This part of Superman Returns was just asking for a remix.

One not-so-dark and not-terribly-stormy-either night, three stunningly attractive and inconceivably brilliant men convened at a home on Juliet street in Oakland. One was a visionary, a man with ideas, plans, and an affinity for German dance metal. One was a technological expert with a voice so deep he can get elephants to spontaneously defecate, known to most of the Internet as Burpen. One was an incredibly negative sod who also happened to have a few good ideas, also the most skilled player of grabass in the world, certified in the crucible of official competition. Over heaps of parmesan cheese these three gods among men formulated the plans for what the internet has not yet realized is its most glorious destination.

These three übermensch there hatched the plans for the website that would proceed to make the internet jealous. It was to be a site featuring only original content. All of the material on Clunkline was to be produced by the authors of the site. These three dashing and impossibly virile men determined it made sense to include only original material because it was the only way to guarantee the site would be better than any other. There would be the main site, featuring nothing but the most side-splitting articles, and the authors’ corners, for more avant-garde work to be appreciated by people who understand art.

With these goals in mind, Tanzmetall and Burpen convened to create a server to broadcast our good work to the internet.

Jesus, so named because He was spreading the good word, was in Good Friday condition when Tanzmetall and Burpen, whose sperm sells on the black market for millions, started to work on it. The endeavor of resurrecting Christ was not one for any simple-minded fool. Burpen, however, is capable of setting Marilyn vos Savant’s hair ablaze purely by firing thought-waves at her, from any point on Earth or low-Earth orbit. Jesus went from having no idea He had a hard drive to rising to the heavens totally resurrected in no time thanks to Burpen’s expertise. After many sleepless nights, the site was assembled and The Word was finally available to anyone who had access to port 1000.

Or at least, so we thought: The problem with Jesus was it was very difficult to get Him to interface with the internet. In order to accomplish the task, Tanzmetall with MacGyver-like guile bravely employed over 100 feet of cable and some bacon-tape. Thanks to his heroic efforts, Clunkline now had a tube. And it was a tube to behold. We send pictures of it to people on Craigslist all the time.

In those early days of yore, Clunkline began to flourish with content that is now considered classic. Videos like Fuck it’s an Owl, images like Tanzmetall’s fake ads for real products, the beginning of the esteemed Ronnicles, and How to Maik Postah. We also talked a whole hell of a lot about why we hated Hillary Clinton. Lesser beings would have spent the rest of their writing careers trying to live up to these incredible works, but we at Clunkline are supreme beings, and we continued only to produce the finest material.

(Are you at the dramatic part of the music yet? If not, please wait for it to get back to that part before reading this. You can masturbate to our glory while you wait.)

And so we did, for a month or so, and it was good. But, what we didn’t know was it was about to get even more orgasmically fantastic because Lo! On the horizon rode nom de pomme on a horse so brilliantly white that your mom had to avert her eyes when she was fucking it! And he brought with him the level of prolificacy that only rabbits used to know. With the arrival of nom de pomme, Clunkline became a veritable dynamo of diarrhea. A diarrheanamo, if you will.

But tragedy had not yet ceased its siege on His Holiness. Every few days Clunkline’s glorious tube would clog itself as it shed an old IP address and tried to flush it like last night’s kielbasa and sauerkraut. We had more downtime than a General Motors factory worker. Something had to be done. After months of fervent procrastination, Jesus was transplanted from His home in Pittsburgh to the domain of Grabass_Champion in faraway exotic tropical Greensburg.

From this new home Jesus much more steadily broadcast the Word of Clunkline. And it was good. Except that Grabass_Champion needed to use a proxy to get to the site which bothered him just enough that he didn’t write as much. But everyone else picked up that slack anyway.

The time following that was rather uneventful. We launched a merchandise effort, through CafePress.com because we were way too lazy to print our own shirts, but we knew that the world NEEDED T-shirts with pictures of the Titanic colliding with the Hindenburg on them. We also naïvely believed that people wearing “Clunkline.com” would get other people interested. Pssh. They were already interested! So far we’ve sold literally tens of shirts to pretty much ourselves and some midwesterners.

We were kind enough to allow lesser internetfolk to advertise on our site, and we returned the kindness of being paid for adspace by mercilessly insulting the folks that bought the ads.

We wrote a lot of funny things. We frequently met in undisclosed locations and ate inordinate amounts of pizza [...]]]>

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.

