The following program is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons living or dead are purely coincidental. And your mother was a wildebeest.
What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know who I am? My name is Cornelius P. Thornbotty, and I’m a hundred and goddamned eighteen years old! Not that I expect you to care or anything. All you lot give a damn about are your eye pods and your rap music and your Paris goddamn Hilton, whoever the holy hell she is. But you should care because I’m older than you and you filthy kids need to respect that and learn from your elders! You should, you know, and by Thor’s thunderous balls I’m gonna learn you a thing or two about a thing or two! Sit down, go on, park your pathetic behind in one of them there chairs and ask me something. Ask! Anything! I’ll tell you what life’s really about, and I won’t sugar-coat it, neither. Just the way it is, the way you need to hear it, even if you won’t like it none because that’s the way things are, boy, and sometimes they suck harder’na fitty dollar whore, you hear me? You gonna ask me something or what? Eh?
So, how hard do those fifty dollar whores actually suck? I’ve heard long, mythical poems about them, some written by Longfellow, about their oral prowess.
…What’s that smell? Did you crap yourself again?
You know, there are more tactful ways of getting Betty, the Busty Coed Nurse over here to take care of ya.
Also, what’s the deal with “respecting your elders”? Obviously, this saying was created by elders because it benefits them. Do you really want preferential treatment or your Denny’s Grand Slam to get to your table nice and hot? Do you deserve preferential treatment solely because you haven’t died yet?
I would be infamously pleased if you could assist me in a banking endeavour. You see, a close friend of mine recently died and left 10 million dollars to me. But, you see, the tax laws in Uganda would cause for me to pay more than half of those monies in taxes you see. So, to avoid excessive payment in taxes, I should endeavour to engage a trustworthy christian man in the State to simple deposit the money in US bank account, then transfer the money to me by off shore account in my name. Simple. And for your help, I will allocate the sum of $500,000, which I think is very generous for but a few hours of banking work on your part, to show my appreciation.
Will you send me your bank account information so we can commence soonest as possible?
Son, if you have to ask, you can’t handle it. You know them fancy – whatchamacallem? – those vacuums, Dyson, those ones, they was based on these whores. They never lost suction, either.
Listen you, I got no time for your lip, now get me another Depends.
When you get to be my age, son, you don’t ask for Jell-O when you want to see a little wiggle, understand?
You’re damn straight I do! Do you have any idea how much willpower it takes to keep a body as old as this from turning to dust right there on the spot? Boy, if I could harness that kind of power like some superhero I’d zap the everlivin’ crap out of you like that guy in that movie, what was his name? Darth Nader.
I did. Sick bastard kept getting the doctors to X-Ray his crotch at the expo. Someone had to put a stop to such obscenity!
What the hell are you, some kind of sick pervert? Andy’s manboobs are no business of yours!
But listen, I’ve got some great J. Edgar upskirts if you’re interested…
What the hell do you think I am, new? Two million or no deal. I ain’t got time to deal in pocket change.
Your counter-proposal is accept. Please forward you banking account numbers and social secure numbers to my accountannt and we will commence right away. God bless you, cranky old malcontent. I hope to put my new found wealth to the use of the Lord god, and praise you to do so to.
Please send your banking account numebrs to my accountanct right away.
If you sneeze, you do you lose control long enough for something to turn into dust? Maybe you should get an urn so you can put your continually-failing limbs in it so you can save the costs of burial.
Poor old Cornelius. Y’all just need to go on out of here and leave the poor dear alone. Don’t they, sugar? Yes they do, yes they do! Just look at you getting all red in the face. I think it’s time you settled down and had a nice nap now, before your programs come on the Tee-vee.
My girlfriend says nobody buys the cow if they give the milk away for free. What the hell is she talking about? Also, can you recommend a good brand of moisturizing lotion?
When do you think the War of Northern Aggression will end? And when will Atlanta be returned to her formy glory? (Also, who’s the greatest Confederate General aside from Omar Bradley?
I never lose control, son. Never. Will of wrought iron, balls of cold steel, that’s what they said about me in dubya-dubya-one. The Great War, they called it, you know. You have any idea how many Ottoman asses I kicked from one side o’ Turkey to t’other? Boy, if they had a Medal of Ass Whoopin’, I’d be so decorated I’d jingle when I walked! And I can still whoop your scrawny ass! Go ahead and try me! My boots still fit! Just let me put my cane aside…
Matlock was a contentious fart. Now, the holy hell I raised when they cancelled In the Heat of the Night went down in the annals of television history as The Day An Old Bastard Kicked Brandon Tartikoff’s Ass In. And I did, too. Left him with no glutes. Man had to use one o’ them inflatable donuts to sit down. Go ask him. Ask him, “Hey, how’s your ass, Brandon?”
Away wi’ ya, woman! I have no need of your ministrations! Begone! Get off my lawn! I can take care of myself perfectly well by my own self! I can kick your ass too, see if I don’t.
You yongins, you know so little of the world. Billy, your little girlie friend there is a moron. Of course people still buy the cow if they get the milk for free! After a nice glass of milk you can kill and eat the cow for dinner! You know, back in dubya dubya one – the Great War, they called it – why we’d sneak right on to some Turk’s farm and steal us a cow. We’d take it back to base and cut 'er up and eat ‘er right there, raw, ‘cos that’s just the kinda men we were. And we didn’t use no girlie moisturizin’ lotions, neither! Gave you girl’s hands, that did! And we didn’t bathe for weeks on end, neither, there was just too much fightin’ to do. And damnit, we liked it that way!
Separatin’ yer whites and yer colors when you do a wash. Ain’tcha never washed yer own clothes, son? Y’all are spoiled, that’s what’s wrong with the kids today!
Rock salt. Rock salt and a double-aught. Learns 'em right quick.
Herman was my shoe-shine boy after the Great War. They called that dubya-dubya-one, you know.
War of Northern Aggression? Son, them Canadians’ idea of war is cussin’ mildly at you. Ain’t no war. Dubya-dubya-one, now that was a war. A Great War. Atlanta ain’t never gonna be the same. It’s been permanently sissified by them pansy northern folk. And Omar Bradley wouldn’t even be a footnote in history if it hadn’t been for my sage advice during the worst of it. I was his mentor. He looked to me for every little decision, even asked me when to piss. He knew, you see. He respected the fact that I could have kicked his ass up and down the Mason-Dixon. Smart man, he was.