[ol]
[li]Have I told you lately that I love you?[/li][li]How many roads must a man walk down before they call the police?[/li][li]What do I want to be when I grow up?[/li][li]Got milk? If so, how long have you been lactating?[/li][/ol]
katie, I bet you thought I’d forgotten about you, huh? Au contraire, mon frere. I was merely teasing you, much in the same way you teased me with that whole marriage thing. Already got an old man, eh? Fine. But can he do the Riverdance while reciting the preamble to the Constitution backwards and juggling two live peacocks with his nostril hairs? CAN HE? I didn’t think so. Neither can I. But I’m sure time will prove to you who your heart really belongs to. Besides, I don’t want to be married to someone who’d refer to me as their “old man”. It would make me feel like my wife was a dirty biker chick. So there.
[sub]Oh please baby, give me a second chance! I’m so much better for you than he is![/sub]
On with the sideshow:
What do you know that you wish you didn’t?
What my grandmother looks like naked. Also, the exact date and time the world will end. Hint: it involves penguins.
Charles Nelson Reilly - True or False?
Well, I’d have to say false. Oh, he told me he was true. But then I caught him making out with Paul Lynde on the veranda. Charles Nelson Lie-ly, more like. I’m glad he’s dead.
In your opinion, who should have REALLY won the bet in “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”?
I don’t know who should have won, but I know who did win: the state of Georgia. Having a cool celebrity like Satan coming through your community and being mentioned by Charlie Daniels? How much more hep can you get? The devil decided to stay there, too, only now he uses his human name: Ted Turner.
Did you ever think you’d end up like this?
No. It’s like something out of a wondrous fairy tale, isn’t it? Only without the frolicking anthropomorphic bunnies and the clear-cut division between good and evil and the happy ending and the moral lesson. Come to think of it, it’s nothing like a fairy tale at all. Yes, I did think I’d end up like this. Only I thought there’d be better hors d’oeuvres.
Your answers leave me with an unfulfilled joy, Mr Stocky. I laugh and laugh. But, where are the tears? I need this thread to last forever, so I can find true enlightenment.
Will you agree to act as our spirt guides?
Do you know the way to salvation?
What is your animal totem?
What has happened to Michael Oliver’s career?
Why can’t het get more work?
Why won’t John Ritter throw him a bone or two?
bastard!
What are your feelings on milk?
What are your feelings on cheese?
Why do you have such a bias against the dairies?
Can you mention me on the inside flap of your second book?
Is the inside of your thigh really so callused that you can light matches there without feeling anything?
Everynight before sleeping do you count your arms and legs to make sure they are all there?
thanks a bunch, you bung beetle muffup.
pat
PS:
I said bung on purpose! Nitpicker!
Doob, my brotha:
Is it true you were caught bull fighting in the nude a la Javier Bardem in “Jamón Jamón”?
First, we weren’t fighting. Second, that was no bull.
What, are you trying to further hinder my political career by bringing this up?
I think I’m gonna have to rent that movie pronto, though.
Have you ever beaten a man to death with one of the hams hanging in your pad?
Yes, but I’m not sure I would have classified them as “men”. What kind of man dies form a run-of-the-mill ham beating? Heck, that’s how my old man expressed his love for us when I was young (which only really hurt emotionally, as I thought of the possibility of said ham having come from a member of my adopted boar family). Or his contempt, I forget. Anyway, big wussies is what they really were. The meek shall inherit my MIGHTY PYTHONS OF RAGE! Ah, ham. I’m hungry now.
Am I a winter or a Fall?
No, Doob, you’re a summer. A summer of '69, to be precise. You were the best days of my life.
I once saw Shelley Winters fall, though. Funny as hell. Then I beat her to death with my ham.
And, shake ya ass! Watch ya self! Shake ya ass! Show me what ya workin’ with!
Please refrain from quoting Celine Dion lyrics to me if you wish to remain my friend, thank you very much.
*Originally posted by woodstockbirdybird *
Good movie (I think) Javier Bardem is HOT…but i dont think you’d be looking at it for him ;). YOu do get to see Penelope Cruz’ titties though.
More questions:
How can I smuggle two goats, three moroccan prostitutes, a barrel of monkeys, and four horny llamas across the Mexican border without getting caught?
What’s the best way to make a poundcake?
and:
Give it up for sexual chocolate!