One not-so-dark and not-terribly-stormy-either night, three stunningly attractive and inconceivably brilliant men convened at a home on Juliet street in Oakland. One was a visionary, a man with ideas, plans, and an affinity for German dance metal. One was a technological expert with a voice so deep he can get elephants to spontaneously defecate, known to most of the Internet as Burpen. One was an incredibly negative sod who also happened to have a few good ideas, also the most skilled player of grabass in the world, certified in the crucible of official competition. Over heaps of parmesan cheese these three gods among men formulated the plans for what the internet has not yet realized is its most glorious destination.

These three übermensch there hatched the plans for the website that would proceed to make the internet jealous. It was to be a site featuring only original content. All of the material on Clunkline was to be produced by the authors of the site. These three dashing and impossibly virile men determined it made sense to include only original material because it was the only way to guarantee the site would be better than any other. There would be the main site, featuring nothing but the most side-splitting articles, and the authors’ corners, for more avant-garde work to be appreciated by people who understand art.

With these goals in mind, Tanzmetall and Burpen convened to create a server to broadcast our good work to the internet.

Jesus, so named because He was spreading the good word, was in Good Friday condition when Tanzmetall and Burpen, whose sperm sells on the black market for millions, started to work on it. The endeavor of resurrecting Christ was not one for any simple-minded fool. Burpen, however, is capable of setting Marilyn vos Savant’s hair ablaze purely by firing thought-waves at her, from any point on Earth or low-Earth orbit. Jesus went from having no idea He had a hard drive to rising to the heavens totally resurrected in no time thanks to Burpen’s expertise. After many sleepless nights, the site was assembled and The Word was finally available to anyone who had access to port 1000.

Tanzmetall used bacon-tape to hold the tube to the wall where he routed it around his door.

Or at least, so we thought: The problem with Jesus was it was very difficult to get Him to interface with the internet. In order to accomplish the task, Tanzmetall with MacGyver-like guile bravely employed over 100 feet of cable and some bacon-tape. Thanks to his heroic efforts, Clunkline now had a tube. And it was a tube to behold. We send pictures of it to people on Craigslist all the time.

In those early days of yore, Clunkline began to flourish with content that is now considered classic. Videos like Fuck it’s an Owl, images like Tanzmetall’s fake ads for real products, the beginning of the esteemed Ronnicles, and How to Maik Postah. We also talked a whole hell of a lot about why we hated Hillary Clinton. Lesser beings would have spent the rest of their writing careers trying to live up to these incredible works, but we at Clunkline are supreme beings, and we continued only to produce the finest material.

(Are you at the dramatic part of the music yet? If not, please wait for it to get back to that part before reading this. You can masturbate to our glory while you wait.)

And so we did, for a month or so, and it was good. But, what we didn’t know was it was about to get even more orgasmically fantastic because Lo! On the horizon rode nom de pomme on a horse so brilliantly white that your mom had to avert her eyes when she was fucking it! And he brought with him the level of prolificacy that only rabbits used to know. With the arrival of nom de pomme, Clunkline became a veritable dynamo of diarrhea. A diarrheanamo, if you will.

But tragedy had not yet ceased its siege on His Holiness. Every few days Clunkline’s glorious tube would clog itself as it shed an old IP address and tried to flush it like last night’s kielbasa and sauerkraut. We had more downtime than a General Motors factory worker. Something had to be done. After months of fervent procrastination, Jesus was transplanted from His home in Pittsburgh to the domain of Grabass_Champion in faraway exotic tropical Greensburg.

From this new home Jesus much more steadily broadcast the Word of Clunkline. And it was good. Except that Grabass_Champion needed to use a proxy to get to the site which bothered him just enough that he didn’t write as much. But everyone else picked up that slack anyway.

The time following that was rather uneventful. We launched a merchandise effort, through CafePress.com because we were way too lazy to print our own shirts, but we knew that the world NEEDED T-shirts with pictures of the Titanic colliding with the Hindenburg on them. We also naïvely believed that people wearing “Clunkline.com” would get other people interested. Pssh. They were already interested! So far we’ve sold literally tens of shirts to pretty much ourselves and some midwesterners.

We were kind enough to allow lesser internetfolk to advertise on our site, and we returned the kindness of being paid for adspace by mercilessly insulting the folks that bought the ads.

We wrote a lot of funny things. We frequently met in undisclosed locations and ate inordinate amounts of pizza while discussing the finer points of poop. You’re welcome.

It was a major milestone when we were graced by a visit from the Pope (he wanted to see Jesus) in which he blessed our servers. We repaid the favor by gifting him with a Fleshlight (we were done with it).

