Showing posts with label wtf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wtf. Show all posts

Thursday, December 13, 2012

This song does not contain the word bong

When I sing you this song
Do you think of King Kong?
And his monster dong?
Bet it's 10 feet long
Tell me if I'm wrong
But that's a lengthy schlong
Good thing he's strong
To drag that thing along
To protect the surging throng
He stuffed it in a thong
Under acres of sarong
His favorite Bluth is Annyong
Think that line got the gong
From Chairman Mao Zedong
Whose name is a dipthong
Now I'm gonna go play pong
With my buddy who is Hmong

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Hey ya'll!

Thursday, April 28, 2011

U-turn fail

This poor guy found out the hard way that big rigs and muddy shoulders do not get along very well. We spotted this disaster on a frontage road along I-35 in Lakeville near the County Road 70 exit and decided to take a detour to document his shame -- I mean, the scene.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

May I degrade your performance?

Hello there! I hope you are doing well on this fine day. Well, actually that's why I approached you. I noticed that you're performing at a very advanced level. Your level of performance is so great that it exceeds mine, and let me tell you, I've always prided myself as being in the top tier of performers! I have to say, though, that I feel threatened by your superior skill and efficiency. It makes me want to smack you in the face with my rape whistle. Is there anything I can do to degrade your performance to the point that it matches or falls below my own? Would insulting your mother or waving my dick around help? I think if we work together, you and I can come up with mutually agreeable methods with which to fuck up your shit. What do you say, chum?

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

Old animations

Yes, for the first time in the history of this blog, I've gone more than 2 months without posting. I can't promise it won't happen again, but I do have some posts in the hopper, at least one of which I hope to finish this week.

Enjoy these animations I created about a decade ago when I owned and Reload if you miss one before the animation ends.

Friday, December 04, 2009

Impatient zero

What do you mean you won't go out with her? I talked you up like you were Hugh Jackman and that gay, moody vampire rolled up into one. This chick is buttered up, man. She's hot, fresh, and waiting at the window. You think you're too good for her? Shit, I'd have some respect for your opinion if you so much as lived in your parents' basement, but you're living in a tent in their back yard. So get off your high horse, and call her RIGHT NOW, 'cause you'd throw a cock down that shit, and you fucking know it!

Friday, October 30, 2009

No-talent ass clown

I don't know the full story behind this god-awful, frightening painting of a child-eating clown, but Melissa's friend Tim found it in a church. This is all of the information I have. Did he buy it? Did he steal it in the middle of the night? Did he walk in and punch the priest squay-ah in the shoemaker, sending uneaten eucharist sailing into the air like startled sparrows?

"I seeeee you, little Peter!"

Which leads me to the handwritten message on the back. Apparently this was given to someone named Peter Miller (or possibly Peter Tlliller, Peter llTiller, Peter πliller, or Peter lπiller) for his birthday on October 1, 1965 by the Donohues.

"Happy Birthday, Peter. This clown is going to crawl out of the frame tonight and rape you in the ear with an unmuted bugle. Love, the Donohues."

Friday, August 07, 2009

Need advice? Ask Dear Rapist!

Dear Rapist, my teenage daughter has become increasingly rebellious with the talkback and sassmouth. We've tried grounding her, taking away her cell phone, and even have taken her drivers license and locked away the keys for her car. What should we do?

Tired of Sass in Cleveland, OH

Dear ToS, try propping open your daughter's window and removing the screen tonight. Leave a tall aluminum ladder in the bushes. If you don't have one, borrow one from a neighbor or friend. The aluminum fumes have been proven to reduce sassback by up to 32%.
Dear Rapist, my mother-in-law is driving me nuts! She's constantly in our business, telling my wife how she hasn't achieved enough in life and complaining about what a loser I am to her even when I'm in the room! What should I do to keep her nose out of our lives?

Mother-In-Law's a Bitch in Minneapolis, MN

Dear MILaB, this calls for group counseling. Send both your wife and mother-in-law into the dark alley behind the Walgreens on 3rd Avenue at 1:30 am tonight. Don't follow them in no matter what you hear. They need to work things out between themselves, and it could get noisy.
Dear Rapist, my teenage son has taken to disobeying us at every turn. Whenever he addresses us, whatever he says is either dripping with sarcasm or is downright hurtful and mean. We've tried confiscating his video games, grounding him, anything we can think of, but nothing works. Help!

Worried Dad in Orlando, FL

Dear WD, what is this shit? I don't give a flying fuck about you or your son. Why are you writing me? Come back when you have something I can apply rape logic to.

