marathons in 27 days - he's no but a show-off!"

"No, thanks. I'm in training."

"I'm a local craftsperson - I make money."

'My Brew's really hoppy. . . I use the whole frog!'

"Guys my age get all their news from 'The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.'"

"Are you playing footsie with me?"

"Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and Botox bubble."

"Why do all butlers say m' lud at the end of every sentence!"

'If my phone is a smart phone, is your wall phone a dumb phone?'

"Oh my God, I HAVE to touch your hair!"

'It's rude to talk to someone with your sunglasses on - they can't see your . . er . . limpid pools of loveliness.'