[ol]
[li]Why have you stopped returning my phone calls?[/li][li]What’s in it for me?[/li][li]What’s the magic word?[/li][li]Do you regret the time you spent in Bolivia pulling the strings of the puppet dictator in the short lived “Banana Bingo” regime?[/li][li]How do you the things that you do so well?[/li][/ol]
Obviously I meant : How do you do the things that you do so well?
Now I’d like to add : Why do you do such a piss poor job at editing my posts? Shouldn’t you have caught that error before you let me submit it?
No.
It’s a joke, Scotti! Please don’t yell at me again!
Of course I’m not upset with you. You thought I was out of line and you called me on it. Not only do I not find that offensive, I respect it. I’d give you a cyberhug back, but I reek of B.O. 'cause I just finished my daily workout (I walked all the way from the couch to the TV to put in my “Sonic Adventure” game. Don’t worry, I made it all right. I’m in top physical condition. Children should not try this at home, though. Still, $100 and I’ve got to load the game myself? Bite me, Dreamcast.).
However, don’t let it happen again, or I’ll be forced to bludgeon you with a ham.
After all we’ve been through together, how can you still ignore me in favor of those little chippys (Doob and Scotti)?
BunnyGirl, you slaphappy vixen:
Anyway, so what’s your plan for the salvation of the world?
Did you miss my memo in re: John Tesh’s murder? How much simpler can I make this?
In addition, when I am elected president, I shall institute a new national holiday (hell, make it international; what’s the point of being the leader of the U.S. if you can’t impose your values on other cultures?) known as “Nudity Day”. Every citizen (as well as their immigrant maids) will be required to spend the day nude. It will always fall on a workday (it won’t be a paid holiday, you communist leeches), thus enabling you to add a touch of realism to your sexual fantasies involving Theresa from Accounting or Bob from sales (although Theresa ain’t all that like she be thinking she is - I only mention her 'cause I feel sorry for her and think it’s the honorable thing to do by throwing her a bone like that).
[sub]Theresa, I didn’t mean it, sugar! Call me![/sub]
I believe this holiday will help us to understand that we’re all beautiful in our own way, and accentuate the fact that we’re not so different - we’re pretty much the same underneath the defenses and walls we put up. Plus, it’ll give me a chance to look at people’s Jimmy Jams and Wooo Doggies without having to pay a cover charge.
You got your chocolate on my peanut butter. How’d that happen?
Yeah, try making it stick in a court of law. You were asking for it, waving that peanut butter around so provocatively. I suppose it was just a coincidence you chose the Extra Creamy variety too, right? You had to know that would get my engine revving. And unless you were raised in a convent (not likely; you were working that peanut butter like somebody who’s been around the block a few times), you realize that I can’t really be held accountable for the actions of my chocolate. I know it’s a cliche, but it’s got a mind of its own. It’s like dangling raw meat over a lion’s cage for an hour and then complaining when it rips your arm off. Get wise, baby. You’re being disingenuous and you know it. Don’t come up to me with that babe in the woods routine. Stanky harlot.
[sub]Oh yeah, and - call me![/sub]
Is it a nice day for a White Wedding?
Yes. That would be Just What I Needed. So Come On Eileen, Hold Me Now, 'cause I don’t wanna be left Dancing With Myself to a Heartbreak Beat. Although I may need a few drinks, because I Knew The Bride When She Used To Rock ‘N’ Roll, and every time I look into her Hungry Eyes There Is Always Something There To Remind Me. I hope they stocked up on the crudites, 'cause I’m Hungry Like The Wolf and you know my motto: Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough. I won’t be dissuaded by the shouts of "Who’s that eatin’ that nasty food?", because these are my Glory Days, goddammit, so Beat It, Mickey, I Want Candy. My Sweet Lord, Me So Horny.
However, it was my understanding that it was bad form for filthy whores to wear white at their weddings anyway.
**What kind of tea do you get when you teabag? Inquiring minds want to know. **
Um, I hate to break this to you, my sweet lttle naif, but teabagging actually refers to dangling your testicles across someone’s nose and mouth while they’re passed out. Sorry to shatter your faith in the basic goodness of humanity and the nobility of the human spirit. How did you get to be this old without any understanding of how the world works? I suppose you think Felching is a small industrial town in Michigan too, don’t you? You poor deluded fool.