Dear Rapist holds a PhD in Clinical Rapeology from the University of Kentucky.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Witness to the shitness

Peep it, ass hats. J. Dogg Bo Shagg heard your shrieking 999, and an ambulance with the steering wheel on the right side is on its way to run over your shrubs and gurney your fat fucking ass to the foot of my throne. But I won't be sitting in it 'cuz I prefer the ratty plaid couch at Trey Trey's. He's got an Xbox 360 and a sweet-ass collection of chrome-plated assault shotguns. While you're waiting for me to get home, help yourself to anything in the fridge, but stick to the side full of blood samples and unprepped taxidermy fixin's. You can pinch my road squirrel, but I'll beat you to death with your own ass if you touch my fat free strawberry yogurt. And when I stumble in the door covered in hot fudge and ostrich feathers, you better immediately drop trous 'cuz your treatment requires me to throw a hubcap and a leaking car battery up your pooper from across the room. And the only reason I didn't call it a puckered cock magnet instead of a pooper is 'cuz your motherfucking inbred breach baby is in the next room gnawing on a lamp cord. God damn, you make me sick. Now let's fuck.

Monday, June 22, 2009

For the last time already!

Mom, dad, please sit down. I SAID SIT DOWN! Why you gotta make me angry like that? Angry like a puckered asshole full of Tobasco sauce. Is that how you want me? All dripping with vinegary leakage? And in case you're wondering, it's Chipotle flavored Tobasco. I prefer original, but the anger fills you up with whatever's on hand.

Now that you're sitting down, Let me drop the shunt of revelation on your moistened cortex -- you can't move in with me. I know you haven't asked to move in with me, but I need to tell you that you can't. I have a very comfortable spare bedroom with clean, crisp sheets, but you can't stay with me and take refuge in that plushness. What? No, I KNOW -- I already told you that I realize that you haven't asked to move in with me. But it's still important for me to tell you that you can't under any circumstances move in, keep me company, and help me out with my bills. I forbid it! Even though there is a Murphy bed in the den that your frequent guests could use, IT IS NOT FOR THEM! Or you! Despite the convenience of having you around to help out with yard work and take care of my dog while I am away on my frequent business trips, you mustn't move in. No way, no how, no sireebob! Yes, that is a pile of freshly laundered fluffy towels monogrammed with your initials sitting on the end of that spare bed, but they are not for you! And I've left a bottle of scented oil in the night stand of the spare room, but you cannot use that to give each other erotic massages. And that copy of the Kama Sutra next to the oil isn't for your use, either. Now, see this spare key I'm leaving on the counter? This is just where I keep it. It's not for you. Now, I'm going to run to the store to pick up some Geritol and Ben Gay. Don't move in while I'm gone!

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Fucking around, I am not

I can assure you. The tool belt proves it, and the tool wearing the belt lives it.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Re: Your Mom's Box

Mr Gibbens, it has come to our attention that a large package from your mother was delivered to the front desk last Tuesday. We have attempted to reach you by phone numerous times, and have sent multiple emails requesting that you grab your mom's box, but you have not responded. If you do not attend to your mom's box within the next few days, we will have no choice -- for security reasons, we will be forced to open your mom's box to see what is inside. I'm certain you do not wish us to have our hands in your mom's box, and I trust that you will respond to this final notice in a timely manner to avoid this unpleasant scenario. Enclosed find a photograph of your mom's box.


David Raunschueir,
Head of Building Security

P.S. Your mom's box is leaking a viscous fluid and is emitting a foul odor. Please hurry. This is a serious matter.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

The shit that is fucking delicious

Good evening, sir. Welcome to Dairy Queen. May I interest you in a Blizzard or perhaps a Flamethrower burger? Maybe you're feeling a bit saucy and will have both. If I may be so bold, I would suggest eating the burger first and eating the Blizzard last. Afterward I would highly recommend shoving a lump of activated charcoal in your pooper, climbing into a Hefty bag up to your belly button, and duct taping yourself in. Be sure to push out all of the air first because you'll be filling that puppy up with legally binding chick-fil-ass before your long red plastic spoon hits the bottom of the trash can. Now, kind sir, bounce along home in your hubristically-induced isolation bubble. Bounce, bounce. Watch out for the sharp rocks and snapping turtles. God bless you and your gassy pants bag.

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Yvette makes my morning

Crank up your speakers, get your clickin' finger ready, and put on a pair of laser-proof sunglasses.