Frachitty fa la coonilio brifta gar­gly­blast! Hoody-​​doo fgfarella noogy bliflepurst! Poodlynarf nikky­will­ing sum­matathng con­tes­teo balla lalla ward want­i­ngscarf, ammatty meany fur­ble foo! Gartgledyblip pooly foonting voitvoid mes­sa­natilly hoomtoing.

Now that we’re clear.

Batteries not included, some assem­bly required, results not typ­i­cal, bitches, so don’t think that swal­low­ing a pill a day and sit­ting on your fat ass will make you look like a some­thing­teen girl. In order to get really hot, the only known solu­tion is to get men really, really drunk, because BEER GOGGLES ACTUALLY WORK.

That’s right, fuck him while he’s drunk, fuck him till you’re preg­gers, and THAT MAN WILL BE YOURS! The SOUTH SHALL RISE AGUM, SHALL CONTINUE TO RISE UNTILUM, SHALL CONSIDER THE POSSIBILITY OFAH FUCK, THE SOUTH IS GOING TO SPEND MOST OF ITS WEEKEND LOOKING AT CHEERLEADER PORN AND MASTURBATING SADLY ON THE TOILET BOWL. BUT THE SOUTH SHALL DO IT AGAIN, IF IT DOESN’T HAVEBAD CASE OF WHISKEYDICK!

Rated M for mature content.

(Oh, did I not men­tion that?)


Or C because some­one some­where in the mix says “cunt”, which is some­thing our teen boys must never know about, nor our girls, and exe­sex­e­spex­i­al­liay since it was Ani DiFranco who said it, well. C is for cunt which means Lesbian, boys and girls. Fear the cunt. Hate the cunt. Fuck the cunt.

[William Shatner says, “In every rev­o­lu­tion there is one … uh, man with a vision” as InSOC tunes its keyboards.]

Or maybe it means Cookie Monster, that mono­ma­ni­a­cal freak, but you know what “cookie” means, and aren’t we get­ting just a lit­tle bit tired of hav­ing mostly every word being turned into slang for pussy? I mean really, you can say some­thing like “radio receiver” and have some puerile ass turn it into a sex­u­ally charged thing, and really, who needs all these neo-​​Freudians who just haven’t fig­ured out yet that some­times a cigar is IN FACT JUSTFUCKING CIGAR? You put the jack into the receiver and lis­ten, like this, see, mm, isn’t that nice?

YOU! In the back row. Yes, you, radio boy. STOP JACKING IN!

W E      C A N      A L L      S E E      Y O U !

When you do it on cam­era it’s porn and you get paid for it. But when you do it in your own liv­ing room and “for­get” to close the blinds, well, hell.

Turds float, but politi­cians stink, and long before it was a nuclear sub, the Nautilus was the inven­tion of a nine­teenth cen­tury writer who was also wrong about Martians invad­ing Earth, and for that rea­son I don’t believe in steak tartare, which is clearly a Communist plot. In America, WE COOK OUR FUCKING BEEF, IVAN! AND THEN WE THROW PIG BELLIES OVER IT AND COVER IT WITH RANDOM SPICES, MONOSODIUM GLUTAMATE, CORN SYRUP AND WAY TOO MUCH GODDAMNED SALT! YEAH! THAT’S AN AMERICAN BURGER, YOU SOVIET SHITBALLS!

A penis is the same as a ski lift: Meaningless costly ele­va­tion for a few min­utes of thrill, usu­ally in spe­cial latex-​​filled costumes.

Our pres­i­dent is a genius. Note that I have not defined the words “our”, “pres­i­dent” or “genius”, and as we all know the def­i­n­i­tion of “is” is still in ques­tion. “a” is on its own. Sorry.

Hastur may be unspeak­able, but XKCD redeems sins.

Eris died for your shit, and she wants it all back now, espe­cially the pearl ear­rings, since she has a dance to go to this week­end. For now, her eunuch is just won­der­ing if any ran­dom crap will turn itself into a fifty-​​reply post.

If I were a woman, I would be a les­bian. So I’m writ­ing a book: “How can I get a sex change, will it get me more pussy, and does it mean I have to start dri­ving like a stu­pid bitch?” Buy your copy of this sen­si­tive, insight­ful tale of one woman’s courage to be her­self tomorrow!

Radio is the opi­ate of the reli­gious. Sundays are like sun­daes, full of sweet­ness but lack­ing any­thing of real value unless you sac­ri­ficed the goat to Great Cthulhu.

FACT: If Hitler hadn’t reversed the swastika, we’d all be speak­ing German. It’s true! Try it yourself!

I took an antibi­otic course in col­lege, but flunked it.

Penises are over­rated, except for the last 160,000 years of human evo­lu­tion that some­how seemed to involve them.

If you can read this, you’re too far gone. Turn up at the next yel­low light, then turnip at the fol­low­ing green. You’ll find me at the Radishon.

I have no regrets; I apol­o­gize for nothing.

Well, except, you know, 2002 till now. That thing, well, yeah.

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