Today’s question is.... revealed in this blog

Today on - Today’s question is - we have the usual, todays question - so please give a big today’s question cheer for today’s question - coming up momentarily - and now without further ado, and possible devoid of ado period - or is it adieu? - I don’t know, it’s not important - because it’s time for...

TODAY’S.... QUESTION... IS...

If butts were made of poop. And poop was made of whatever butts are currently made of. You know butt skin and butt chub and stuff. How quickly would you give up eating clam based taco shells? 

A. NEVER! 

B. Depends how soft these new ‘poops’ are? 

C. Why would someone make a taco shell out of clams? 

D. In this scenario what’s my ‘front butt’, so to speak, made out of?

E. Why do you assume I have to ‘give up’ clam based taco shells? Why have I been eating them? Who made me damn it? What is this horror world you’re describing? 

F. Would I still have to give up clam based ‘faux’ crab shells, cause NEVER! 

G.  Why did you even pose this? 

H. Plus ‘butt chub’? You couldn’t google the technical term you gross bastard? 

I. Although, ha ha, ‘butt chub’! 

J. Oh shit, is this a list? I thought it was multiple choice question.

K. You fooled me you dick. 

L. Fuck you. 

M. Eat a bag of dicks you dick.

N. No wait, a big bag of butt chubs! 

O. Ha ha, I used your own foul thoughts against you! 

P. Take that.

Q. Oh shit, I just thought about clam based taco shells again. 

R. I hate this quiz.

S. I really fucking hate it. 

U. Wait, where is T?

V. I’ve come this far and I don’t even get a T? 

W. That’s my fucking favorite letter to make shirts in the shape of! 

X. I HATE you. 

T. Fuck you! 

Y. All of the above. 

Z. None of the above. 

T. You clammy f’n dick! 

:)

What Chewbacca Probably Thinks About While Trying To Fall Asleep

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Ahhh. It’s so nice to have my head on a nice soft pillow. Man, what tough day.

Well done today buddy. You really shone in hard circumstances. Great work. Seriously. You were amazing.

Sure I didn’t get a medal, or a reward, again. Or get to be the center of attention. But I know that I was JUST as heroic and important to the mission as the others, and if I know that, then that’s enough right?

Hey if I risk my life and just survive then even THAT’S enough right?

I don’t do it for the plaudits. I do it for what’s right. And to save the people I care about. To be honest, in some ways, not being one of the ones honored in the end is maybe even a BIGGER honor. I wasn’t personally rewarded, so no one can EVER say that I was only in it for the rewards right? I risked MY life to save OTHERS. Period. No other end game. I don’t need to be remembered. I don’t need to be the one getting applauded. I just did it. That’s real heroism.

Still, an award would be nice. Remember when at school that Guidance Counselor said if I didn’t start applying myself and lift my test scores then the most I could hope to amount to would be to become meathead nightclub bouncer or something? Well I DIDN’T apply myself, and flunked biology AND woodwork, and I’m going to end up helping blow up the Death Star! Twice! Man if I DID have an award I would so go stick it right in that Guidance Councilors stupid face. That would be sweet.

But still it’s not WHY I do it. I can’t think that way.

Cause, man. I could have died today. Wow.

You forget in the moment. But I really could have DIED today.

That’s big.

I wonder what would become of me. Would I get buried? Or burned? Would I just disappear like Ob-Wan? Oooooh I hope I end up becoming a rug in a log cabin. No no no, in a Ski Chalet! That would be sweet. Near a fire. Maybe with someone’s pet kitten or Ewok curled up asleep on me. That’s how to spend eternity. I’ll probably end up just a coat or something though right? I wish I wore clothes. I bet I could rock a pair of leather pants. Although I bet if I tried Han would just mock me. For a guy that seems to wear the same damn shirt every single day, he sure is judgmental of other people’s fashion choices.

Anyways, stop thinking about it Chewie, you know you never get to sleep when you go down these paths, and besides I’m sure you’ll risk your life for nothing again tomorrow, won’t you big fella, so you can save these thoughts for after THAT adventure.

