Musical Toilets and Unicorn Dubstep. Batman.

Sometimes, I like to play musical toilets. It's a lot like musical chairs, but you sit down when it stops flushing. I admit that I can be a cheater when I play. I once ate a man's iPhone so I could win. But I kind of regretted my decision soon afterward. That thing was on vibrate. Anyway, we're not going anywhere until everyone is folding lederhosen into origami swans and basking in Denny's fluorescent tartar sauce. Tartar, my good sir! Sip a long grog of crumpet fellows!

My spork thinks it's Batman. I'm serious, Jack. I was just sitting there, minding everybody's own business, when the owner of the store walks up and robs a president. My spork was all like, "NO!" and it leapt out of my hand and straight into the burgling owner's mouth, where it proceeded to spontaneously combust. The owner tripped over an orphan, and then the president thanked the Batspork, but he blamed me. So I planted drugs in his car. Literally. It's got a sunroof, so just you wait. In a couple months, the president will have entire druggie-plants in his car. Everyone will think he's a hippie.

Kiss me, Miranda, I'm having a stroke.

Let me clarify about the Flirp. I put a toast on it. Can't you see it? Just look to the bottom-right corner of your screen! I've even labeled it for you. Must I do everything around here? Where's a cactus when you need one? I once sat on a bus that had television seats on it, so that your butt could watch movies too. (Somebody tooted on Kristen Stewart.) Also, they served pizza directly to our faces, and they let us order deep-fried lobster, and they gave us complimentary foot massages, and then a butler fell out of the ceiling. His name was Ler, so when he told us that nobody likes deep-fried lobster, I said, "But Ler!" And everyone shot me.

I just made a donation to the unicorn dubstep charity. All unicorns come from the land of "Hey man, where's my big mac?" and they do intelligence for Rhonda, because Rhonda needs help. I find that ironic. Plus, I hate it when people refer to themselves in the third person. Good thing I'm not a people. The first person is me, the second person is you, and the third person is everyone else. That makes him plural. That flip was scripted 'til he flipped the script; pip pip cheerio and all that kittens and heart failure YEAH

Just the other day, I was pulling a late colonial scribe out of my freezer when suddenly my cousin bursts through the sink hole and demands a horse whisperer's nephew. I said no, and he said, "You know, if you buy 3 mattresses and name them all Ralph, you probably won't be able to distinguish the three of them from each other." That's when the secret service split a cookie between two shrubs at a local middle school.

Just in case you were wondering, I wasn't. Shucking corn is a good way to alleviate communism. By the way, I know it's early in our relationship, but I want to have your child. No seriously. Hand it over. Orphanages pay good money for IS THAT A PENNY I'm sorry got distractWE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE! Where were we? Canada? That's what I thought. I don't need you or your Japanese sock puppets. Go suck a cardboard box. I can't just stand here and yodel while you stick grapes inside some lady's ear-hole. Now fetch me a whisk, and watch the magical beans roast inside this artificial pig.

I threw an octopus in your cradle, baby.

This Is A Post

Grant me a chicken, you murderous fat. Now, don't be offended, but I am literally screaming at your goldfish right now, and that's nothing to be afraid of. Except sometimes the happy French people come and slither through the air ducts of bigwig mansions, but only because they fancy a sandwich. The fancy kind. And not to jump to conclusions, but this is a paragraph made of sentences made of words made of letters made of pixels made of corn.

I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: monkeys are evil. Not only do they have razor sharp teeth all the better to eat you with my dear, but, like most chemists, they have a tendency to hurl fecal matter at small children. That is unacceptable and kind of disgusting. Furthermore, if monkeys really could evolve, I'm pretty sure they would turn into supervillains who try to take over the world. Or at least the sewers.

