Stella is not a piece of furniture. Stella is not a glass of orange juice. Stella is not a hairy man without nipples. Stella is not a VCR blinking "12:00." Stella is not a glass bottle shaped like Madonna. Stella is not a bowl of plastic fruit that tastes like real fruit. Stella is not Aretha Franklin standing in the middle of an arena football game belting the Declaration of Independence. Stella is a beer. Mommy. Stella is not a juniper tree coasted in American-made polyester products. Stella is not a herd of sheep draped in Christmas lights. Stella is not a plaster sculpture of Frank Sinatra with a cat that looks like the Venus De Milo. Stella is not the pope. Stella is not a buttered watermelon. Stella is not a catalog of all the things I hate about my body. Stella is not an intricate system of tunnels beneath the Taj Mahal. Stella is not a performance of Mozart's Requiem on kazoos. Stella is on fire. Stella is not a faceless baby. Stella is not an oiled gazelle. Stella is not that delicious pot-roast that you left in the oven on Tuesday because you're a horrible wife and you can't even make me a decent dinner. Stella is not a self-help guide about how to improve your sex life while at baseball games. Stella is not a cheap imitation of the J. Peterman catalog. Stella is not an ugly girl that your treated like a queen as a joke and then realized she was beautiful on the inside but then realized she was ugly. Stella is not any of the things that jazz is. Stella is not a homeless man describing the practicality of a spork in everyday situations. Stella is not a gorilla being taught to love a kitten. Stella is not a steaming plate of boiled crabgrass. Stella is not an ancient sex toy salvaged from an Egyptian tomb. Stella is not the one ring to rule them all. Stella is not a pear-shaped apple. Stella is not a man-eating spider. Stella is not angel-face biquick cornflower petunia apple-blossom. Stella is not going to explode in 72 hours. Stella is not over.
Stella is funny. Pants.
