funranium: (Little Engine That Shouldn't)

With the help of my father, we've come up with the idea that if you could find one of Jesus' teeth we could recover his DNA and generate an army of Jesus clones.  The poor and the faithful of the world then could all partake of his flesh without worrying about not having enough of the Lord to go around.  Jesus could end world hunger in a way Mother Teresa never could...she was very scrawny and stringy.
funranium: (ARISNOTHERIUM!!!)
I would like to take this moment out of my work day to wax poetic about God's most perfect beast, the arisnotherium.

It could trample like a pachyderm but its two forward jutting horns give it the Moe eye poke of the gods themselves. It looks like a rhinoceros but its closest relative we have found is actually the rock hyrax. I suspect that they didn't go extinct but instead reduced themselves to a singularity of awesome and thus vanished from our reality.

Most importantly, if you misspell their name it leads you to imagine herds of Arsino Hall's, calling their characteristic giving it up to the dog pound, or perhaps thylacine pound, as they bound across the Saharan veldt of yore.

Also, I have decided that from now one that I will be referring to defensive players in football and rugby as "team megafauna".
funranium: (Little Engine That Shouldn't)
But this will have to do in the meantime as I am a titch busy. My winning line from last weekend...

Woman: He said he was six inches long.
Me: *pfft* If you started measuring from the prostate, maybe.

Thank you! The band and I are here all week. Don't forget to tip your lovely waitress.
funranium: (Little Engine That Shouldn't)

While driving back from Oakland, I was rocking out to a wee bit of Hayseed Dixie (thanks and damnation to you again [profile] ratswallow) and I had a vision.  Once again, my brain has been consumed by A HORSE ON FIRE!!!  Follow along and see the staggering truth.

Brian Johnson, front man of ACDC, has presumably made a great deal of money.  Some of it due to singing (if you would like to call his girlish scream mixed with geriatric smoker gravel singing) but I'm sure the rest is from a lucrative side business recycling the used panties collected from the stage after concerts on the bulk.  Because land in the Outback isn't exactly "choice", he has probably amassed a vast station in the Great Nothing.

He is standing on his porch, probably with a Fosters or Tui in hand, looking out into the expanse.  A wallaby is bounding across the closest portion of his front 8.5 million acres.  Brian's eyes narrow, focusing on the intruder.  He emits a shattering shriek of "THUNDERSTRUCK!", causing the wallaby to go incandescent before exploding.

It is a killing word...

funranium: (Little Engine That Shouldn't)
If coming Christmas season decorating trends reflect last night's dream the next big thing is going to be box turtles. Greenish and albino ones. Just go with me and follow the vision here...

You go into a big city major Macy's. There should be a huge Christmas tree with ornaments and bunting in the atrium, but there isn't. You have a nice overhead view, of a huge shallow terra cotta bowl. There is a pole in the middle of it with a star on the top. Connected to the pole are a bunch of strings. The strings connect to toggle bolts in the shells of hundreds of green and white box turtes all scrabbling up to the edge, making a festive chelonian wreath.

The horrible scraping of turtle claws on flower pot clay...I can hear it, I CAN HEAR IT!!!
funranium: (Pyro)

But this thought needs to be shared.  The object of this discussion is a good Jewish boy known as "Bagel" but that's not really important either.

ME: At least he isn't a pork dealer.
NOT ME: Give him time, money, a reason to sell it and a way to free base it and Bagel will pimp swine to no end.

This then caused me to contemplate what you would call freebased pork. 

My answer, which keeps remarkably in line with another popular freebased product line, is Cracklins!  Admittedly, it will probably have to come from meth addicted swine, but that's part of the gimmick.

If you aren't aware of the proper definition of cracklins, wikipedia will help.  

I open the floor for other brand names for this street drug of the future.

funranium: (Little Engine That Shouldn't)

So, I was sitting there in my living room, watching TV and minding my own business when my eye is caught by an information bar scrolling across the bottom of the screen.  It read, "Strom Coming Tonight".

A couple things happened.

First, I envisioned a zombie former Senator Strom Thrumond rising from his grave, thirsting for the brains of carpetbaggers and awakening a cohort of other undead Dixie legislators, like John C. Calhoun and Huey Long.  Truly, The South Had Risen Again!

Second, my brain produced a fire breathing Thurmond with the Trogdor theme playing with a few modifications

"Thurmond was a man
Wait, he was southern man
Maybe he was just a cracker
But he was still THURMOND!!!

Burninating the country side
Burninating the white trash
Burninating all the negroes
And all the yard children!!!


Third, I went, "Oh, storm.  Storm coming.  Oh."

That was a lot less fun.

funranium: (Butt)

It has been brought to my attention that I have potentially traumatized many present and recovering Catholics with my description of the second opening band's performance in my previous post.  In keeping with my vision of the Africa/AIDS poster ("HIV: Making Africa Available For Recolonization By 2036!"), let's contemplate it deeper.

The Nativity pops up in your brain, exactly as it isn't displayed in front of civic buildings.

A man walks into the manger.  Maybe its the Fourth Wise Man, the one who brought the wet wipes that go with the frankinscence and myrrh for dirty diaper patrol.  It might be the proprietor of the inn Joseph & Mary stopped at coming to complain about this damn heavenly light illuminating the stables which is keeping up the guests and neighbors.  We'll never know.

To express his displeasure he drops trou (or lifts robe, your choice), and proceeds to play the brown note in a way the Little Drummer Boy cannot. The creche holding the Child Immanuel is practically filled to the brim.

He then reaches down, but not to tickle Baby Jesu.  He draws a fine Filthy Sanchez upon the saintly upper lip of the Virgin Mary.

And like that, *SNAP*, he's gone.  The party attendant in the manger, including the Ass and the angel, are so stunned that they stand still long enough to have their portrait painted by an Italian Renaissance master.

I deeply apologize for burning this vision into your brain, but if I have to see it, so do you. 

PS - According to LJ spellcheck, "brouhaha" is an acceptable correction for "myrrh".

December 2012

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