Fortunately, if that ever were to happen, I am a superhero. They call me Captain Obvious. My outfit resembles Superman's, except that instead of just an "S" on the front, it has the word "SUPERHERO" written across it. Also, on my back are the words, "I am not Batman." My shoes are labeled "This is where feet go," and my catchphrase is "I like justice!" When supervillains throw kryptonite at my face, I yell, "NO! I am not Superman!" Later, when I have tied up all of the supervillains with steel girders, I say, "Rope would have been much more practical." That's when the news reporters arrive. They ask a bunch of questions, and I tell them, "Heehee, my underwear is on the outside..." Later, when I am in a pickle, I declare, "I am literally in a pickle!" because supervillains like to make puns. That's when the narrator asks, "Could this be the end of Captain Obvious?" And that's when I interject, "No it could not." That's when the credits start rolling. The role of Captain Obvious is played by Captain Obvious. And that's why you will never have to worry about monkeys taking over the world, despite the demonic black holes that fester within their tainted souls. Nevermind. I have decided that monkeys do not have souls.

A great source of confusion is me. I would like to point out that I attend a college of education; not a high school of soap. I would also like to point out that Mr. Tubs-in-pants is still doing a rain dance in some stranger's yard, and I am now in someone else's laundry chute. The last guy, whose house I mentioned in my last post, came home after a long day at work, so I burst from the pantry and crashed through his window and scampered down the street, flailing my arms wildly. And that is the story of how I lost my socks in a stranger's pantry.

Now listen closely because I am only going to say this...Nuclear boomerangs suck the future. They're like time-mosquitoes. Also, if you stick an EMP bomb in somebody's house, their milk will go rotten, which is bad because it will obviously lead to a zombie invasion. But that's okay because zombies move really slow. They are pretty much the worst monsters ever. And that's a fact. But believe it or not, I have to put plastic things on my eyeballs every morning or else I get hit by parked cars. I also like to hitch rides with unwilling drivers by secretly clinging to the roof of their vehicle. I love the look on their faces when they stop at gas stations, and I roll down the hood and onto the pavement. I then crawl away backwards and hide in a nearby trash can or a distant dumpster. Speaking of which, I found Narnia. Anyway, hair salons don't appreciate it when you bring a bottle of mustard into the room and start shooting people in the eye with it. I don't see the problem here, though; there's an optometrist next door, plus a congressman beneath the floor boards but I digress. I like to set up camp at Walmart and suddenly emerge from my tent wearing a toga and Pikachu slippers. This is MY house! And it has lice. Flick that little pumpernickel tapeworm off your salted nose and get some real ointment, you wimple-tickling guppy. I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself; you're really not all that bad, homie.

You are eating Randy.

Hot Tubs in Camo-Pants Dance

Let me be clear -- I am a window. Now listen, Mufasa, I've got at least seventeen parsnips in my left hand and that effeminate leprechaun can't wait forever. YOU HAVE TO CUT THE RED WIRE WITH YOUR GUMS! I lied. It's a potato. I met someone today. His name was Mr. Tubs-in-pants. He has tubs...in his pants.

Epic.

I like to call him Mr. Pants, for short. Because he is short. But that's okay, because he can still dunk a basketball, provided it's an Easter basket that is on the ground. Showoff. He hippity hopped all the way home after I rubbed his face with a half-eaten mango, and that was that. Unfortunately, he is now sitting right outside my window, raising the roof. Figuratively. No, wait. Now he's performing some sort of rain dance. Nevermind, that's not a rain dance. IT'S THE CAMO-PANTS DANCE!!! His legs are invisible, you know. I swear, it's like there's just a torso careening wildly across my lawn.

Anyway, don't worry about Mr. Pants. He's not important. The real matter at hand is the matter in my hand. It's a hamster. I really...really wanna just stuff it in my mouth. Then swallow. Rinse. Repeat... But I know I shouldn't. OW! The hamster is trying to eat me! ...Fine! I'll just eat you!

...Okay, okay, that was gross. Never stick a hamster in your mouth. It tried to bite my tooth, so I had to spit it out, into the bathtub. By the way, this isn't my house. But the door was unlocked, so it's all cool. Besides, nobody will notice me. I'll just hide in the pantry before they get back. I do that a lot to my friends. I hide in their pantries while they are home, and then I send them Facebook messages.

