The T-Mobile Royal Wedding
Obviously a dress rehearsal.
I’ve had to leave the damn country to escape this, but, in reality, there is no escape.
spam name
Brunilda Claudette.
I’m sorry…
Danny started this tonight. I couldn’t help but play along.
In the sixties, my brother and I once owned an Allen Sherman album. We prided ourselves on memorizing the lyrics to his songs. At any given moment, I can pull this one out of memory. Danny’s heard me enough, he can pull most of it out himself.
Weird Al Yankovic don’t have nothing on Sherman.
I wish there were an “I’m sorry” category.
after farting
Hear me now. Believe me later.
Voice to Text
Danny to Rick, 3:47 pm.
Hey Rick, it’s I forgot if you Carol home public you force yourself love you. I know Sam. So since whoops love.
from the comments
No, the vet did not help him fart. He did, however, fart audibly in the exam room, then wanted to leave quickly.
I should mention that Bruce is a hypochondriac.
What Flannery said
The vet charged $400 to tell me that Bruce needed to fart.
after farting
It’s a call to joy.
after farting
I’m not going to sugar coat it.
Today at Big Lots
I call in sick Monday. I was coughin and pootin. I call in about 6:20 in the mornin, say You don’t wont me comin in coughin and pootin, do ya. They say no, you stay on home. But that one over there? She get sick, she come into work anyhow. Pootin all over the place! I tell her, Stay the hell on your own damn side! She can’t hear nothin, either.
Dear Clusterflock: The New Year…
Hopes? Dreams? Aspirations?
from the comments
Did I tell any of you about my Australian T-Shirt design? It was going to have a guy playing a didgeridoo and a guy standing there and it was going to be unclear if the the didgeridoo noise was coming from the instrument or the other guy’s arse and it was going to say “What Did Geri Doo?”
Also, that’s how I remember how to spell Didgeridoo.
Boy Warriors of the Militia
from the comments
I think I’ve told this before. I rode 14 hours, from Savannah to Northeast Arkansas in the backseat, with a flatulent dachshund named Hans. Hans did not seem embarrassed in any way. The odor was sharp and dog-foody. Tangy. I finally pretended to sleep, burying my face into a pillow crammed in the corner between the seat and the door where some fresh air was seeping in.
from the comments
My brother was a genius when it came to farts. I was not far behind him.
