(A little coarse language)
Ah, farm country. You can stuff 84 times the manufacturer’s recommended maximum charge of tannerite into your buddy’s old beater and let rip. It’s like Hunter S. Thompson is your wedding planner.
No livestock were discommoded by this explosion. What happens to the livestock when all the beer has been consumed is none of anyone’s business. What happens in Podunk, stays in Podunk.
I live in Maine. Summer’s the nicest day of the year here.
(Thanks to longtime reader Charles Schneider for sending that one along)
There’s something about this guy that makes me think that twenty-two minutes into any story he always says, “Long story short.”
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along)
Dat dere’s a pulse jet. It doesn’t have any moving parts in it. It just eats fuel and air, and pukes propulsion. It’s the same sort of engine that der Fuhrer’s boys used to lob buzz bombs over the channel to inconvenience Londoners during the last World War.
Please not that while the technical sophistication of the apparatus appears low, operation of this apparatus is perfectly safe. The rider is wearing a necktie. Nothing bad can happen to you when you’re wearing a tie. That’s a fact.
(via our friends at Stipistop)