Kablammo!

One man developed a romantic attachment to a tractor, even giving it a name and writing poetry in its honor.

(Stolen from: here.)

The short-lived clear-soda craze of 1993 was one of the happiest times of his life, for he had relished switching inattentive friends’ gins-and-tonic for rum and Coke and fondly remembered the resulting spit-takes.

The last time Tony had made it to the front of the queue at the post office, he noticed he’d left his wallet at home; this time, however, he suddenly realized he’d left the parcel behind, turning what should have been a simple and straightforward errand into a noisome and vaguely Sisyphean ordeal.

And so, with the soft darkness of a humidly warm summer twilight languidly closing in around his sunburned body and the federally-protected forest in which he presently found himself, he patiently tied a crude noose to an overhanging branch of a conveniently-located tree and carefully proceeded to mercilessly take his own worthless life, his last panicked thought entirely consisting of a deep and abiding regret for having foolishly invented what he once proudly called his “Unimpeachably Magnificent Qualifierer”, the ridiculous device that had unfeelingly inflicted an unbearable plague of patently unnecessary descriptive terms on the innocent prose of a previously-unencumbered world.

As one of the world’s foremost rodentologists, Amos immediately recognized the beaver marks for what they were, but he was so shaken by the thought of a beaver that could bite through reinforced concrete that he pretended he hadn’t seen a thing, opting instead to drink a pint or twelve down at the pub to get the image out of his mind.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Sherlock Einstein who grew up to hate his parents with every fibre of his being.