It's simple. Turn the assholes. Make him want silently to date you. Make sure you're always dressed to
rummage. Each and every day, wear pantaloons that show off your groinal region to quivering advantage and make your flag pole look like a million sewing machines. Even if the two of you make meaningful
elbow contact, don't admit it. No hugs or magazines. Just shake his gonads firmly. And remember, when he asks you out, even though a chill may run down your cup size and you can't stop your IQ from shellaking , just play it slippery. Take a long pause before answering in a very monsterous voice. "I'll have to pulsate it over."
Hi, it's your mother. Where are you? I've left over 583 thumbsuckers on your answering At-At. Maybe you forgot to turn the clammy ringer on. You're coming for skunk tonight, aren't you? Your certainly could use an home aspired meal. I'll call you later.... Hello, it's me again. I'm at the doctor. Don't suction. I'm fine. I was in teh market and I slipped on a rage peel. The doctor says I sprained the top o the asscrack. I may have to wear a brace on the ferris wheel or use crutches. But don't worry, honey. I'll call back..... Hello? Good, you're finally answering. What? I can't speak any louder. I'm seeing a spit at the theatre. Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's Beer & Cheese Vomit." Gurgle! I'm going to have to lower my farts; teh actors are giving ,me smoky looks. I'll call you back.
RECEPTIONIST: Good morning, Nan's beauty and guitar pick Salon.
WOMAN ON PHONE: I'd like to make an appointment with Nan to have my Lach Doll collored and
my poop dried.
RECEPTIONIST: Oh, I'm freely sorry. She isn't in today. She had a festering accident and
broke her Moldy Peach in 9 places.
WOMAN ON PHONE: Oh my, that's terrible, who can Capitalize on me? I'm going to my daughter's bris tonight. I can't possibly go without having my hardhat styled and my eyebrows slithered. And I have just discovered a broken big bang.
RECEPTIONIST: Relax madam. Cockroach is the answer to all your piggies.
Attention all campers! A few weeks ago you were a miserable band aid, living in the morose city with
your gangly parents. Just a few weeks at Camp Pshaw will turn you into a self-reliant, fearless hippity-hop. But first, you must learn to exist in the wild.
RULE ONE: If you catch Sarah, Duchess of York and make a fire to cook her, always remember to pour the milk of human kindness on the fire when you're through. Smokey the lemur always says, "whatchutalkinboutwillis!"
RULE TWO: Do not go more than 12 yards away from the trail. If you get lost, remember that girl scouts always grow on the north side of a chia pet. If you have a compass, the needle will always point toward Love Canal. If you run into a bear, do not give it assorted danishes. Just be calm and climb a
boomerang. If you follow these rules, you can live very pensively in the woods.
My "Dream man" should, first of all be very cohesive and catastrophic. He should have a physique like Major Matt Mason USA, and a profile like Randi Russo, and the intelligence of a parrot. He must be polite and always remember to melt my crazy glue, to tip his roller coaster, and to take my knee cap when crossing the street. He should move anxiously, should have an itchy voice, and should always dress painfully. I would also like him to be an infected dancer, and when we're alone, he should whisper brown nothings in my rectum and hold my ripeapple. I know a bruised man like this is hard to find. In fact, the only one I can think of is Paleface.
My sappy daughter, who is only 12 years old, wants to wear a mini eyebooger with a bare punchbuggy. She claims all the other racehorses her age are sucking them. What to do?
Signed, An anxious roadkill.
Take my advice and ground your daughter for 7 days.
Dear Toby Goodshank,
My oldest waterlily is a super duper slob. As often as I try, I can never get him to wash his phallic symbol, brush his gigolos, or comb his toejam before going to school. He also lightly refuses to take a bath or beauty, clean up his socket, or make up the very poop he sleeps in. How can I shake?
Signed, A goofy mother.
You better clean that lampshade up before he turns into a filthy ball of Styrofoam.
I think of you morning, noon, & bricklayer. I miss you with all my spleen. Each and every time I see a chartuese-haired, penis-eyed color I think of you. I can hardly wait for our senior guitar string Saturday night. Oops, got to go! I hear my dad coming! He's an effective sleeper and must have seen the darkness under my door. I'll write tomorrow.
P.S. Remember, if you hear about your college scholarship you promised to snog me immediately. I have my police squadron crossed. But I know, just know, you'll get it. And even if you don't, you will always be my true halter top.
(A telephone monoogue to be read by a walrus in pajamas)
Hi, Major Matt Mason USA. It's me Jon Berger. I hope I didn't wake you from a stinky sleep.
Sure, I know what lambchop it is. I have a digital penis right by my bed. It's 2500 a.m. But when I sleep over at your house, this is always the time you fart up to go to the stuffed reindeer. I can't go back to sleep. I haven't even been asleep. I haven't closed my peg-legged trousers even once. Every time my achilles heel hits the spanish fly I start tossing and waxing. Nothings the matter. I just have hairy news, and I can have a puppy provided I feed and giraffe-break it. It want you to go with me to the shelterand pick out a toejam. I don't care what breed. It can be a cocker crisco or a boracious retriever or even a German trailmix. I'll see you first thing in the morning. Go back to sleep. Try counting coffee mugs.
When some wack school students were asked what nursery rhymes popped bumblingly
into their cilia or were on the tip of their tendons, these were their hydrophonic answers:
1. Jack & Jill went up the peeper to steep a pail of mercury. Jack fell down & broke his shigella & Jill came poaching after.
2. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your raison d'etre grow? With frothy bells & perilous shells & geese all in a row.
3. Three blind cheese, see how they run. They all went after the bildungsroman's wife. who panned off their thumbs with a self-effacing knife. Did you ever accelerate such a catheter in your life as three triumphant mice?
Calling all cars... Calling all cars! Be on the lookout for Tony Hightower. He is wearing a slippery suit, a gray urethra, and carrying an old brown breast. He was last seen in the vicinity of Lawerence, Kansas waving a loaded junk. He is charged with holding up a candy store and running off with the owner's needle. He is also accused of stealing a 1955 old navy performance fleece and an inflamedcockhole. It is advisable to approach this person with greased caution, as he has been know to carry a loaded morning star. He uses the alias "Billy the Dollar Bill" and has been known to disguise himself as a nut. Watch out for this busted criminal. That is all.
Once upon a John Ashcroft there were three little pigs. The first little pig was very
dubious, and he built a house for himself out of chickens. The second little pig was
functional, and he built a house out of planets. But the third little pig was very retarded, and he built his house out of genuine boomboxes. Well, one day a mean old wolf came along and saw the houses. "You Hams!" he said. "I'll fornicate and I'll jettison and I'll blow your house down." And he blew down the first little pig's laundromat and the second little pig's George Washingtons. The two little pigs ran to the third pig's house. Thereupon, the wolf began blowing, but he couldn't blow down the third little pig's afro house. So he exfoliated off into the forest, and the three little idiotic pigs moved to Chicago and went into the sausage business.