Flirp: Hello.
Friend: Hi. How r u?
Flirp: I am fantastic. How are you?
Friend: im god
Flirp: No you're not.
Friend: imean im good
Flirp: That's cool.
Friend: yeah
[30 awkward minutes of silence later...]
Flirp: I am in your pantry.

And that's when they call the po-po, so I have to run away and find femail men with hot tubs and three-legged cats. Cats usually have four legs, but the ones with three legs are how you know if their owners are the kind of people who are willing to trade the appendages of housepets on the black market. I'm not gonna lie. You have a liver, and it's the worst. If you sit down for just a minute and hug your feet, you might decide to take up the sport of somersaulting on things that people have touched with their toes.

I can spin around until I projectile vomit.

Flirp Within A Flirp

Talk about Jungle pants, I'm trippin' on kool-aid and spatial recognition software! Man, that's dope. Anyway, I'm sure you understand the incoherence of my drivel well enough to expect a dissertation on dancing mushrooms. But you're not getting any such thing. Instead, you're getting a gift card for some obscure restaurant that includes bacon with every meal. Even the bacon is seasoned with bacon.

I can smell your arteries clogging already.

If there's one thing I'm good at, it's being good at things. And that's a fact. For instance, just today, I was sitting there with my coffee, which I don't drink. And my friends walked up and said, "Gee Wilkerson, Humphrey! You are very good at sitting there with coffee which you don't drink! Have a scone!" So I said, "My name's not Humphrey." And they said, "Can we call you Ishma--" "No," I replied. That's when a bus came and ran over someone's lawn gnome collection. He shook his fist dramatically as the bus drove into the sunset and burst into flames. My friends and I decided that the next logical step would be to eat chips of sawdust at Starbucks.

If you swing the tables around enough, the tops come off and careen wildly into random pedestrians. Because we are in a car, and all the screws are loose. That's why I'm wearing a scarf in the middle of summer -- to catch the tabletops as they fly from our car and into the unsuspecting townspeople. I live in Nerdville, so the fact that there are actually people outside, walking, is more than miraculous.

ATTENTION: WE ARE ALL FAT AND ARE GOING TO DIE! Except for famous people. They are, by default (and photoshop) not fat or dead. Ever. Elvis Presley. See what I mean?

Here's what I think:

And here's what I say: Let's eradicate all famous people. With monkeys. Think about it. Monkeys are evil. Famous people are evil. Thus, all famous people will start a war with monkeys, which are evil, and since their intellect is practically the same, both sides will destroy each other. But even if they don't, then either the famous people or the monkeys will become extinct. So it's a win-win.

I can say these things because I am not famous. I am infamous. And illegal in like thirteen different states, including the state of illegality. Thus, I exist in a paradox. Flirpception? ...You know that's right.

Do you get it? Huh? HUHHH?...Nevermind. NEVERMIND IS A REAL WORD, MR. SPELLCHECK. C-H-E-C-K. There. I spelled check. Happy? Good. If a zombie invasion occurs, you'll be a happy meal. And I will move to the moon, where I will begin my own chain restaurant that caters to all races of dirt. I will make a killing. And then I will kill everyone. Ever. E. One. In the universe, ever. Jerks. Let's all put on our dance pants and do the spicy salsa with Dr. Doctor, Doctor. Man these cheese cubes are ticklish. You should do something about that. Here, use this grape. But grapes grow on vines, so we'll need a frozen spatula, otherwise we'll never pry the babies off the wall. And finally, the verdict arrives on a silver platter with bells on and your great-grandfather's great grandfather clock. I wonder how the old geezer is doing these days. Let's dig him up and find out.

Okay, let's face it. If you've read this far, you're really determined to finish this post, huh? I should reward you with a cookie or something. Maybe a pumpkin. You can put it on Pumpkin Island, where the common folk dip their noses in melted chocolate just to spite the porridge fairies.

Ew, another plump news anchorwoman just barged through the door and got splinters all over the carpet. Good thing this isn't my shower. I'm going to crawl through the air vents and end up in your kitchen sink. Now it's a party.

