Dear Savior, What A Fargin Loon
I was half expecting him to say he goes home to Starla every evening.
There’s something about a fellow volunteering to be a human crash test dummy without the crash I find appealing, of course. Check the masthead. And damn if he can’t stab trees near to death, or at least the slow-moving ones. But I have a sneaking suspicion that his suit is of no use in research into grizzly bear behavior, because they must see this guy coming and whisper whoo boy, what a fargin’ loon under their salmon-flavored breath, and pretend they hear their mother calling them and shamble off, before they catch the crazy from him.
That’s before they even get a glimpse of his interplanetary, extraordinary, weapons-grade mullet and porn stache. Nothing could withstand the hirsute firepower he brings.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for bodyslamming that into my inbox)
Like, A Rock
It’s a Cat dozer pushing a rock. I like watching it. I watch it over and over again. There is no purpose to watching it over and over. For all I know, there’s no purpose to pushing that rock in the first place. When he’s done pushing the rock, that guy might push it back where he got it, and start over, just so he can push it again. I know I would. For the LULZ. For great justice. For farts and giggles. Like, a rock.
(Thanks to Charles Schneider for pushing that our way in the first place)
It’s Our Motto Around Here: “Ow, That F***ing Hurt”
I knew he was alright when he muttered a swear at the end.
(Thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along)