Ooh–I just remembered that when I was in the airport the other day, I heard a page for “Paul and Lisa Felch”. I laughed, but no one else did.
tevya (what the hell kind of user name is that, anyway? Is it a contraction of “Telly Savalas” and “yak”? I certainly hope so), I’ll answer your questions as soon as I receive payment. Everybody else has paid up for my services (except pricciar, who’s a no-account frickety-frack, but he sends me the most romantic e-mails… oh, my sebaceous glands are kicking into overdrive just thinking about it!) - I thought you understood the rules. Of course, I never actually posted that there was a charge attached, but I thought this was implied in the thread title, since everybody else seemed to catch on. But forgive me, perhaps you’re not that bright. Welcome to the club! You have plenty of company here. Did you hear that one chick who thought “teabagging” actually had something to do with tea? Some people. It’s $1 a letter, which puts you up at about, oh, $40,000,000. Give or take. I do accept PayPal, but don’t even try offering me that Diner’s Club shit. I’ve been burned before by that fly-by-night “company”.
HEY! I have never been called a little chippy before. I think…I think I LIKE it. 
And just for the record, Doob may be a chippy, (hooray…I’m in good company) but he is not a “little” anything. I had to stand on my tippy toes to kiss him. And he didn’t throw up or anything, either. So there.
Of course when I said “little,” what I meant was “giganic.” 
Woodstockbirdybird,
I know nothing about this “Paypal” of which you speak. I have sent payment the old fashioned way–the herd of cattle should be arriving at your place in the next 4-6 weeks.
In many more ways than you can imagine, bay-bee!
Oh, I don’t know. I have a pretty good imagination.
Woodstockbirdybird, Woodstockbirdybird! Wherefore art thou Woodstockbirdybird?
July 29, 2001
Day 10:
I grow despondent. Despite my earlier protests, I now just wish this thread would die. I have not eaten or bathed in over a week, which would be fine if I was a French supermodel, but sadly this is not the case. I long to see sunlight and hear the joyous shrieks of children at play. Do children still play outside? I have no way of knowing. Day after wretched day, I sit at my computer, trying to answer strangers’ inane queries, driven only by my pathological need to be loved and a stale Jujyfruit I found stuck to the bottom of the desk. It is not enough. The questions just keep coming and coming like a violent torrent of questions that keep coming and coming. I thought the boards were supposed to be down this weekend, and a glimmer of hope shone in my bloodshot eye, the hope that I might be offered a brief respite from my tribulations, but of course it didn’t work out that way. I believe it’s because God hates me. Somebody named tevya haunts me in my sleep; his/her/its constant nattering driving me to the edge of reason and beyond, yet I must press onward. What else is there for me? I shudder at the possibilities.
I fear I am becoming delirious and may do something rash, like eat another Big Mac. I no longer have the will to fight off the encroaching madness. All I can do now is pray for a swift death, though now that God has declared Himself my arch-nemesis I suppose I can’t even look forward to this small mercy.
If one of you should find my lifeless body huddled over my computer desk one day soon, please tell Tenacious and Disjointed that I always loved them. And don’t forget to spray them with Pledge twice a year.
Also, keep your testicles away from my mouth.
tevya, you damnable Monchichi:
Have I told you lately that I love you?
Do you honestly not remember, or are you just being coy? How could you forget our glorious night of passion? Paris in the Spring: we strolled down the Champs Elysee, giggling like schoolgirls, whispering tender endearments to each other as we hurled rotten oranges at groups of passing nuns. Then, as we found ourselves standing along the Seine, the moonlight struck your face at a certain angle, and I knew the moment had to be seized, my darling; I leaned in, panting like a corpulent police sergeant, and you bleated out those words that shall be branded into my memory forevermore - oh wait, that wasn’t you, it was a goat. Nice try, Cassanova.
How many roads must a man walk down before they call the police?
Well, it depends on whether or not the man is wearing nothing but a jockstrap and shouting profanities about Zsa Zsa Gabor. It also depends on what road he’s walking down. If it’s (positively) 4th Street, the odds increase exponentially. If he’s shouting in a nasal whine a la Bob Dylan, the authorities won’t be involved at all, but rather the neighborhood roustabouts will form a vigilante group and lynch him on the spot. Therefore, if we take the number of stoned, idiotic Baby Boomers who actually believed that Dylan was a poet, add to the sum of Miss Cleo’s lucky Lotto nubers for the day, round off to the nearest billion, divide by pi, and multiply by 85% x cos(my ass), we arrive at the answer to your question: 47. It’s so much easier to just take a cab, wouldn’t you agree?
