I blow up fireworks all the time, and I love making milkshakes and banana splits.
A book without potty humor is like a banana split without hot fudge. It can still be good, I suppose, but you kinda get the feeling that something is missing.
I feel pretty good. My body actually looks like an old banana, but it's fine.
I believe in holistic medicine, yoga, Pilates and so on. But I also believe in banana split sundaes once in a while.
Banana Splits for Breakfast. I think I ate about five.
A muddy little stream, a village grown unfamiliar with time and trees. I turn around and retrace my way up Main Street and park and have a Coke in the confectionery store. It is run by a Greek, as it used to be, but whether the same Greek or another I would not know. He does not recognize me, nor I him. Only the smell of his place is familiar, syrupy with old delights, as if the ghost of my first banana split had come close to breathe on me.
I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split.
With no pretensions of art, Viva Las Vegas, the new Elvis Presley vehicle, is about as pleasant and unimportant as a Banana Split.
Angry Black White Boy is bananas! Actually, it's a banana split with razor blades in it. Adam Mansbach is the white Richard Wright, and Angry Black White Boy is our generation's Native Son.
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