You really ought to take your dime writing your comments.

I gotta admit, ya had me goin' there for a minute, but then I remembered that Charles Durning wasn't fat. He was really fat, God rest his blessed gargantuan soul.

And also Chris Christie. And Margaret Thatcher, too. And no parking signs. And youthful enthusiasm… Yeah, I get all of them mixed up.

Trump: You sue to have the widowed father's home condemned so you can buy it for almost nothing, level it, and then build a schlocky tower on the land with your own stupid name on top of it and sit in the ridiculously gold encrusted penthouse gloating over what a self deluded vicious piece of shit you are.

This Trump guy, he's not my kind of guy. He's not even my kind of turd.

Oh, excuse me, now I understand what you're saying. Yes, I can see how it can get very tiresome and tedious having to normalize those sorts of interactions, having to make the well meaning but somewhat ignorant fools grasp the simple concept that you're a person first and secondly transgendered or whatever else might…

Greg Graffin?! He looks like a composite average of every white male, ever!

I'm normally a fairly slim, lanky person, but whenever I click on the AV Club bookmark my fingers instantly begin to get pudgy and the pudginess then travels up my arms and spreads throughout body until by the time the page has loaded I am completely pudgified.

I saw Steve Winwood and Traffic in '97 and it was an amazing show. His vocals and guitar playing are superhuman. So he's probably a pretty good bike watcher, too. Good choice.

And the customary garnish is a Banjo full of Chutney,

Or how it's now kinda awkward to ask someone to hand carry a meticulously, obsessively wrapped suspicious parcel that you want her or him to mail to your "uncle" in whatever city that she or he is heading towards assuming, of course, for some strange reason she or he or the jet plane in which she or he is flying…

"We" were not, nor are "we" now worried about dumb stuff. Rather, "we" are preoccupied by profound eternal existential mysteries, such as why do fools fall in love, is this all there is, and who let the dogs out.
{Woof, woof, woof, woof}
{Woof, woof, woof, woof}
{Woof, woof, woof, woof}
{Woof, woof, woof, woof}?

Therefore, an appropriate corollary which follows from your astute snarky quip is that my neighbor's mangy mongrel could host Weekend Update as well as if not better than Colin Quinn.

Kill, Marry*, Bang?!

And why is throat of a Sperm Whale the size of my fist?! (And how do I know this?!)

If you have can of worms for more than 4 hours see your bait and tackle specialist.

Trick mirrors.

Are we talking a genuine sturdy English Oxford, or one of them little weak ass Italian loafers?

WHA?!

Jon Hamm should just run up to people and yell "Banjo!" I would probably laugh. For a dollar.