40 Degrees At Sea
Yes, the wonderful moments when the little clams and other wee beasties sieze upon the notion that not only is post-secondary education necessary, it is also affordable and completely feasible!
This post is dedicated to all you dropouts and sex fiends.
Hello, my name is Mr. Dean of _____ University! Kids, you’d better start a-learning! We give scholarships to three types of kids, the ones with Botchilism, the ones who earn straight A Pluses, and the ones who mainline HGH for better Lacrosse! I hate animals, and I have to take all your money so I can buy genetically-purified Aryan kittens to molest on my lap-skins!
Thank you, thank you. I feel I have adequately excised my enragement towards the Dean of _______ University.
Oh wait, it was _____ University.
also, a haiku for you sexy swingers:
quite medicated
the sky is gray, abhorrent
dappling the white ground.
BUT WAIT!!!!
I think since I’m coming off a day in bed, this one deserves even more intoxicat(ed)ing fun!!!
let’s write more, this time about Arthur C. Clarke!!!
Arthur C. Clarke’s name was actually spelled with a “u,” I think. I don’t know, because I just read his book. The scene with the monkeys was a lot longer in the book. Mr. Clarke raped me with a monolith and his large moustache.
That was satisfying. But wait, that’s not all! A limerick for Barack Obama
Barack Obama, he swears, is not racist
Mike Huckabee is a good bassist
Then McCain got applause/ for low’ring his drawers
I think this limerick should end now.
Ah, Edward Lear is rolling about in his damn limey grave.
Do they make British people get buried in caves? Limestone? Limeys? Get it? I’m such a comedian, they made me get in a little wooden cage and poked me with sticks! GUM SOO MAO?
You know what the problem with The Deer Hunter was? If I don’t use italics in every post, they’ll hurt me. With knives. Also, Sylvester “cocaine problem” Stallone (as he’s known to his closer friends and prostitutes) wasn’t in it. How about that recent Rambo movie, by the way? (There I go again, caged but un-molested by the knives. That’s the second use of the verb, “molest” in this post, by the way). Verb! It’s what you do, unless you’re Mr. Lear or Mr. Clarke, both of which are dead and can’t do anything! Except rot, which is less of a verb and more of a way to lose lots of weight in small amounts of time. Hey, that could be big! “exciting new weight loss plan! when you’re done getting addicted to our latest form of speed, try curing yourself by shackling your carcass to the roof of a small smokehouse, and staying there for at least a decade!” They do that with wine, too, I hear, but less hairy men and thatch huts and more moustachioed Frenchmen and scary cellars full of bats and hunchbacked apprentices wearing tights!
DAMN IT IGOR!!! STOP WEARING MY PASTEL NO. 5′S, YOU DEVIANT!
Time to end the post, my Ice-Cream Truck driver/henchman is prancing about my eeeeevil underground wine cellar with my crotchless pink tights on. Again.