The bumble bees have discovered their own toes and now cows are releasing the winds of destruction. Guard the cities and hide the children in the dumpster. This means war. And I'm fairly certain she'll be collecting other people's breakfasts 'cause she really doesn't know the difference between girls and other girls. But that's okay, because we have plenty of marshmallows to go around and over and under and occasionally INTO THE ABYSS but not usually.

Kick Susan.

The Mfufin Man and I'm Not Fat

As the very first resident of the city of owls might say, "Swallow a drop of gravel and blacktop, 'cause the road tastes like wintergreen." In other words, good afternoon, my little chew toys! I want to fancy a crime, then do a little jig, but the Polish won't accept my invitations. Despite this minor setback, I intend to fully and completely eat this here catalog, in one sitting. You might want to fasten your waistbands for this one, folks.

Speaking of birds, I was watching COPS last night, and my mom said "Hologram! No one thinks very quickly anymore."

Anyway, every time I claim shotgun in our family car, the seat senses my weight and makes the put-on-your-seatbelt light flash. I take that as an offensive remark about my weight. I am not fat, thank you very much, and I would be more inclined to listen to you, Mr. Car, if you would refrain from insulting my bodily appearance so much. Know what? I'm not gonna put on my seatbelt until the day my car stops calling me fat. . . So basically, one day in the distant future, the car will be broken beyond repair. And I will be sitting in it. With my seatbelt on.

That's what winners do.

Oh my! My ear-related faculties have detected movement above my head. I must be in my parents' basement while my siblings hold some sort of log-throwing competition upstairs in the den! HOLD ON, GALILEO! I SHAN'T FORGET YOUR EXPLOITS!

...I was wrong...There were no siblings. Just footsteps. Very rude footsteps, too...Now I'm all depressed. What kind of person doesn't come home from school with a human-sized tree trunk? That's what I want to know. I also want to know the Muffin Man. Everyone keeps asking me and asking me and freaking asking me if I know him, and I'm too embarrassed to admit that I've never met this gentleman in my life! Why would I know this man, anyhoo?

And I'm fairly certain that this Muffin Man doesn't much appreciate people going around, giving his address to total strangers. I know I wouldn't. Last time that happened, my flying buttresses collapsed under the weight of thousands of screaming fangirls. I'm sure the Muffin Man doesn't get that sort of fanfare, but then again of course he wouldn't; he's not me. He's the Mfufin Man...Wait...I'm sorry. I erred in spelling. I made a typo. I clogged the subwoofing giggle-maker! Oh, this is a tragedy indeed...But then...perhaps it isn't.

I think I shall call him the Mfufin Man from now on.

I've decided. I shall go, and I shall meet this Mfufin Man. I don't know where Drury Lane is, but it can't be far. By the way, in case you were wondering what I've been doing all day, it's chasing the post office with a stick. I caught that building pretty fast. But now I need a new weapon. You wouldn't happen to have a mfufin, would you?

All politicians do is sit around all day and make people angry. I wish I could have that job. Nevermind, no I don't. I would rather not the entire population of America want to murder me in my slumber. But I would like to have a slumber party. With politicians. Can you just imagine the epic pillow fight between Newt Gingrich and Ron Paul? ...Ron Paul's still alive, right?

I'm delicious.

Yoda at Terminal Velocity

Old people generally have wrinkles, which makes them kind of like a Grand Canyon, except that their faces weren't eroded by a river for millions of years. Then again, neither was the Grand Canyon, yo. I went to the Grand Canyon once. Atmospheric perspective makes everything look blue, so it looked like everyone was being photoshopped into an old postcard photo. Also, I sat on a rock that was above the ground, but the ground was keeping its distance because everyone knows that dirt is very particular about its personal space. I got yelled at for sitting on that rock, so I apologized to it and proceeded to fall all the way down the Grand Canyon. But don't worry, I survived.

I landed in the water, and as Hollywood has taught us so very well, falling from any height is survivable as long as you land in water. Terminal velocity? Psh. I eat that for breakfast. Seriously. Goes great with eggs. Green eggs, to be exact. Green eggs and ham. Sam I Am wouldn't have to tell me twice.

