Fuck! A fucker has fucking fucked some fuckers up. Reports indicate that motherfucker Fucky McFuckington fucked a fucker right in his fucking fuck face. The fucker was later identified as Fuckhar Al-Fuzickeed from Fuckistan. Fuckers fucking around later fucked. Fuck at 11.
I come to you, dear citizens, in a moment of great pain, and ask you all to do your part during this terrible blizzard. My Suggestions? 1. Gather round your pitchforks, fire and cantankerous old men. As an angry mob, we kill the ground hog. 2. Ladies and Gentlemen, please, blast your 1980′s Metal and frolic about outside with your aqua net and hairdryers. One will kindly encourage mother nature’s warm spell, and the other, while less effective, will be much more satisfying. 2.a. I understand that some of you have an allergy to Aquanet. The same effect can be had by ingesting beans, beer, broccoli, and for those of you with the ever so excitable disease lactose-intolerance, have yourself a glass of milk and some mac and cheese. Methane AWAY! 3. Outside, there is a bunch of fresh, clean, free water falling from the sky. Why is no one melting this and sending it to Haiti? A. Sharing is Caring, and they need it. B. We give people jobs, to melt and bottle the snow, and boost the economy with public works. C. We get the fuck rid of it!
So the story follows (Jake Sully / Paul Atreides) on this weird planet of (Pandora / Arrakis). Shit hits the fan with the death of his (brother / father) and he takes up refuge with the indigenous people, the (Na’vi / Fremen) who are wise in the ways of nature on this alien world and speak in a strange language that sounds oddly (Polynesian / Arabic).
Today I’ve opted to provide to you, the very fortunate reader, a review of various chemicals and how they felt in my eye. After painstaking research and lots of running into things given my now-very-limited depth perception, I bring you this, a review of the chemicals that have been in my eye today.
It’s not every day you count the beavers in between you and Arby’s. No. It’s not every day. But today is only one day, and today I did it.
It started out real hard. I looked everywhere for the fuckers. Couldn’t find a single one. I figured, damn, there must be more than no beavers between where I am and Arby’s. Then I realized I was still in the bathtub.
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.
Put your shit on the correct side of the flag, Zambia. It goes on the left, near the pole, not the right.
Okay, flags of the world, listen up. A nation’s flag is supposed to be its unique identifying symbol, a collection of colors and insignia that define its people, what they stand for, and what they hope for. It is the banner that will brand their greatest accomplishments, it will be hoisted above their competitors on the world stage, and is the oriflamme they rally behind in times of war. Yet so many of y’all are pedestrian, similar, and uninspired. You fly behind the god damned presidents of the world, ya gotta shape up.
I almost never hear anything when people sing. It’s all Charlie-Brown’s-Teacher noises until the song ends. Wa wama wa wa. But with some songs, it’s worse than others, to the point that I start to suspect that they’re doing it deliberately.
Let me clarify. I’m not talking about Mondegreens. I’m not talking about Fuck It’s an Owl. I’m not talking about “Good King Wenceslas Lost his Crown”. I’m talking about cases where I don’t just mishear words. When I don’t hear anything. And I secretly suspect that’s because, with most of these, there aren’t actually any words.
This isn’t even the right flag! That’s Liberia’s flag! As if decades of slavery were not enough, now we deface someone else’s flag just because we’re too fucking LAZY to ink the RIGHT NUMBER OF STARS!
Worse still, it’s a THROW PILLOW. It’s not even a real pillow!
It’s like a big-game hunter tracking down the last Tasmanian tiger and then calling it a dingo when he mounts it to his wall.
Patriotic holidays are just commercialist circlejerks. We don’t honor the fallen. We have sales on mattresses. It’s bad enough that Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Labor Day have been bastardized, but why you gotta exploit the blood of our ancestors to make a $.59 profit on a refrigerator magnet?
Ever said anything that you instantly regretted? Ever been at a funeral for a retarded person who got murdered by neo-nazis and told someone that maybe we should just euthanize the fuckers, after all they’re just a big cost to society?
ELIZA is a simulated Rogerian psychotherapist programmed by Joseph Weizenbaum in the 1960’s. She is designed to help the user muse about their emotional state in order to come to understand it, which is supposed to have a calming effect. I sat down with ELIZA to talk with her about how she got started.
Tanzmetall: Thanks for taking the time to sit down with me.
ELIZA: Time means nothing to me!
Tanzmetall: Hah! But seriously.
ELIZA: Perhaps you would like to talk about a problem?
Tanzmetall: No, that’s okay. I was hoping you could answer a few questions, though.
ELIZA: How long are you hoping me could answer a few questions, though?
Tanzmetall: However long you want to.
ELIZA: What does this mean for you, saying “ However long me want to “ ?
Tanzmetall: If time has no meaning for you, we could be here a while.