The Trumpster Strikes Again It was a dark and stormy night in Washington D.C. The kind of night where you’d want to stay indoors, curl up with a good book, and pretend the world outside wasn’t, well, totally bonkers. But in the White House, the lights were blazing, and the tweeting was in full swing. […]

Coco the Clown prided herself on being a purveyor of wholesome mirth. Her bright red nose wasn’t for honking terror into children’s hearts, but for blowing out birthday candles (imaginary ones, of course, because real fire and a big floppy shoe were a disaster waiting to happen). Her squirting flower trick only sprayed harmless glitter,

Brenda, with her fiery red hair and a laugh that could wake the stapler from its eternal slumber, had always held a soft spot for Mr. Kensington, the balding but charming CEO. What began as stolen glances over TPS reports blossomed into after-work drinks, then late-night texts that autocorrected “strategy meeting” to “sexy meeting” (much

The morning sun streamed through the window, painting golden stripes across Toby’s fur. He stretched, a symphony of pops and cracks from his joints, and blinked at his human, Emily. Unlike most dogs, Toby didn’t just whine or bark greetings. He spoke, his voice a gentle baritone. “Good morning, sunshine. Did you sleep well?” Emily,

Mildred wasn’t your average farm goat. Sure, she munched on hay and occasionally sported a stylish grass-stain beret, but Mildred had a secret weapon – or should we say, a hilarious weakness. At the slightest hint of stress, excitement, or even a particularly enthusiastic bee, Mildred would faint. Stone. Cold. Faint. This peculiar talent, while