Wake up. Get blasted at. Blow something up. Watch Han get the rewards AND the cute dates. Go to bed. Start again. That’s your lot in life.

No no no. Don’t do this to yourself. I can’t get bitter. I have to stay positive. And I have to sleep. I HAVE to. I need to sleep if I’m going be fresh enough to survive anyway. Come on Chewie. Stop thinking about every damn thing and just sleep.

Maybe I should count sheep or something.

“One sheep. Two sheep. Three sheep. Four…”

Oh screw it. That’s doesn’t work. Now I just want to chew the sheep’s faces off. Oh man, how good is chewing faces off!

You know I never asked my mom what a Bacca is. Man, I must’ve LOVED chewing them as a kid to get named after them. They must have been YUM. I probably just shoved my face into bowls of them and chewed them like some sort of animal. Not even waiting for the table to properly be set. Like…

Wait.

I just had an idea.

I just thought of something.

Yes, yes, yes!

It’s the best line ever.

Next time I see someone eating something just with their face I can yell out...

“Use the forks!”

Lol. That’s brilliant.

Wait no, even better. I could yell it when I see someone struggling with chopsticks. 

Lol. Genius.

“Hey buddy (tee-hee) instead of struggling with those… USE THE FORKS”.

YES! I’ll bring the house down. Now THAT will get me remembered. YES. Goddamn YES!

Man, I hope Han’s up for Chinese food soon.

Ok, ok, ok, I have to plan this right. I can’t just suggest it, can I? I can’t make it clear it was my idea, or the joke won’t seem off the cuff.

But then again Han hardly ever suggests Chinese.

Oh man. How can I get him to think about it on his own.

Maybe I can just like play around with the hyperdrive or something, and when he says “what the hell are you doing in there Chewie” I can be all like “just NOODLING around”.

Or or or, I can like clean out the toilets and ask him “should I just DUMPling this stuff into a pile of space junk and hope the Imperial Green Police don’t catch us, or is that too big a RICE..SK”.

“Just risk it Chewie” Han will probably say, “say for some reason I suddenly feel like Chinese food, want to go to Ming Koks for dinner” he’ll ponder my way.
“Chinese? That’s out of the blue Solo, let’s do it”, I’ll roar nonchalantly, while casually preparing the Falcon for the jump into light speed.

“You’ve been manipulated again Solo”. I’ll think with a chuckle.

Wait, I just realized something. Solo? He doesn’t even NEED that second name. It’s redundant. Otherwise he’d be Hans plural. Han singular leaves the Solo implied for damns sake. I don’t have a second name. Man, Han just get’s fucking everything doesn’t he?

Wait, wait, no no no. Did I just hear him in the other room saying “I’ve got a bad feeling about this”?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fall asleep now and pretend you didn’t hear it.

Come on buddy fall asleep.

Now please.

Come on.

You can do it.

Just stop thinking.

Sleep away.

Come on damn it.

Oh fuck I think I just heard the deflector shield get activated.

Here we go fucking again.

Well this time, if Han nicks my Bowcaster again, and takes all the plaudits again, then I am TOTALLY gonna make him shout the Chinese Food! Suck on that, Solo.

Signs your shirt would make a poor plane (Don’t read this naked; well bottom half naked is ok)

 Congratulations, you did it, you put on a shirt today (please ignore this congratulations if you have instead put on some different form of top side of body practical clothing option. For YOUR personal congratulations please wait for the appropriate blog to reach your beautiful eyes shortly, or longly, depending on your top side of body clothing choice of choice). 

But is it a good shirt? I don’t know. I can’t see it. But also, of course it is. Shirts are ace. I wear them frequently. Sometimes even when I’m asked instead to wear a spray of tiny cut up pieces of glass. Which is, at best, only my third favorite type of top side of body cover. 

So let’s just brass tax this bad boy out down to the facts Jackson - shirts are awesome. 

Yet. YET. Would this kick ass shirt your wearing have made it so close to the top if it had have taken on a different profession? 

