Well, I suppose I have some explaining to do, don't I dear readers? So I, not being one to lie, am just gonna patch up the spatula and thank the pig for the box tops. Granted, the story of my whereabouts is a long one, but it's one filled with intrigue, fisticuffs, and mattress coolant at that, so cover up your car and relock your chastity belts 'cause we're going thru the looking glass on this one, Spartacii. Now, those of you who are regular readers of both World Domination Weekly and local Alta Deena dairy cartons have noticed that I've been missing for nearly two weeks now and I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Hey. Goober. Where've you been?" First off, don't you ever get off calling me a goober again or else I'll fix your ass for you! Second, yeah, I've been out. So shoot me. Ow! My heart! Ah! My ass! Ow my heart and ass. How did you do that anyway? I'm typing via internet, eh? right now and that doesn't even make sense. Well by golly I'll show you. You and that boy
of yours. Anyhowser, it all started a couple weeks back when I was on a covert expedition to the Antarctic pole to check the efficiency of operations on Project: GWAR (which is nothing more than a radar-dodging lab dedicated to harvesting frozen mastodon tusks and converting them into an inexpensive rickshaw fuel--hey, just because I'm bent on global superiority doesn't mean I don't care about things like outdated Chinese transportation) when a "hammock-out-of-nowhere" as I like to call it coccooned itself amongst the protoblades which ruptured the electroionic stranifiers which reneged the ethalpy responsible for lubricating the dual turbopropellucular pistons and in short, caused my gyrocopter to crash in the frigid recesses of the subsouthern tundra. My pilot, Bosco Shabaz, also survived the blistery handshake with death, but as for little Short Round (or "Cody" as the Antarctic aborigines were so fond of calling him), well, he actually died two months ago in a band mishap involving a lethal overdose of triangle. So the "Baz" and myself aimlessly wandered thruout the glacial badlands with nothing to eat but wolverine hooves and melted hair. Our situation improved, however, once a rescue copter found us and flew us away to safety. Unfortunately, it turned out that the copter was nothing more than a hallucinatory mirage and even more unfortunately, we didn't realize this until we were well in the air and we freefell four stories into the yellow snow as the copter dissipated around us. So our situation worsened. But then in bettered. For the better. We stumbled upon a Laplander village, where I was able to trade the "Baz" for an ostrich. I wasn't able to ride it long, however, because apparently, ostriches aren't native to the Antarctic, and it froze to death and then posthumously died. But, being a student of the mad sciences, I was not only able to bring it back to life, but I created and added spare parts to bring it back as a mutant husky, a mutant pedigree with the bobbed tail of an Alaskan canine, the powerful thighs of an African running bird, and the full pouting lips of Tony Curtis. I was able to ride the huskrich to an abandoned weatherstation, but by that time I grew bored with it so I built a new huskrich, bred them both, and then slaughtered the whole pack to live off their radiant, mutant meat. The only thing to stave off "station fever" was a rusty telegraph press that smelled like an iron butt (if trains could fart...). Someone from another outpost kept contacting me on it, and even tho I am unfamiliar with Morse code, I was able to surmise from the rhythm and frequency of the telegraph beats that this someone was actually an illiterate Nazi abandoned and forgotten in Antarctic exile since WWII and he was using the telegraph to attack my manhood and incessantly call me "totally gay." Well was I really gonna sit there and take that from a bratwurst-scented douche dear readers? Reich hell I was! I thenceforth demolished the weather station to turn its pieces into a pair of crosscountry skis, but decided to throw them away when I realized I built them with too many wheels. So I began my ski-less hunt for my German adversary, imagining how I was gonna melt his face off with a hose. A two-night hike and seven Napoleon sightings later, I found the bastard's lair--an igloo constructed of cinder blocks, novelty mugs, and back issues of People magazine. It was time for a lesson you won't soon forget, Germy--McSonogram-style! I then knocked on his door and ran into the night giggling. But my giggling was cut to a muffled short when I ran guffaw-first into the back end of a polar bear. Once I peeled myself from its furry nethers, it reared up, but in such an adorable way, I never guessed that it did it to slash off my superfluous nipple. Oh no! The carnival would never hire me for that summer job now! I then realized I would have to fight back to survive. I was gonna punch the polar bear right in his polar face. Now, I don't know if you've ever fisted a polar bear to the jaw, dear reader, but it's hard. I mean, it's a jaw so dense you'll shatter every carpal in your hand hitting it. It's like trying to punch a tree in the abs. That's exactly why I punched it using a nightgown I had on my person. Luckily, it did the trick because the bear ended up being allergic to female evening wear, and it swelled up and died. Even luckier, the bear had been "tagged" by an environmental group and when they came to monitor it with a fresh tag the next day, I stowed away in its mouth as they drove its body to Antarctic civilization for a proper Christian burial. Once I clawed myself out of the bear's grave, I hotwired an environmentalist's jeep, drove myself to GWAR HQ, boarded the nearest gyroplane, and hopped on the good foot and did the bad thing. And now I'm back. And as you can see, I'm pushing blogspot's capacity for a "Links" column.
Best line from Simpsons Season 6: "What's a Chachie?"
Best (approximate) line from Woody Allen's "Love & Death:" "Socrates is a man. And if Socrates is a man, then all men are Socrates. Therefore, all men are homosexual. Wait. I'm not homosexual."
I also highly reccomend The Office with Steve Carell on DVD--each episode has so many deleted scenes, that by "playing all," you're pretty much playing six new episodes all as hilarious as the originals.
"We're proud of the fact that Pixar makes cartoons. We're not trying to replicate reality. We study reality and then we caricature it." --Ralph Eggleston