Sometimes I sit down to write something trivial and a masterpiece ensues. Like most bloggers I have lots to say, but when you strip out the excess there’s barely anything of substance or interest, unless it’s something I’ve written. Testicular explosions and glory to all. Then there’s the fresh fruit act of 1456, designated by Parliament members as the greatest show on Mars. Geeks live there, and invented the socket wrench. You know how a baboon’s vulva swell up when she gets angry? Neon ice cream with fries. Old McDonald had a huge farm, and on that farm he grew some weed; fuck you, buddy. Los Angeles used to have more people than Tikrit, but I have been deployed to both and you don’t want to fuck with the old ladies in Bel Air. Can you say ASSHOLE? It’s like the jocose morbidity of hallelujah. No means of visible support hose. Why even go there? I can do the mashed potato, so Negro, please. Lance Armstrong was as dirty as a teenage boy’s wettest dreams and I once saw one of those idiots eat a bowl of Cheerios and big as a fucking steering wheel. The milk was all swirling and sloshing around in his stomach as we padded along the carpeted hallway so I belted him a good one in the belly with a fire extinguisher and she moaned “awwwwwwwwww, hell’s bells” before projectile vomiting all over her freshly mowed library card. This is a best-selling post, a marvel of modern technology and the most powerful aphrodisiac since pictures of Jeanne Kirkpatrick. Nom nom nom nom. Look at this, a sex symbol! Cymbal. This thing keeps opening and closing like it’s 1799, baby got front AND back. Next time you decide to up and register for the Comrades Marathon, maybe you should read the goddamned application to see what it is you’re signing up from. It’s not a marathon OR a gun club and if you have a criminal record, even for farting in an open container during Oktoberfest, they won’t even let you INTO Toronto, and believe me I tried and they took my fake ID and my Chubby Checker CD collection, which they worked overtime to extract from my sigmoid colon with the entire membership of MENSA looking on silently and dyspeptically. There was no reason at all for them to whip out the reruns of Futurama before that chick could make off with my wallet clenched between her teeth like some hot little swashbuckler number. WA-HOO! say it. I was at the same AA meeting you were when they brought in a keg and said, “this is the last place the cops will ever check.” I got so fucked up that night I barely remember the underage rodeo clowns. I’m sticking this back in Google’s cache where it belongs. Tag this multifaceted and proud, and use it as your Facebook status. Out.
Ensalada de palabra
- Dr. Joan Bushwell's Chimpanzee Refuge
What Hominids are Saying
Our Fossil Record
E-Mail Threats Received to Date
- 165,851 nastygrams