Probably, right? If you’re good at stuff you’re probably good at other stuff too. Like I’m good at writing random made up words which don’t fit the gulupital nature of the current sentence. So it stands to reason that I’d also be great at hiding giraffes under air conditioning vents, right? So I’ll probably just do that one day, and be honored for my contributions in helping giraffes live in homes without paying market rent. 

Still, I’m here to tell you, it’s not ALWAYS the same deal with your shirts. 

The point is, obviously, that before you reassign your shirt to be an airplane, here are some signs that this shirt in particular may, shock horror, make a BAD airplane. 

1. None of the buttons hold the current Federal Aviation requirements in regards to jet-fuel. 

2. The sunglasses dangling off the v-neck are NOT aviators.

3. You ask for a lift to the airport and the response is anything other than 'fuck off, it's my ONE day off'. 

4. Less than 80% of its seats armrests host working headphone jacks. 

5. If you spill poop on it, it doesn’t just suck it into the engine with a mighty force that seems to come from as deep as hell and then spray it all over the Atlantic. 

6. It’s sixteen tones of geniusly crafted steel and advanced computer technology, but shaped more like a boat than a plane. 

So there you go. 

If you ended up with a good plane congrats! Kaboom.

If not bad luck, but at least be thankful you didn’t end up wearing a spray of tiny broken up pieces of glass, you got a shirt damn it, and shirts are ace! 

Don’t say this name, PLEASE!!!

Hello lovely people. This is my/ our melbourne international comedy festival show. We like it. Audiences are having an absolute ball. The show is a beautiful explosion of diamond encrusted joy. But social media hates us. And has banned us.  Our theory is that Zuckerberg was called a dickhead a lot at school. Anyways... this is us. Hopefully we’ve circumnavigated the algorithm of lack of genuine intelligence and/ or continued to fail :) 

https://www.comedyfestival.com.au/2018/shows/two-little-dickheads

Seriously Trump?

Oh great Trump was in the news again today. Can you believe he did that thing he did? Yes THAT! 

Now he’s going to show up in conversation, and I’ll have to talk about him. And oh yes, I just LOVE talking about Trump. Eye roll. 

I was chatting about him with a family member last week and it lead to us getting into a fist fight, and now this family member has one human eye and one pig eye. 

I mean he had the pig eye before the fight too, miracle surgery actually, but it’s hard to punch someone with a pig eye, because bacon smelling juice pops out with every blow, and you get that on your shirt, and next thing you know hamburgers are following you around saying ‘hey that’s mine dick’ and you’re like, ‘I didn’t steal your bacon, I swear’ and they’re like ‘then why do you smell of bacon’ and you’re like ‘because I punched a guy with a pig eye’ and the hamburger is like ‘really plausible dick, only an asshole would punch a pig eyed man!’ 

And he’s right. I don’t like punching anyone, but Trump just riles people up, and the thing was this family member and I agreed, Trumps ties are too long, depending on the day your referencing, sometimes he’s not even wearing ties, fuckin’ Trump. How is anyone supposed to have a civil in-depth discussion on male business fashion if he won’t even wear a too long tie everyday?  Especially when you’re talking to someone who can’t show their sarcasm because they can’t physically eye roll with a pig eye! Fuck you Trump! 

Now because of you I have a hamburger pacing up and down outside my house, and you call the cops and they just say ‘if he bites you, just bite him back’ and I’m like ‘yeah right, he doesn’t even have bacon, that’s not the most delicious type of burger!’ 

Aaggh. News! 

Hearts for sale

Frankly I’m sick of the arguing.

I HATE arguing.

Plus it makes me sick.

And I HATE being sick. 

So I’ll just settle it once and for all. 

Which is a better term than ‘four all’.

Because what if you’re a three? 

Aren’t you still part of ‘all’?

Exactly.

Still. 

Here’s the point you all clamored here to read...

 Flu rockets are BETTER than note pads made out of dried out baby wipes!

Yes they are.

Yes. 

YES they are. 

And I’ll tell you why. 

Soon. 

But first.

Don’t get me wrong. 

Or tong! 

Ha ha. Like I’d use a made up word.

