“♫She took dumps like a truck, truck, truck. Thighs like what…♫”
“Whoa. Whoa. Hey. Hold up. First of all, The Thong Song?”
“Yeah.”
“Umm, ok. Second, ‘she took dumps like a truck’? Is that what I heard?”
“Yeah.”
“…”
“…”
“She took dumps like a truck.”
“Yeah dude. Bitch poops like a champ.”
What Did He Just Say?
That is shocking. I am shocked.
“Are you kidding? What have the Japanese given us besides Godzilla and Bukkake?”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“You see? Nothing.”
“You know that part in P.Y.T. where Michael Jackson says ‘I wanna take you to the max’?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think he meant T.J. Maxx?”
“…No I don’t think he meant T.J. Maxx.”
“Hmm… I think he did.”
“There is no way that Michael Jackson wanted to take you to T.J. Maxx.”
“Not me specifically. He wanted to take his pretty young thing to T.J. Maxx.”
“There is no way that Michael Jackson wanted to take you or anyone else to T.J. Maxx.”
“Well I guess we’ll never know now.”
“No. We know. We know now.”
“We have a 242 in progress at the corner of 18th and Shipley. All officers please respond.”
“Wait, a guy masturbating on his roof? Why do you need all units?”
“Heheh, you said ‘units’.”
“Oh my god!”
“Ooooh my god!”
“OH MY GOD!!!”
“OOOOOHHHH MYYYYY GODD!!!!”
“It’s a perfect night for ball-washing!”
“Ball-washing?”
“That’s right! The sacred art of ball-washing! Where learned men come together and wash each other’s balls! The tradition harkens back to ancient Greece, where, with each new moon, Socrates himself would wash the balls of all of his disciples. Presidents, kings, emperors, talk show hosts and conquerors, all great men have washed balls and have had their balls washed. Ball-washing!”
“That sounds fantastic. I’ll get the bleach!”
“I’m thinking of hiring a couple of dominatrixes.”
“Dominatrices.”
“What?”
“Dominatrices. The plural of dominatrix is dominatrices.”
“Oh… So… I’m thinking of hiring a couple of dominatrices.”
“PERVERT!”
“So let me get this straight. He’s half man…”
“Yeah!”
“And half multifunction printer/scanner/copier?”
“And fax machine!”
“Half multifunction printer/scanner/copier/fax machine.”
“Yeah!”
“And all badass?”
“All badass!”
“Finally, night falls and an army of ravenous penguins advance. There is no hope for the tiny village.”
“Change the monkey to a set of conjoined twins and you’ve got yourself a movie. Assuming we really can get Joan Rivers to play the part of The Virgin Mary.”
“There’s nothing funny about cocaine.”
“Are you kidding me? Cocaine is hilarious! What about a clown doing lines?”
“Not funny.”
“What about two clowns doing lines?”
“Not funny.”
“What about two clowns sharing one giant line? They both start at opposite ends and slowly sniff their way to the center. Before either of them can finish they bump heads and look up at each other, eyes wide, frowns wide. After a few seconds of staring at each other, motionless, they both burst out laughing, blowing the remaining coke to the ground. A midget clown awkwardly waddles up, digs his finger into the fallen blow and then rubs it into his gums, smiles wide and says “Now that’s my kinda table scraps!” in a high pitched, nasally voice.”
“…Not funny.”
“Aw, come on!”
