Exterior, coastal fortress in Bolivia, twilight. Guards dressed in plain clothes patrol along the high walkways and exterior walls of the old Spanish fort. Inside, there are tarps covering cargo platforms, jeeps with machine guns moving about, and a few well-dressed men discussing something on the balcony of a luxurious manor home. Some of the soldiers are opening boxes marked EXPLOSIVE AMMUNITION and distributing the contents.
Since Clunkline has just entered its new glorious auspicious second phase of righteous harmony, known to non-party-members as Clunkline 2.0, we as the Clunkline staff feel it’s necessary at this juncture to issue a review of the past two years of Clunkline history.
Neo-post-post-rock group To Hëll With The Dåmned! Said The Sætting Sün Over The Bättlefield Stårk! released its new eleven-disc album Monday to universal disapproval. Not one positive review has come from anyone anywhere, no matter how many drugs they were on at the time.
Marmaduke is a comic that is as old as my parents. It’s been drawn by the same fellow, one Brad Anderson, since 1954, and since the fateful day of its creation Marmaduke has served as a daily reminder that you don’t have to be funny or talented to be syndicated in newspapers nationwide.
I once read the entire Marmaduke comic described succinctly as “The big dog is on something you want.” I think there’s an even simpler explanation: the cartoonist is not funny at all.
I have a bed. It’s sitting in the back of the somewhat derelict van that is parked in front of my house. I have actively chosen not to put it together since the end of July, because I, through my own sloth, accidentally discovered the greatest sleep-apparatus short of a hammock. Mattress on the floor is divine for the following reasons.
1: Endless nightstand. Do you really want to fuck around with a two-by-one-and-a-half-foot space for your alarm clock, cellphone, and everything else you’re way too lazy to put where it belongs? Stop, then! Your nightstand just became the floor within arm’s reach of your mattress. You have been liberated.
Ladies, gentlemen, and members of Tardigrade species for whom gender has no meaning… I welcome you to the twilight of humanity. For centuries, these worthless fools have debated the numbers of angels dancing on the heads of pins, while they should have been counting the numbers of us who were on those pins, killing those angels.
So I’ve been sharing my room with this guy for a few months. Wanna know how that went? Dope as shit, man, dope as shit. Seriously, this guy is balls awesome, I’d definitely take his cock in my mouth in some mad respect fellatio. Seriously, if he was a chick, I’d superman that ho. Here’s why he’s the shit.
From the Desk of the First Church of Lego (Reformed)
Good morning, my fellow minifigures.
I have received many troubling confessions as of late. It seems many members of our community are harboring dangerous thoughts as to the nature of the Creator. Questions are being asked that can only lead to treason against the almighty Builder and His books of divine instruction. I have taken it upon myself to dispel these concerns once and for all so that all of us fellow bricks can once more unite in the name of Lego.
Let’s face it; people are getting lazier all the time. Everyone knows it, especially your grandpa who used to walk to school in the snow every day and blah blah blah derpy derpy doo and so forth. And in no aspect of our lives is this more apparent than in the way we get our food. Observe:
So… I have returned from behind the Great Firewall, a bit shorter and a bit more slanty-eyed, and with the distinct inability to pronounce words like “bus” and “campus” without inserting a mysterious “r” sound after the “u”. In China I learned many things, from how to properly use a car horn while driving (as a signal that there is something within 50 feet of the front of the car), to how to avoid getting hit by a child happily cannoning streams of urine into the street. Two months of endless diarrhea at the hands of Wuhan food, all of which contains loads of chili peppers, coupled with the inevitable circumstance that non-potable tap water would somehow end up in my stomach, have turned my rectum into the strongest muscle in my body, and lost me about 15 pounds. A week in Beijing renewed my appreciation for being able to see more than half a mile in any direction. Two months in Wuhan, where heat indexes routinely cleared 120 degrees Fahrenheit, renewed my appreciation for more temperate climes. Okay, that last bit’s not true at all, Pittsburgh weather is still comparable to diving into an olympic-sized pool full of mayonnaise-filled water balloons. I think the point of all this is, the Chinese are awful at English.