So don’t fucking get me ‘wrong’ got it? 

Because, look, ok, I get it. 

I’m not a moron. 

I know note pads are important. How else would notes be written down?

Except on all the other ways they can be written down. 

Which number the many. 

Possibly even the many, many. 

Which is fun to say. 

Almost as fun as mony, mony. 

Which is a very different saying than money, money.

In that the fact is factual that ‘mony, mony’ includes up to, and as many as TWO words that don’t mean a thing, and therefore don’t exist. 

And that’s something that MATTERS ok? 

Because I just proved the existence of the non-existent. 

So suck on that so called ‘science type sciency type types’. 

You’ve been superseded.

My FAVORITE type of sceded.

And yeah. Baby wipes?

Dried out ones no less? 

How poetically sad. 

I won’t ignore that. 

I CAN’T ignore it. 

Who could? 

The heartless? 

Do they even exist? 

And if so, how come my ‘hearts for sale’ business never took off. 

I mean we sold several dozen hearts. But was it worth the effort it took to have them donated to us by people who’d stumbled across them at drive-thru diners? 

Probably not. Because there just aren’t enough of those any more.

And I hate being sad because of nostalgia. 

It breaks my heart. 

Rendering it worthless.

The point is. 

Flu rockets! 

Flu fucking rockets. 

Those are two words I arbitrarily jammed together to start this essay, so I can argue some moronic crap. 

Or three words if you count the ‘fucking’.

And who wouldn’t? 

So yeah, that matters people.

And things that matter are important.

And importants is something I believe in. 

In fact I often think that nothing is more importants than that! 

Except for maybe REAL Flu Rockets. 

Which I’m pretty sure exist. 

And I’m pretty sure will one day be used in some arguably evil biochemical war, that just did not quite live up to its endemic like horror that we all feared. 

I mean the flu freakin’ sucks and all. 

And yeah it does kill, so don’t fucking underplay it. 

But still, it’s not as bad as say, you know, a enphansema endaplay outbreak rocket.

I mean haven’t we already talked about words that aren’t real! 

Who fucking cares! 

The End.

Ps. This esssay was brought to you by - things that make sense. 

Don’t you hate it? 

Yes you do. 

Fuck sense. 

Who needs it? 

You know what? 

I think we just joined the same page. 

How poetically beautiful. 

WAY better than being sick with the flu! 

Smile. 

Pps. These ramblings are brought to you by ‘editing’. How poetically sad.

Ppps. Ironic smile :) 

Truth so good you could bottle it

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Today was an intriguing day everybody. Woo hoo.

Because, you see, I discovered the truth behind bottle caps!

“Woo hoo. Finally!” I hear you yell, in your beautiful throaty cheers right from your beautifully throaty thoughts.

But it gets even better.  

This truth I’ve discovered was not just the mild truth. No way, no how, I discovered the spicy truth.

“Woo hoo. Fantastical” I hear you squeal, in your beautiful glass shattering whelp, right from your beautifully whelpy brains.

But it get’s even better.

This truth I discovered was not just not the mild truth but also not just the spicy truth, because the level of fire in this spice was super fiery and this fire came in a convenient saucy sauce.

“Woo hoo. Fantabulous” I hear you shriek, in that suddenly brain damagingly piecing way, right from your brain damagingly piecing brains.

You see this isn’t any kind of truth. No no no.

This is the kind of truth that if you drank a bottle of it, you’d want to hope you were filming it for you-tube, or elsewhere in the video sharing interwebs that could be considered similar, and you would damn hope that you’d get a lot of views for drinking that much fiery sauce of truth. And yet you decided to do it on a street corner? Are you mad? Good luck getting lots of views filming it from there. Unless it’s a super busy street corner. Which of course almost all are. God damn traffic!

