Whenever someone throws the “Christ-Killer” insult at me, I snap their photograph and run their face through my databases.
Then, I go back in time and kill their mother before they are born.
When I return to the present time, the person is gone, because they never existed.
No, I didn’t kill Jesus this way. It would mess up too many things.
Nor did I shout with the rest of the crowd to call for Jesus’ death.
Instead, I waited for the guy after he “came back.”
Stuffed his body in the time machine engine.
The book says he’s “ascended.”
My kitchen is the fucking Twilight Zone right now.
I’ve got an entire cupboard full of Tupperware, but none of the lids fit any of the containers.
Same thing with the pots and pans. The lids are either too big, too small, or the wrong shape.
Seriously, who the fuck wants a square pan? I have a square lid here, and no pan that matches it.
Maybe some kitchens are like clothes dryers. Left socks vanish from the dryer, pots and containers wormhole out of kitchens.
This is why you should use child safety locks.
And eat out at restaurants.
Ever play Slug Bug?
What about Punch Buggy.
Whenever you see a Volkswagen Beetle, you’re supposed to punch someone in the arm and announce the color of the Beetle you saw.
People play this game and others across the world.
Ever play Stab SAAB?
See a SAAB, stab the closest person.
It’s a really messy game. Not as messy as Vomit Volvo, but certainly less fun.
What? You and your friends play Murder Mercedes? Every time you see a Mercedes, you murder someone?
Oh? You murder the driver of Mercedes?
Well, that’s okay then. Fucking Mercedeses.
Can I play, too?
Our modern word candidate comes from the Latin word candidatus, which means white-robed.
Back in Roman times, office-seekers covered their robes in white chalk to stand out in a crowd.
It’s certainly easier than filling out hundreds of forms and gathering up thousands and thousands of signatures on petitions.
We should return to the old style of politics. Instead of suits and dresses, put every one of these fuckers in robes and cover them with chalk.
About thirty or forty tons of it.
Then, pave it over, and let the good people of this country get on with their lives.
If you scare someone half to death twice, are they completely scared to death?
Of course not. Because if you scare someone half to death a second time, they’ll be three-quarters to death.
This brings up Xeno’s best-known paradox, which describes motion as a never-ending series of “You go halfway to your destination.” In the end, you never actually reach your destination.
Then he’d dance around and shout “IN YOUR FACE!” in Greek.
Because he was acting like a dick, Xeno was beaten to death by his fellow philosophers.
Not half to death. To death.
Don’t act like a dick.
If I fall asleep, I will fall asleep.
And I will stay asleep until the alarm wakes me.
I don’t wake up with the sun because I put my bed in the basement. And I have a backwards schedule. I work at night, and sleep during the day.
It’s cooler down in the basement. Darker.
And when I wake up, I can run my undies through the clothes dryer so they’re nice and warm.
I have to take them off again when I go upstairs and have shower and a coffee.
And again and again at work.
But stripping’s fun.
Dave is a total fuckup. No matter what you hand him, he fucks it up.
And then, after he fucks up, he finds ways to make other people deal with it.
Sometimes, he leaves his fuckups on the doorstep. Then he rings the doorbell and runs like hell.
Other times, he dumps his fuckups in a neighbor’s trashcan. That way, he won’t be fined if the fuckup has a car battery or some other hazardous material in it.
He’s so good at getting rid of fuckups, we tried to put him in charge of it.
Yup. He fucked that up.