Eight Men Out and About
You know the old saying, If you get hooked on the bobo you'll wind up a hobo.
In the original, unaired pilot of Mission: Impossible, Jim Phelps was a randy nudist who selected each week's team of operatives from her own brag book of sexual conquests.
It's not *technically* a Human Centipede if the head is a cat.
We continue our look at Soviet Porn. This week it's "Hot Nights of a Heroic Hod Carrier" by Romance Writers Collective #12 (Originally published as "Brick Lay Her", 2nd Revised Edition by Peoples Committee on Pro-Revolutionary Masturbatory Assistance Products).
The sins of Susan Slade were numerous and varied--impersonating a bungee jumper, Vespa theft, trafficking in exotic gazelles--but I guess THE sin was when she murdered the girl from Christina's World and assumed her identity to avoid a process server.
It's not even real! It's just what the IT guys at Honeybaked Hams call their company intranet.
Pulp's greatest polymath!
Snapping into action, Doc used his patented Incendiary Christmas Ornaments to blow the balls off several Oompa Loompas.
No! DON'T! Lovecraft wrote a story warning against this very thing!
But just like its heyday in the 80s, you'll only hear it when the camera barges into a neon-lit bathroom while a woman with a spiral perm is showering.
Insidious. Unseen. They attack by night, these strange creatures from the planet Ambien, and make you eat that entire pan of lemon bars that was supposed to be for your daughter’s Key Club bake sale, and then deny it in the morning!
Oh dear. What did little Quentin do now?
LT. SCHREIDER: Ha HA! Enjoy your pimples and blackheads, Fritz! I'm bugging out of this clambake and taking all the Clearacil with me!
This Month in MYSTERY, it's "The Extremely Near-sighted Pirate!"
HIM: Arrr! Thar be Treasure Island!
HER: It's a mole on the back of my neck.
HIM: Arrr!...not.
Very cool. Back in my kit-bashing days I would've LOVED a model of this baby.
For some reason this photo makes me want to punch a large, shirtless bald Nazi.
And as you can see, we've arrived at penis butter in only three moves! This is why I majored in Game Theory.
the situation: (pulling the pillow over his head) shut the fuck up
"How did your date go last night?"
(GOING FOR THE HIGH FIVE) "I WHIFFED!"
1ST MAN: Tarzan! You’ve arrived just in the nick of ti-i-i-IKES! What the HELL happened to your DICK?
TARZAN: Well, Jane wanted to go to this place that does hair extensions, and one thing led to another, and--Look, what happens in the City of Gold stays in the City of Gold, okay?!
Also we don't sweat, we extrude.
GUNMAN: Draw, Ranger!
RANGER: Aw, fuck you [BLAM!] And fuck that lamp, too [BLAM!] Also fuck that spitoon [PTANG!] And DOUBLE FUCK that crown molding up there [BLAM! BLAM!]
HIM: Hello, fellow teens! I'm pleased to see none of us are undercover FBI agents, merely juveniles enjoying the delinquent life, with its familiar impedimenta: leather jackets, switchblades, thinning hair, and incipient jowls. Now, let's go do some crimes, shall we?
When you've got the Sword of Damocles
Danglin over your head
That's a real incentive
To get out of bed
Unfortunately, it's made from 100% genuine William Styron, so all your housewares are clinically depressed.
With stress levels high in this country and getting higher, I wondered how the British kept calm and carried on during the Blitz, and succeeded in discovering their secret. Start each day with a big glass of rich, beefy Breakfast Wine!
Cuing up "Dance at the Gym (Mambo)" from West Side Story.
Throw in The Two Towers from the Lord of the Rings. And also maybe imply a connection between the Ents and Entenmann's.
"Well, my given name is Bike, but my family calls me Penny. It's short for Pennyfarthing."
