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Posted 15 years agoHello Gentlemen,
Look at your beer.
Now back to mine.
Now back at your beer.
Now back to mine.
Sadly, it isn't mine.
But if you stop drinking bland-tasting American light beer and switched to Belhaven Scottish Ale it could taste like its mine.
Look down.
Back up.
Where are you?
You're on party boat with the beer your beer could taste like.
Whats in your hand, back at me, I have it.
Its a cigar case with two pounds of the wings you love.
Look again.
The wings are now bullets!
Everything is more manly when you drink a proper tasting beer and not something American.
I'm on your wife.
Look at your beer.
Now back to mine.
Now back at your beer.
Now back to mine.
Sadly, it isn't mine.
But if you stop drinking bland-tasting American light beer and switched to Belhaven Scottish Ale it could taste like its mine.
Look down.
Back up.
Where are you?
You're on party boat with the beer your beer could taste like.
Whats in your hand, back at me, I have it.
Its a cigar case with two pounds of the wings you love.
Look again.
The wings are now bullets!
Everything is more manly when you drink a proper tasting beer and not something American.
I'm on your wife.
A help, please.
Posted 15 years agoI am writing to discover the solution to a little problem I am having. I can not, for the life of me, ascertain the correct process of making a woman shut up and get on my horse. I have accomplished making a woman shut up and also been successful at having women get on my horse. One woman got on my horse and got off my horse all in the same day.
A horse, also known as Equus ferus caballus, is ostensibly a hooved animal which is a sub-species of literally 1 of 7 specieseseses from the family Equidae. This aforementioned horse has graciously evolved over about the past fucking billion million years for the single purpose of allowing me to request that a woman climb upon it after being thoroughly hushed.
His name is Crumpy, and he is pleased to meet you.
This specimen derives from a small multi-toed creature into the fat caballo ass single-toed animal of today, which is an absolute fallacy because horses don't have toes. Folks of questionable intelligence who tremendously adored horses started domesticating the species around approximately 4000 BCE, whatever a BCE is, and their domestication is thought to have been ridiculously widespread by 3000 BCE, again whatever the fuck a BCE is; by 2000 BCE (what the fuck?! get on my horse) the use of domesticated horses had spread through the Eurasia (no I'm not!) continent and many stupid ass people celebrated.
Women started to board my horse and more. Everywhere.
Though most horses today are domesticated (so you can get on my horse), there are some endangered ass populations of the stupidly named Przewalski's Horse, the only remaining true wild ass, which is a woman, as well as some more common mean fucking feral horses which live wild but are impossible to embark. A woman can not scale my feral horse, nor would any woman be capable of suppressing verbal communication when near a feral horse, due mostly to tendencies toward savagery and their terrifyingly large sabretooth filled jaws.
It is a common belief that feral horses are often ridden by junior officers of the National Socialist Party. This, of course, acclimating them to the rigours of mounting an antiquated lizardbird killing machine.
In the end, I have need of aid. You may contact me between 1700 and 2200 as this is my dedicated poop time, all other hours being reserved for research into my truly recondite conundrum. I must discover the secret sauce, the key ingredient, the final puzzle piece, the gear that fits, all before the woman wanders off again.
A horse, also known as Equus ferus caballus, is ostensibly a hooved animal which is a sub-species of literally 1 of 7 specieseseses from the family Equidae. This aforementioned horse has graciously evolved over about the past fucking billion million years for the single purpose of allowing me to request that a woman climb upon it after being thoroughly hushed.
His name is Crumpy, and he is pleased to meet you.
This specimen derives from a small multi-toed creature into the fat caballo ass single-toed animal of today, which is an absolute fallacy because horses don't have toes. Folks of questionable intelligence who tremendously adored horses started domesticating the species around approximately 4000 BCE, whatever a BCE is, and their domestication is thought to have been ridiculously widespread by 3000 BCE, again whatever the fuck a BCE is; by 2000 BCE (what the fuck?! get on my horse) the use of domesticated horses had spread through the Eurasia (no I'm not!) continent and many stupid ass people celebrated.
Women started to board my horse and more. Everywhere.
Though most horses today are domesticated (so you can get on my horse), there are some endangered ass populations of the stupidly named Przewalski's Horse, the only remaining true wild ass, which is a woman, as well as some more common mean fucking feral horses which live wild but are impossible to embark. A woman can not scale my feral horse, nor would any woman be capable of suppressing verbal communication when near a feral horse, due mostly to tendencies toward savagery and their terrifyingly large sabretooth filled jaws.
It is a common belief that feral horses are often ridden by junior officers of the National Socialist Party. This, of course, acclimating them to the rigours of mounting an antiquated lizardbird killing machine.
In the end, I have need of aid. You may contact me between 1700 and 2200 as this is my dedicated poop time, all other hours being reserved for research into my truly recondite conundrum. I must discover the secret sauce, the key ingredient, the final puzzle piece, the gear that fits, all before the woman wanders off again.
Ohhhhh snaaaaap
Posted 17 years agoI had the most interesting ride home from work, a ride I might comment is exceptionally boring most nights.
I had within my tummy a rumble of epic proportions. That rumble could only be satiated by extreme measures, and so, with all proper criteria fulfilled (and perhaps many secondaries checked off) I headed to Wendy's for a tasty Baconator. I've been the ignorant fool these past weeks, shoving off the sweet aroma of bacon, cheese, and beef for my normal spicy chicken, but tonight would be my night.
Apparently it was also 12 other people's nights...