What do I want to be when I grow up?
a)A Toys “R” Us Kid .
b)No longer a virgin.
c)Carol Channing’s personal de-lousing assistant.
d)lifeguard at Tommy Lee’s private pool (apparently you get to nap a lot)
e)lifeguard at Carol Channing’s de-lousing tub (no naps ever)
f)all of the above
g)none of the above
h)f) and g) only
i) What’s happenin’, Raj? Hey hey hey! uh-uh!
Got milk? If so, how long have you been lactating?
Tragically, I do have milk - I started lactating uncontrollably nearly 200 years ago (1985) while all the other boys my age were still tittering (no pun intended) over words like “breast” and “Fanny Mae”. It made junior high even more hellish than it already had been - I was afraid to stand up in front of the class lest the telltale splotches should appear on my chest, alerting every stray kitten in a 3-mile radius and causing me untold torment from my less mammarily-challenged peers. “Milk money” took on a whole new meaning for the bullies at my school. “Here comes the milkman!”, they’d taunt, or “Hey, woody, what are you going to be when you grow up? A milkman?” Then they’d stab me in the neck with a plastic cafeteria spork. You can’t imagine the nights I lay awake sobbing like a bitch, looking at the posters of Leif Garrett and Menudo on my wall and wondering, “Why can’t I be more like them? They’ve got the respect of millions of intellectuals and bohemians all over the world; nobody would mess with Shaun Cassidy if he started lactating - it’d probably become a hip new trend, like wilding. Hell, I wouldn’t mind being molested by my manager if it meant securing my name in the history books for all time, like Corey Feldman.” Alas, it was not to be, and I spent the remaining years of junior high disguised as a waffle iron. Oh, the shameful feelings these memories conjure up in my soul!
Although, now that I think about it, it was more a milk-like substance than actual milk. And it didn’t come from my nipples.
[QUOTE]
*Originally posted by tevya *
**
Well, I certainly hope that you were referring to Doob there, honey. I am in NO sense of ANY word gigantic. I may be slightly “fluffy,” but I am also short. And cute. NEVER forget cute. :rolleyes:
OTOH, I may be giganic. What does that MEAN? Prone to gigging? If so, what is “gigging?” hee
Oh, and I should clarify. I kissed my Doob on the cheek. The FACE cheek. That is why he didn’t upchuck.
again.
All right, stop your sobbing, I’m back. Sorry I’ve been ignoring this thread for the last couple days, but I’ve been caught up in a bureaucratic nightmare - you have no idea how much red tape you have to go through to arrange a sex change operation. Where’s the black market when you need it?
Anyway, I’m going to try to finish answering your questions with maximum terseness, 'cause I’ve been forced to actually do some work this week (white slavery lives, only now it comes with a dental plan), and also because, quite frankly, I’m bored with this thread and don’t really feel witty today.
First up: pricciar, you pompous windbag:
Your answers leave me with an unfulfilled joy, Mr Stocky. I laugh and laugh. But, where are the tears?
If you read between the lines of my scathingly knee-slapping social commentary, you’ll see the deep, dark truths hidden underneath. You know the old saying: comedy = tragedy + time (+ Cocoa Puffs). I am the archetypal sad clown; I may scream “Keep your distance”, but I really just want to be held. And fondled. And tied up and spanked. And violated in ways I’ve only dreamed of. Is that so wrong?
Will you agree to act as our spirt guides?
Sure. I’ve got a file on my desktop that lists the address of every liquor store in the continental U.S., so I can easily guide you all to the spirits of your choice.
Do you know the way to salvation?
Yeah. Like I just said, I’ve got the address of every liquor store - you’d better start paying closer attention, or I’ll be forced to pimp-slap you.
What is your animal totem?
What did I just say about paying attention? If you’ve been reading this thread at all, you should have been able to deduce that my animal totem is a boar mounting a goat which is fellating a zebra that’s eating a baby kangaroo.
What has happened to Michael Oliver’s career?
Like most great actors, after portraying the role of his life he wisely decided to leave the business while at the top of his game. How could he ever hope to top the incisive social commentary that was the “Problem Child” franchise? It’s too bad Brando and Pacino don’t take a lesson from this brave soul.