Sam I Am must have a really hard time introducing himself. "I am Sam I Am." Or, if he wants to talk like Yoda (who doesn't?), "Sam I Am I am." And people would be like, "What? Sam a yam? Are you a yam?" And of course, Sam I Am would be like, "Yes, I am a yam, for Sam I Am I am, ma'am." But I'm not a lady.

You know what you need? Of course you don't. It's cabbages. You need them. And they need you. You were made for each other. Don't question me. I'm a unmatched matchmaker making even matchmakers match up like peas and carrots. Jenny.

So, I'm sure that you are wondering how my day has been, because how could you not be? I know, right? WRONG it's left. Anyway, I woke up before noon so that I could attend my music appreciation class, where I got in a circle and danced with girls in the style of the Irish, except I wasn't drunk. Shortly therebefore, I left to purchase a calzone and exactly two bottles of rootbeer because I am a fan of delicious flavor. The calzone had chicken in it. The rootbeer did not. At least not at first. Anyway, I returned and consumed half of the calzone; I am digesting it now. I then threw an IFO at people for a long time, and I discovered that frisbees are attracted to moving cars. That driver was not happy. I hope his face is okay.

That guy over there in the corner is a horrible human being.

Bim

So, the arts. Picasso and Shakespeare and all that crap. Yeah, that exists. Too bad we only have the old stuff to learn about, though. Seriously, waffle, no one ever gets to learn about new kinds of art nowadays. We're too stuck in the past, maaannnnblip. Look, something is wrong when there aren't anorexic students break dancing in the hallways. Furthermore, I can fit 36 preschoolers in my locker before the floor caves in, but where's the microwave? That's all I'm saying.

Anyway, it occurs to me that the Hamburglar must only steal ham, because otherwise he'd be the Hamburgerburglar. I can't say I blame him, and not only because there is an entire hamster in my mouth.

Who doesn't like ham?

My great aunt Maxwell, that's who.

Now listen. I know what you're thinking, and I don't like it. Shut up. Stop thinking thoughts before I duct-tape your brain with a plastic fork and start waving it around like some country's flag at the Olympics. Speaking of which, if I ever ran a country, I would name it Outland. That way, everyone from my country would have to speak with an Outlandish accent, wear Outlandish clothing, and support Outlandish ideals. Mine would be a country of Outlandish people. And I have devised the perfect government for Outland.

First off, there will be no crying. Your eyes will be drooling because they are hungry. Also, all black people will be replaced with other black people, and Outlandish clothing will be made of real clothes, and nobody shall be naked in any way. Even under their clothes, they shall be clothed. And there will be no bald people; we shall eradicate them all. And there will be exactly one political party: the Party Party. Yes. This country will be perfect. Not just the people, but all the buildings too, will have to wear silly hats. And everyone will say "bim," in every sentence. Because bim is a happy word. And no more of this "death" nonsense. Everyone will simply blink for an extended period of time.

Speaking of time, I've just killed some.

Let's polka.

Flying Buttresses and Naked Traps

Don't call me Ishmael. That's not my name. Call me Cornelius. That's not my name either, but you can shorten it to 'Corn,' and how awesome is that? Super awesome, that's how.

I'm sure you're asking your computer monitor, "But why, Corn? Why are you here and not dating the thousands of women that pile at your front door every evening?" The answer is simple. Because if I were to date just one of those women, all the other women would get very jealous. Thus, they would become very womean (See what I did there?) to one another. And I promote peace. Like a boss.

Now, keep in mind, I'm no girly hippie. I would never, say, occupy Wallstreet or anything stupid like that. No, no, see, I am a strong believer in hard work and also strong-ness. And I'm even in support of wars. Let's just make them peaceful wars. Can't we all get along violently? Here's an idea. Let's catch Kony. He's been streaking all across Africa, and really, nobody wants to see that. Therefore, I propose that we set up a sort of naked-trap, to catch any and all nudists that come sprinting through the jungle on a daily basis. This way, we can catch Kony and all of his nudy friends.

