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Category: wtf

Man, Zaphod Beeblebrox Really Let Himself Go

Man, Zaphod Beeblebrox Really Let Himself Go

In the books I don’t remember reading anything about him having mouths for nipples, or a singing belly button. I guess he had one too many Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters.

“[The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy] says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick.”

I’ve got to hand it to him though, he can still pick up interstellar chicks like nobody’s business. There’s a man who knows where his towel is. I haven’t ventured much further than my mailbox in recent years, so I’m not sure what the modern space woman has to offer. I’m just glad to see someone has picked up where I left off.

[Infinite thanks to the wise and all-seeing Charles Schneider for sending this video along]

Allow Me To Translate

Allow Me To Translate

For those in the audience that aren’t fluent in Linguinebolognesepicodegallo, the official language of the Whatusi, who are the tribe that runs the Intertunnel, allow me to clue you in:

These men are throwing monkeys at pigs. The reason these men are throwing monkeys at pigs is because there are men and monkeys and pigs present. No other explanation is necessary, really; if a man is handed a monkey, he’ll throw it at a pig — it’s genetic, not learned behavior. Ask any man what he’d do with a monkey if a pig ran by. He’d answer that he’d throw the pig at the monkey — or he’d lie. There are no other answers to that question.

I can not, however, offer any explanation for the music. 

If Liberace Needed An Armorer, This Would Be His Go-To Guy

If Liberace Needed An Armorer, This Would Be His Go-To Guy

A Borderline Sociopathic blogger’s work is never done.

I preach from the great pulpit in the church of stripped and rusty bolts and tablesaws with the guards removed. I go forth into the multitude and sing the praises of driving at night with the lights off. The coffee table has gun oil stains on it, the local kids stay off my lawn without being asked — er, told.

But some people don’t listen. They go to their mother’s beauty parlor to get their hair cut, then go to the gym to pack on five pounds of feminine-looking muscle. Then they fashion weapons they saw on an episode of My Little Pony and growl at the world like a kitten.

One thing I’ve noticed about people ready for a zombie horde: they aren’t ready for anyone that’s not dead yet.

They Said It Couldn’t Be Done!

They Said It Couldn’t Be Done!

[Warning: There’s a pretty woman right at the end who bought her shirt at a Sherwin Williams store, and didn’t use two coats]

Well, they said it shouldn’t be done. Actually, it was more like they said there really was no point in doing it. Really, though, they said that they weren’t exactly sure what the hell you were trying to accomplish, so there was no conceivable way to judge whether or not it couldn’t be done, or whether you’d done it. There was a small conclave of observers that said that you evidently had already done whatever it was you were doing, so saying “they said it couldn’t be done” was superfluous at that point, but they wanted to say “they said it couldn’t be done” anyway, to indicate that you had, indeed done that thing you were not supposed to be able to do, if that was it, I think it was.

[Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along]