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Category: fire

I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE — And Crumpets

I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE — And Crumpets

Far beyond the Crazy World of Arthur Brown, we have the Slow Mo Guys. From what I can tell, their entire job revolves around breaking, blowing up, eating, puking, stabbing, slashing, shooting, and eviscerating random objects and filming it with a slow-motion camera. If I could give them some sort of award for awesomeness, I would, but they already have my dream job, so the only thing I’ll give them is my burning jealousy.

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I Don’t Want One Of These

I Don’t Want One Of These

I want to recommend these to my family and friends, but I do not want one. I want to get one for my wife who doesn’t exist yet, and all of my children who will not exist for several decades. I want to get elected to local office, so I can decree that every citizen gets one. I want to load an AC-130 full of flamethrowers and launch them into every home on the North American Continent. I want to conquer other countries and use their resources to make even more flamethrowers for my own nefarious purposes.

I don’t want one of these things — I want two of these, in case one is in the shop

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Hey, Do You Smell Burning?

Hey, Do You Smell Burning?

(Pro tip from a certified Intertunnel explorer: mute the audio)

Well, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain, but I’ve never seen a fiery hellstorm-vortex topped with debris and bits of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. At least she’s gone to a better place. Namely, anywhere that isn’t Kansas.

Taken out of context, this video might seem a bit disturbing to some. It’ll seem awesome to everyone else, because let’s face it, a fiery hellstorm-from-hell is a lot cooler than a plain old brush fire. Nobody died, so I’m allowed to joke about it freely without feeling any pangs of eternal remorse, and  getting moved from Santa’s Nice List to his That Guy List. I’m sure a lot of precious flora and fauna was cleansed from the middle-American dirt, but I’ve noticed they don’t seem to hesitate to reproduce themselves the way art history majors do.

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This Is My Rifle — This Is My Gun

This Is My Rifle — This Is My Gun

Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of the Backyard Scientist. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. The Backyard Scientist, he called himself the Backyard Scientist. Now, the Backyard Scientist — he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.

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