I don’t know what this guy’s talking about. He mentions 4.5 Kill-o-meters, but nobody gets killed. Maybe it’s his accent that’s throwing me off. He’s obviously used to talkin’ Flemavian, or Wallaroon, or maybe Basquick or Lithuingian or something. But he really shouldn’t turn on his Kill-o-meter if he’s not gonna use it.
[Many thanks to Steve Pierson for reading, and for sending that one along. I bet the needle on Steve’s Kill-o-meter is pegged]
Look at you. Slaving away in your cubicle, day after day, puttin’ cover pages on your TPS reports, trying to put enough pennies in your 401K so you can eat premium catfood when you retire. You’re doing it wrong. Santa just puts on his slippers, made from the fur of endangered animals, so you know it’s warm and comfy, puts his feet up, and has a cadre of helpers like this Christmas tree loader do all the work, 364 days a year. Then Old Saint Nick shows up like an Arctic Donald Trump to cut the ribbon on Christmas Eve and take all the credit. I bet the sleigh’s just for show, too, and Santa subcontracts all his deliveries to this helo pilot. The bastid.
[Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. He forgets to put cover sheets on his TPS reports occasionally, too, but he’s always getting promoted by the consultants anyway]
You see, Americans are pretty nice, actually. We’re a polyglot nation, and try to avoid calling each other names any more than is necessary, like when you step on my foot in the subway, you jerkwater doofus. But whatever our faults, we try not to give offense if we can avoid it. We’re not Canadian, but we live next door; how bad can we be?
When I was young, the linguistic powers that be and the euphemism police wanted to stop calling the mentally challenged “idiots”, or “morons”. or “imbeciles.” They thought it was rude. So we did as they asked, because, hey, we’re nice. Honest. They told us to call mentally challenged people “retarded.”
Well, since 2006, they’ve changed their minds again, and don’t want you calling anyone retarded, either. And since the term idiot, moron, and imbecile are now terms reserved for members of Congress, we really do have to come up with a term for, oh, I don’t know, let’s say for example, young fellows that clutch a wire from a battery in one hand while waving their hand over a damp concrete floor until they produce a spark and ignite some form of petroleum they’ve spilled there. Hmmm.
I have it! The Cyrillicly Challenged.
Now that’s a manly shop. It’s chock full of stuff, none of it of any use to a normal person. But what use do Borderline Sociopathic Boys have for normal people? I bet you could make any number of things from all that flotsam and jetsam that could put your eye out. Or in this case, an eardrum.
We also approve of the vest. It’s to hold in all the awesome, natch.