Eat Up Martha, you never answered my question about the shout-outs. You just upvoted my question and walked away like a Swede!

Ladies and gentlemen, the shit-snake has finally eaten its own tail.

Do you know what I'm going to tell you, Pants? Flann O'Brien is your only man.

David Hasslewhovian, star of his mother's basement.

Yes yes, very good. I fixed the typo but it didn't go through for the longest time.

I feel that Teti deserves a special commendation for the captain caption to the photo.

"Dermot Trellis was a man of average stature but his person was flabby and unattractive, partly a result of his having remained in bed for a period of twenty years. He was voluntarily bedridden and suffered from no organic or other illness. He occasionally rose for very brief periods in the evening to pad about the…

Not to be confused with Marmot Mulroney, former Prime Minister of Canada and roguish, fast-talking Irish marmot. He stole the public's heart, just like he stole their sweet, sweet eggs!

That's a fair point, Mr. Dobbs, but I think the real issue here is jive-talking pigeons, and whether or not they might be agents of Control.

#1: "These mashed sweet pertaters are hot!"
#2: "Mmm-hmm. Deep, too."

I would have thought that shutting down an account is a permanent solution—I mean, people can't just get a new e-mail address these days and create a new Disqus account. High-five me General Dada, wherever you are!

Great—another reason for the crack-heads who sleep in my garage to get all holier-than-thou.

Leave it to the Democrats to let the Spaniards back in the pantry!

Good to see our flatulent and foul-mouthed friend Farty Hard is back, with an appropriately contrite new demeanor. *farts in a conciliatory manner*

I wish I could remember the name of a stand-up comic I saw once on tv who did what I thought was the best Arnold impression ever. He used absolutely no words—he just smiled and started opening and closing his mouth while making sounds like "nom nom nom nom nom!" I'm not doing it justice at all, but holy hell was it…

Hannah: "Ok, I am, like, seriously freaked out right now? Your head just rotated like a million degrees on your neck, you come down the stairs like some kind of meth-addled spider, and you keep spewing black bile that's just gross and smells like a hippie's rasta hat. I'm going to go in the other room, and if you…

It kind of looks like my old green Volare, except with machine guns instead of pigeon shit.

As I understand it, the advantage to dreadlocks is that they ensure that at all times you smell like an ashtray that has miraculously developed the ability to sweat.

The thing about Spunk on Spunk is that it was a cry for help, hence the acronym "S O S". At this point, he was so exhausted from the constant orgasms mandated by his manager Mr. Gross that he faked his own death in a jism-choking accident.

[meekly]: I'll be good.