Plus, I heard he spent all his money on heroin and now lives as Todd Bridges’ personal boy toy. So don’t worry about him too much. He’s still living the dream.
Why can’t het get more work?
Well, I’m no cinematographer (I’m far too masculine), but from what I hear, makeup can’t really hide track marks too well, and it’s hard to frame a shot with all that scar tissue being an automatic focal point. Besides, once the rest of the cast found out he was a junkie, they’d all be hitting him up 24/7 trying to score, causing massive delays in filming while everybody sat in their trailers and drooled like 19th-century dental patients.
Unless he made a film with Robert Downey, whose SAG card states that he is heroin-approved. That man’s a true professional.
Why won’t John Ritter throw him a bone or two?
I don’t like to trade in gossip (not true), but it’s my understanding that Mr. Ritter, taking a cue from the vast majority of Catholic priests, only likes to “throw a bone” to boys under the age of thirteen.
Anyway, John Ritter ain’t nobody. Sure, he’s delighted millions with his hilarious roles in such classics as “Hearts Afire” and that movie where he and Mindy get sucked into their satellite dish, but what’s he done for us lately? “Sling Blade”? Heck, that wasn’t even funny. I guess he’s content to rest on his laurels, sipping champagne out of a whore’s high heels and denying us mere mortals the slapstick genius we’ve craved since the death of Sir Alec Guiness. Man, fuck that little piece of pork rind.
bastard!
That’s more like it. Makes up for that “thanks a bunch” slur a few posts back.
What are your feelings on milk?
I enjoy it with my beer, although it still brings back painful memories of my lactating junior high days.
What are your feelings on cheese?
I am thankful for it when I go surfing, thanks to its effects on the tides. Also, it helps illuminate the night sky, which keeps me from having to pack a flashlight when I go on my bi-weekly vandalism sprees. Yeah, right, Neil Armstrong might tell you the moon is not actually made of cheese, but he’s just bitter about flubbing his famous line. Dumbass.
Why do you have such a bias against the dairies?
What makes you think I’ve got anything against diaries? Is it because I haven’t written anything in your precious Live Journal site yet? Get over it, holmes. The only diaries I’ve got a bias against are the Bridget Jones diaries. A glorification of desperate womanhood. She oughta be ashamed of herself, in this day and age. And, to add insult to perjury, she never returns my calls. Cow.
Oh, wait, you said dairies? Sorry. I’ve got a slight touch of dyxlesia.
Can you mention me on the inside flap of your second book?
Only if I can refer to you as “Stinky McFudgeyPants, Esq.”, and run a nude photo of you with a string of mistletoe tied around your Phillip Michael Thomas. But knowing you, that shouldn’t be too hard to arrange. (BTW, look for my first book, “I’m OK, Don’t Touch Me!”, available at finer smelting plants everywhere.)
Is the inside of your thigh really so callused that you can light matches there without feeling anything?
Oh, right, it’s my thigh. Somebody’s been reading the Bowdlerized version of my biography, haven’t they?
Everynight before sleeping do you count your arms and legs to make sure they are all there?
I try, but I always forget whether or not to count my vestigal tail as a leg or an arm, so it screws up my calculations. That old medical school song isn’t any help, either (“The neck bone’s connected to the shin bone/the shin bone’s connected to the spleen bone/the spleen bone’s connected to the wishbone/let’s call the whole thing off!” - fine, but where does the tail come in? That song must have been written before they fully understood anatomy, like back when people still believed in astrology and witchcraft and divine beings and stuff.). Anyway, as long as I can still wake up in the afternoon and use an appendage to scratch my testicles, I don’t worry about it too much.
thanks a bunch, you bung beetle muffup.
There you go with your “Thanks again” insult! I could forgive it once, but now I’m inclined to think you’re just a racist. Racist! Racist! Hey Herr Goebbels, there’s no such thing as race anyway! It’s an outmoded thinking process, dude. I read it in Great Debates and everything! Although, if there’s no such thing as race, I guess there can technically be no such thing as racism, either. But that’s just semantics. You’re still a big racist, just like Jim Henson! This ain’t your grandfather’s world anymore, Cochise! We’re on to you, cracker, so you’d better save the pleasantries for your KKK meetings! Man, stick to “About This Message Board” if you don’t want to get flamed.
PS:
I said bung on purpose! Nitpicker!
Oh. In that case, please disregard the previous paragraph.