I eat black rocks for my breakfast, I breathe out clouds with no rest. I take what is raw and pink, And give it a flavor you can't rethink. I hiss, I smoke, I crackle and pop, The party doesn't end till I stop. What am I?

A wrestling move where arm meets neck, or a method of clothes drying that leaves them stiff as heck.

I have but one simple job, to keep your pants from making a run for it.

Broke folks lack one to pee in; stoners smoke it; poker winners rake it in.

A traveler in paper form, it carries your words near and afar. Painting scenes of distant lands with a single glance, sealing love in inked corners. The mailman delivers it along with the rest of the mail. Be careful though because there is a difference between me and a postal card. Don't be fooled by our similarities