Yeah, I have, and it ended with him demanding proof - PROOF! - that I am (a) tall and (b) mow my own lawn. It was frigging surreal.

Buy a bunch, man - they're like potato chips.

At least it's not Phil Collins…

Tad? Tad Disingenuous?

I cache culture in my keister!

Damn straight. The only more fearsome weapons were the hamburger press left on the grill to sear an inattentive palm and the ice-cube, lobbed into the fry vat to explode and spray bystanders with molten shortening.

Faith? Virginity? A wisdom tooth?

Mmmm… toast!

Sure, if you're willing to settle for second-best.

It's bismotered with unguents!

So, in essence, she's hoping that removing her taint from her Goop will make her Goop more appealing.

It worked for Sonny Liston.

Fuckin' A, man.

I had to Google it. You don't want to know.

Aw, man - I like Sabbath…

Led Fucking Zep.

I'm just gonna leave this here, for all the people who were hoping to see a little penis.

God damn it. I'd forgotten that…

When I stayed in the Trump Tower/Plaza/Phallo-Monstrosity in Vegas we found a bag of breast milk in the freezer. Fine, luxurious, and fucking classsy breastmilk.

Oh, but it does. I hired a forensic psychologist to evaluate a client of mine and his findings - in his words - were "This kid is a real asshole."