One thing that's hard to forget is memory. Even if you have short term memory loss, you are thinking, "I can't remember what you just said. My memory is not working today." So as you can clearly tell, even when you forget everything, you can never forget that you can't remember. And that's a fact. Now.

If you will excuse me, sandwich, I want to go take a shower. The woman-pile at my door is beginning to overwhelm the flying buttresses of my house, and I would much rather smell like lilacs when my walls cave in on me.

It's not really pasta.

The Quenchiest

I just ate dinner, but I had to walk by a nuclear power plant to find my sandwich. And to make everything in the whole wide world even worse, it was too spicy! Of course I mean the power plant, not the sandwich. The sandwich was perfectly tasty. Plutonium, yum. Ha ha ha kaboom. BOOM, SHAVE YO LEGS! ALL CAPS IS LIKE YELLING I yelled at a puppy today. Also a peanut.

And you know, if you sniff hydrochloric acid for too long, your nose burns off. That's because hydrochloric acid is acidic. If it wasn't acidic, it would probably be basic, which means it's a base, which means if you rub it all over your hands, all of your skin would turn into soap. That way you never have to wash your hands. They are soap. You could give bubbly handshakes and wash someone's hand AT THE SAME TIME. I don't get it.

These are the cutest kittens in the world. These are our kittens. As you can tell, ours are the cutest kittens in the world. And that's no lie. Buy our cute kittens. They are the cutest! And buy our cactus juice. It'll quench ya. Nothing's quenchier. IT'S THE QUENCHIEST! Man, now I really wanna make a blog called "The Quenchiest." It would sell a million copies. Of Newt Gingrich's left apocalypse.

That's how we do.

By the way, buy the whey. I have a musical class wherein I must appreciate music, which I do, but apparently you have to do more than just appreciate music to get an A. Stupid. Anyway, homie, we had to listen to some piano musics by a guy and his wife, but the guy checked himself into an insane asylum because he's a schizophrenic hippie, but that kind of makes sense because his music had names most of the time, but sometimes they didn't except that they did. Like one song that we didn't get to listen but we just looked at it, it didn't really have a name, except that it did because the name was really just three stars that he drew on the top. Also, he tried to make himself good at piano by breaking his finger. I once broke the sun. I had to wait all night for them to repair it. But now that I think about it, maybe he wasn't really a hippie. He just thought that all giant mushrooms were friendly. But you and me know better, don't we?

Old lady, car door, blow torch, staircase, tooth fairy, dodgeball? Yeah. Good times.

Stuff the ice chest.

The Femail Man

I woke up this morning and thought to myself, "Holy crap, gravity." I then proceeded to microwave an orange for breakfast and lie on the floor for a while. I discovered the ceiling. And while I'm not entirely sure you'll believe me, I should tell you that spinning around on your head is a lot more fun on linoleum than on gravel. That doesn't matter, in the end, because the mail man answered my door. Which is weird because I didn't knock. How could I have knocked? I was too busy hiding in my own refrigerator. Also, the mail man is actually a woman. She is the femail man.

She threw my mail at me from my doorstep and then closed the door, so I picked up the mail and read it backwards. Apparently, scientists have discovered that solar flares mess with how fast Uranium gets rid of itself. But nobody cares.

Later today, I went to work, but it wasn't my job, so I got fired. I still don't have that job, but that's okay. I have a microwaved orange. I also have a literature class, which I attended. We talked about a doctor who sold his soul to the devil so that he could make historical figures pretend to exist in front of his friends. I don't get it. For a genius, he was kind of an idiot. Good thing we are done with that story. Now we are reading about how a girl dresses up as a guy and falls in love with a guy who is in love with another girl who is in love with the first girl who is disguised as a guy. Also there's a drunk guy.

I bet you didn't know this, but Gus supports Mitt Romney, or at least he follows him on Twitter. So does Griffin. Therefore, so do I. Name's Ichabod Fletchman, sticky-icky to my boys, but that's neither here nor there. The point is this baby's 82% Hawaiian and I've got aaaalll afternoon. Psych! Whaaaaaaaat? Well, that's about all for today.

Don't get caught in the salad.