avclub-a4e8f15b858da0b458ebab547be3965d--disqus
Introspective Male Cheerleader
avclub-a4e8f15b858da0b458ebab547be3965d--disqus

I'd like to give Ranger Rick a rusty trombone.

Or Connect Four. Like a giant, golden Connect Four set. On the lawn.

And his Russian escorts.

Yes, do talk about gay: don't keep it bottled up inside of you.

LOL THOSE ARE ALSO SHOWS LOL

Who are the Pixies?

Seventeen. Seventeen more iterations. Then you, angry internet fellow, will be redeemed, and we will all return to this post and say, "This was a man ahead of his time."

Sad news, but it's heartening to think that they're all in Heaven hating each other again.

Such a great story.

I can't help but imagine that Sajak has a half-solved replica of the Wheel of Fortune board in his living room, and it reads FUC_ TREBE_

By all appearances Alex Trebek has oodles of class.The only drawback to this is that it keeps him from submitting to the urge to roll up next to babes at intersections, roll down the window, and ask, "What is—up bitch?" Then hit a spliff and laugh smoke as the light turns green and his limo driver pulls away.

You know what? I sympathize.

I think Henley's analogy is pretty solid, though I would say that covering an Eagles song is more akin to drawing a mustache on a puddle of red, chunky puke expelled from the guts of someone who had peaches and Hawaiian Punch for lunch.

My stroke was once clocked at 101 mph (like you've never pointed a radar gun at your dong), but since undergoing Tommy John surgery I've had to adapt as a soft tosser. My whiff rate has actually increased, which is not only weird but very problematic to effective masturbation.

I did get the sense that the show's director was always shouting at Chris Burke through a megaphone, "Tard it up, Chris, tard it up. No one's gonna believe this shit if you don't turn up the tard, come on."

Listening to Dan Fogelberg and punching the shit out of the steering wheel in an insane rage.

I see BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

Happy, put the knife down.

It's the device through which he receives messages from Hitler's ghost.

My Physics teacher was Brimleyesque, with a wax salt-and-pepper moutsache. He rolled his own cigarettes.