Alas, I stayed in line for what seemed like ages and was miraculously saved from my daydreaming by none other than the cutest most active cat I believe I have ever seen. Cutest because of course it was, and active in the fact that the rumbling of my Jeep Grand Cherokee kept it hopping about on the hood in a not-so-menacing manner.
At that very moment I made a pact with this foolishly feisty feline and promised a suitable chunk of my Baconator in exchange for the entertainment provided. Unfortunately, the kitty did not want any of my sandwich, an act that at the very moment I thought foolish, but I would later recant those thoughts.
I pulled forward and exchanged my payment for my lovely new sandwich and pulled away from the drive thru. I watched the kitten scurry into nearby bushes, my headlights illuminating her silky kitty eyes. I waved a goodbye, a notion that meant more to me than the cat I just blinded.
I wolfed down my fries (its what I do) and sipped at my Root Beer until finally I unwrapped the Baconator from its not-quite-foil wrapping. I bit into it...
...and immediately was introduced...no, overcome...no, a stronger word...
...assaulted!
Yes, I was immediately assaulted with the tasty combination of processed American cheese and the beef oh the beef...and the bacon! Yes the bacon too! And this goopy shit.
Wait.
What is this? My mind reeled, for I had not ordered this Baconator with mayo, and so mayo it was not. Was this a 'secret sauce', I asked myself, intent on discovering the culprit's name. I snapped back from my bacony reverie to discover that it was in fact ketchup.
Yes, they put Ketchup on BACON.
Only in this country...
I quickly turned into the closest parking lot I could find in an attempt to use what few napkins were given to me (apparently there's a shortage of napkin plants) to wipe the offending goopy shit off my lovely bacon.
Followed close behind was none other than a shield on the side, lights on the top, full fledged West Chester Police SUV.
Intent on my eradication of all things red and unbacony I was unaware of the good Officer's presence until he notified me he was there, partly due to standing next to my vehicle, and partly due to tapping on the window with a maglight.
Upon allowing the window its downward motion I inquired as to his purpose, in which he responded with inquiring as to mine. As this is most baffling at times, it was at this point that I threw most sense out the window and notified the Officer of the nonexistence of any and all emergency related scenarios...
Unless of course he really REALLY likes Baconators.
I informed him of the offending goopy shit, of which his response of "Ugh" was justly rewarded with a chuckle and accepting nod from me. Wishing me a good night the officer reentered his pristine justice machine and rode off into the deep dark nothing looking for other possible evildoers to baffle.
Sadly my valiant efforts to save my Baconator from the infectious spread of ketchup ended in torn bun, and somehow more ketchup. I believe it multiplies when attacked.
I had within my tummy a rumble of epic proportions. That rumble could only be satiated by extreme measures, and so, with all proper criteria fulfilled (and perhaps many secondaries checked off) I headed to Wendy's for a tasty Baconator. I've been the ignorant fool these past weeks, shoving off the sweet aroma of bacon, cheese, and beef for my normal spicy chicken, but tonight would be my night.
Apparently it was also 12 other people's nights...
Alas, I stayed in line for what seemed like ages and was miraculously saved from my daydreaming by none other than the cutest most active cat I believe I have ever seen. Cutest because of course it was, and active in the fact that the rumbling of my Jeep Grand Cherokee kept it hopping about on the hood in a not-so-menacing manner.
At that very moment I made a pact with this foolishly feisty feline and promised a suitable chunk of my Baconator in exchange for the entertainment provided. Unfortunately, the kitty did not want any of my sandwich, an act that at the very moment I thought foolish, but I would later recant those thoughts.
I pulled forward and exchanged my payment for my lovely new sandwich and pulled away from the drive thru. I watched the kitten scurry into nearby bushes, my headlights illuminating her silky kitty eyes. I waved a goodbye, a notion that meant more to me than the cat I just blinded.
I wolfed down my fries (its what I do) and sipped at my Root Beer until finally I unwrapped the Baconator from its not-quite-foil wrapping. I bit into it...
...and immediately was introduced...no, overcome...no, a stronger word...
...assaulted!
Yes, I was immediately assaulted with the tasty combination of processed American cheese and the beef oh the beef...and the bacon! Yes the bacon too! And this goopy shit.
Wait.
What is this? My mind reeled, for I had not ordered this Baconator with mayo, and so mayo it was not. Was this a 'secret sauce', I asked myself, intent on discovering the culprit's name. I snapped back from my bacony reverie to discover that it was in fact ketchup.
Yes, they put Ketchup on BACON.
Only in this country...
I quickly turned into the closest parking lot I could find in an attempt to use what few napkins were given to me (apparently there's a shortage of napkin plants) to wipe the offending goopy shit off my lovely bacon.
Followed close behind was none other than a shield on the side, lights on the top, full fledged West Chester Police SUV.
Intent on my eradication of all things red and unbacony I was unaware of the good Officer's presence until he notified me he was there, partly due to standing next to my vehicle, and partly due to tapping on the window with a maglight.
Upon allowing the window its downward motion I inquired as to his purpose, in which he responded with inquiring as to mine. As this is most baffling at times, it was at this point that I threw most sense out the window and notified the Officer of the nonexistence of any and all emergency related scenarios...
Unless of course he really REALLY likes Baconators.
I informed him of the offending goopy shit, of which his response of "Ugh" was justly rewarded with a chuckle and accepting nod from me. Wishing me a good night the officer reentered his pristine justice machine and rode off into the deep dark nothing looking for other possible evildoers to baffle.
Sadly my valiant efforts to save my Baconator from the infectious spread of ketchup ended in torn bun, and somehow more ketchup. I believe it multiplies when attacked.
