My work here is done. Carry on with the horse rape.

What would be the point otherwise? Also, thanks for demonstrating my point about your hideously obvious barbed smarminess, you coprophagia/frottage enthusiast.

Your faux-civil tone and mildly ironic remove from the asinine garden of disingenuous rhetorical idiocy that you planted will not save you from the large men who are inevitably going to slowly pull you apart with pliers. The only difference between us is that I’m not pretending to be anything other than a vitriolic…

I hope that angry horses stomp you into a puddle of blood, bone, and splattered pancreas.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. And your mother. Take your amicability and shove it down your neck hole, you fucking sheep rapist.

How far can you punt a football?

Nah. To both the assertion and usage, I say nah. Nah.

And also Jim Cooke.

Mr. Baseball über alles.

Hard to tie on one’s phylacteries with a bad UCL, though.

Is this where we come to deny things that other people can specifically and emphatically attest actually happened? Because if so, I did not pee my chinos and then cry in the 1st grade.

Everybody here did, Blump. Everybody.

How far do you think you could punt a dog-eared copy of “The Feminine Mystique,” if you had the chance to limber up first?

Be nice to Thugger, please.

How much “masc” was really there for the “ulating,” anyway, pal? Be honest, it’s the Internet, we’ll know if you aren't.

But Craggs wasn’t too busy to whip me at the goddamn Slate News Quiz, was he? My one moment of feeling superior each week, stolen by a former Deadspin editor? Fuck.

Wrote it on the board in my classroom.

Anybody gets that close to my junk with a skate blade better buy me dinner first, amiright?

Samer is like 5'3"