Diapers of Shame

I am going to start a band and name it "Tony and His Several Tumors." I used to be in a different band once. I couldn't play any instrument without somehow setting fire to the local postal service. That's why they never let me touch the instruments or microphones, and I definitely wasn't the singer. I was the amp. I was the one responsible for the bass guitar falling down the stairs and subsequently becoming a liberal democrat. They still won't let me anywhere near the state of Montana. I mean come on. I launch the entire building into a trans-dimensional portal one time and you just can't let it go, can you?

Well that man is certainly stuck in his ways wheys curds. This clock has eleven hands, all the same size. If I hand you a clock's hand would you use your own hand to check the time, or will your car just rear-end a butt ? You can't heegle pleeps unless yaa beloove in frundsharp. Check out these things I found in the dumpster. Ordinarily, they are briefcases, but today they are soup. I call them the Lips of Determination. Collect all four, FranÇois! Or should I say...FRANçOIS!!!

Let's say you're walking down the street, and someone says, "Hey, I would like to raise your child!" What do you do? You say, "No! Get a life and I hope you die from sharks!" They will walk away with a dejected look on their faces as you throw diapers at them scornfully. Diapers of shame. Remember my advice if you want to live. Otherwise, you might as well be trading the entire world to aliens for a golden egg, and that makes you Bim the Clown and me William Shatner. Time to boldly split infinitives. I have replaced all the money in your wallet with peanut butter.

The day I played with brain coral was the day that my portfolio became Fort Polio. We remember it well. It had nothing to do with the Great Toot Machine III, copyright Mt. St. Helens, 1975. It was either hail, tornados, or suicidal sheep. Take your pick. Also take this comb; it's good for your digestive system. Now, I see your point, but I can't hear your point. This amphitheater is my hoopskirt. Don't assassinate me. Not yet. These  bubbles don't want to pour coffee all over your acorns, but if the wheat farm says, "Bleuuurgh" all bets are off. Keep that in mind tomorrow morning, because cropping pictures of the harvest is fun only when you drive under a teepee and hit a native. The teepee's peas. Donuts hop out of beakers when it gets too steamy in the fuse box to make forks a regular customer.

Today is under construction. Thank you for understanding.

I specifically said no tartar sauce. And they gave me all the tartar sauce they have. Whatever makes you burp is too sacrilegious to eat at my dinner table. You'll have to burrow under my picnic blanket and live amongst the worms. Firing sponges out of a cannon at your mother-in-law as she exits the grocery store is basically the worst way to get revenge. Mothers-in-law derive evil powers from sponges -- we've gone over this. You see, sometimes, I follow my roommates around and repeat everything they say, but I say it an octave higher. That way, nobody knows who I am or even tries to eat my ice cream while I'm cleaning the restrooms using only a hammer.

I will hide in the gutters and eat nothing but topsoil for a week.