I like scientific validation of twin items in dual display mode.
Thank you gentlemen for these things, of which, I have only recently learned, are not one, but two.

If not seasoned just right and cooked well done, most Presidential severed head is rather a tad tasteless.

Kathy can team up with GWAR for The Denogginizer Tour, and night after night, sever Agent Orange's head all over again, then drop the noggin in a crapper and everybody squats and plops out dungbombs onto the pre-existing lump of shit that is the president's head.

Hey Andy, if you got tossed into that Canyon, do you think God would help you fly?

Jeezum Crow, Gosh, and the Pious Phantom give their triune approval.

All these…memories will be lost…in time…like beads in beards…

Ditto.
That insidious shit makes you retain garbage that needs taken out, delays and accumulates the inevitable drowning clog.

Rest well, sky highway, night lightening, rest well.
No one sings like you anymore. Not one of the jebus clice posers who try.

“This is the great lesson the depressive learns: Nothing in the world is inherently compelling. Whatever may be really “out there” cannot project itself as an affective experience. It is all a vacuous affair with only a chemical prestige. Nothing is either good or bad, desirable or undesirable, or anything else except…

…and so pathetically obvious too, an over-repeated clone of blowholes' predictable comments seen elsewhere.

All these years cannot be mine.

Like to think DFW'd have quite the fun take on the ways of current days had he decided to stick around for them.

…something something two,
DOS WICKER MEN
(toss Agent Orange inna wickawomb too)
We burn observers see Lee.
Swamprats afire suffer Cage…

Let's check back in 20 years to collect some patricide data.

That's right, like that, and don't you forget it lil shitheif…:)

When you quote me you lil demonfuck, use italics or quotes.

Easy mistake to make, devil-child; It's the rhombuses raping the parallelograms and the eyeball eating butterflies you have to watch out for.

The thrusts of your argument buttress a slippery slope from which an appeal to emotion, often shared, is the inevitable climax upon the arrivals of all private shareholders to known conclusions of such a shared goal.

I would have liked if when the Bros Grimsby climbed into the elephant pussy, they found Tom Green already in there puffing away on a hookah.

Only if you say his name backwards 3 times and then pull on Carol Burnett's nipples..