The Namibian Brightmare
My mare is your mare—if that means horse=ocean, you’ve got the gist of my jube. We no longer have rhyming couplets, instead we have horny sextuplets.
I love the smell of fresh semen in the morning. In the gory game of gnocchi stuffing, only those with the biggest holes can win. Did I say semen a moment ago? I mean fresh coffee of course. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh coffee in the morning (and by “coffee” I mean “semen”).
You guys are funnier than a deserted island filled with 312 clowns who are all dead because their plane, on the way to a clown convention, crashed into the deserted island.
I just read in a journal entry from a few years ago that I suspected I was suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s disease. Funny—I don’t remember anything about it. Remember anything about what?
I vote that we end racism and just discriminate against people who are idiots. (At least until politicians legislate against discrimination against people on the basis of their idiocy.)
If I should die before I wake, take my cells for a clone to make. If I should wake before I die, please have waiting shepherd’s pie.
Two grown men are trying to nail wooden stakes through each other’s hearts. They’re not vampires—they just love nailing stakes through hearts.
I think they’re the founding members of the Stakes Through Hearts club, which is kind of like Fight Club except it has never had more than two members and if anyone else did join they would soon be killed from a stake through the heart.
The original two haven’t died because they’re vampires, and nothing can kill vampires.