When the G20 came to Pittsburgh, the events tragically coincided with a failure of Clunkline’s servers. This triggered massive rioting, which really hampered the international conference. We’re sorry, world leaders.

Clunkline again achieved world fame when Michael Jackson read How to make TOST and died from an overdose of awesome. You’re welcome again: you wouldn’t have wanted to watch him get old.

Most recently we made news again as Barack Obama traveled with an entourage of irony to Oslo to pick up a Nobel Peace Prize for us to give us article material. It was going to be about how interesting it was that Obama was picking up a peace prize while escalating a war. Thanks for takin’ a hit for the team, B-rock! We never wrote the article, because it wasn’t about pooping, but we appreciate you doing us a solid, man. Shout out to mah President!

Despite this series of fantastic honors, Clunkline was not free from problems. Tragedy again struck when Grabass_Champion went on an expedition to the mysterious Orient in search of a cure for yellow fever. The frequently-ailing Jesus had no able caretakers living with Him, and it was only a matter of time before the three Moldovan cyclists that power Grabass_Champion’s home would starve and all of Clunkline would shut down until his return.

But when that plane arrived in New York, a new era of Clunkline was begun. And this glorious era was brought to you by one hangtthedj, whose graphic design prowess can take an old, crappy-looking site that only its writers read and turn it into a site that people actually take time to look at without suffering spontaneous bowel movements. And that’s where we sit now, comrades, on the brink of a new era. We may look back from time to time, as we have here, but forward is the direction things are ceaselessly progressing. Brace yourself, brothers. The future flies on detachable wings.

…Ehh, who are we kidding? In reality, Clunkline has far fewer views than this:

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.

Nirvana’s most indecipherable masterpiece not only includes normal Mondegreens like “Low dud cock duds, bing defense is fuzz to live two pat ends,” and “Webby laster, and sustainer, ewwy on a, head container,” but also has a refrain that sounds like it’s being sung by a man who lacks a mouth and is holding his nose.

Ehhwo, ehhwo, ehhwo, eh wo Ehhwo, ehhwo, ehhwo, eh wo.

WAGGAYAGA. WAGGAYAGA. WAGGAYAGA. WAGGAYAGA.

Stairway to Heaven

Anyone who claims that they know the words in the falsetto part is a rotten liar and not to be trusted. I will stop being friends with you if you say this, or attempt to sing along. I firmly believe that Stairway to Heaven is just a Rorschach test for ears, and for ages Led Zeppelin has been collecting data on us, for nefarious purposes.

while (true) { He hinny hi but hinny ho Hey hinny way but hinny hay. } Lead zeppelin… GET IT?! Barbara Ann

Nevermind that Bob Baran, Director of Sales at Clark’s Ventilation, Topeka, is just not a good topic for a song. The Beach Boys are at the center of a conspiracy to convince us all that going “bababa” is talking. I don’t know what the point of this conspiracy is, but they definitely recorded this song on a sound stage in Arizona.

Baaah baaah baaah, ba Bob Baran Baaah baaah baaah, bababaran babababa bababababa BABABABABA. BABABABAAABAABABA!… Beethoven’s Fifth

Is it just me or are there no words in this song ANYWHERE?

What is it with Germany and incomprehensible lyrics? It’s almost as if we’re not speaking the same language as those idiots.

Jesus, Beethoven–what are you, deaf?

Supermassive Black Hole

There’s no way that there are actually any more words to this song than “supermassive black hole” and the occasional “ooh, baby”. The rest is just glorified squeaking and growling (and the occasional, rare, squeegrowl). Hey, Muse–it’s called a talk box. That means you should be TALKING into it.

Huuhhhhh, oouh, ooooeah, is suka sola Huuhhhhh, oouh, ooooeah, is suka sola Huuhhhhh, oouh, ooooeah, is suka sola (Mis shik smelting in the dilla lie, an asupa sona sentence sa supermassive) Huuhhhhh, oouh, ooooeah, is suka so — (Mis shik smelting in the dilla lie, an asupa sona sentence sa — ) –IS SHIKA SUPERMASSIVE?

SUPERMASSIVE BLACK AGHHHH. SUPERMASSIVE BLACK AUGHHHH. SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HEEURURGUGRGHHH.

SUPERMASSIVE BLACK COCK.

Tanzmetall listened to Supermassive Black Hole about four dozen times while writing this article. Allegedly it was “for research.” -Ed