This is the kind of truth that if you snorted a field of it, you’d want to hope aliens were watching you, readying to attack, only to think “hmmmm, those are some damn strong nostrils, that can snort up a whole field of ANYTHING, and seeing as we are aliens which are made of nothing but wafting freshly baked cookie clouds, maybe we should consider another day for the attack, perhaps when this bad ass motherfucker gets a cold, or at least is on a strict ‘no smelling cookie wafts diet’, which I heard actually is great for shifting weight, just as long as you don’t go near a mall where they have a freshly baked cookie kiosk, and why on earth would you ever visit a mall without one? My god, why on earth indeed. Let’s fuck off to a better planet, this one is fucked. Damn god damn dieters.

THIS is the kind of truth that if you ever even considered filling a pool with it, and then demonstrating your new found love of sitting in a sauna for so long, that you become so dehydrated that your skin become stiff like the skin of a pig that’s been basted over a fire pit for six months, because intruders came and stole the pants of all those at the luau and everyone is starving, but way too self-conscious to eat in front of a group with no pants, and so everyone is desperately attempting to bully their leg hairs into growing into the shape of perfect shorts, and then hope to pretend to be a top half human, bottom half monkey, that’s shaved it’s legs below the knee, in hope of passing itself off as a top half human, first half of bottom half monkey, and bottom half of bottom half human, so it can eat some fucking pig without anyone looking at it weird, and then you hope to take that disgusting dehydrated thick rash you claim is your skin, and dive in and with plans to soak it in said pool, hoping it would then suck up all that sweet, sweet liquid and you could finally be credited with discovering a new way of cramming liquid into a body, and finally one which is dominated by something other than some gross orifice sucking shit up? But are you crazy? As if the lifeguard will let you dive in? There is a clear ‘no diving sign’; do you really think you can get past that kind of epic security? God damn fucking god damn rule sticklers.

“Woo hoo. Fanfuckutabalicous” I hear you bellow, right from the depths of some hollow part of your body which is so seriously deep that you should be worried that your beautiful brain is on tour down there, I mean we all like to see our brains go on tour from time to time, but stay safe please.

That’s right. The bottle cap truth has been found. By me. Right here. Right now. In all it’s glory.

So yeah, BOTTLE CAPS, guess what…

 The truth is, that it turns out, that they go best on… bottles!

Woo hoo. Fabulociticy.

Don’t you just love it when things make perfect sense!

Chapter Three. Unbounded, unless you’re holier than nippy, in which case SUPER bounded

Pinky-Von-Sox and the cave of Squawking Mumbles 

Chapter Three 

Let’s take a quick fact interruption. 

Fact: The Cave of Squawking Mumbles was originally a cheap, unhinged, and low down dirty land edge, which at the time of right before it’s formation, you know, like SUPER baffled people. That is people who saw a land edge, and were told it was a cave, which was baffling, because it was called a cave, and yet rather than being a cave, was actually a land edge.

Of course life fucks with you anytime you think you’ve outsmarted a linguist, and the cave as we know it formed anyway, right at the the tail end of the jumonicathic period. Thus making it older than most dirt, younger than most sand, wetter than most Freemason carved windmills, dryer than a sticky bun made of carpel tunnel syndrome explained through the use of foraged foliage puppetry, and more endothamatic than almost ANY ‘delete all’ function, you’ll find on ANY lounge chair, found near ANY assassination themed endothamitic theme pub, especially those found with a well spread, yet exclusive and special, discount code word, of 'thus'. 

So yeah. 

Fact. The fact we’d found the cave was a fact that was a fact that was beautifully poised to discover that it's very destiny was to end up on the podcast ‘facts you should know’ as SOON as said podcast was invented. Unless it already has been invented. In which case shame on you all. 

Also the podcast ‘let’s take a quick fact break’ is MINE. ANYone try to copy it and fact... I’ll sick the endothamic society on you! Um, YEAH. 

Anyway, it’s been a while since I posted tales from this brilliant, and factual, and more importantly this factually brilliant, true, and brilliantly factual story.

Apologies, let’s get back to it... 

Look at you, you talent rich talent

Great News: According to their ads, you ALWAYS see it first on channel 9 news. 

Yep, that means the 99.99% of times you could have sworn you saw it first on the internet, you were merely having a severe psychotic episode, punctuated with vast and brilliantly accurate psychic visions. Congrats! 

Ice – A poem

Big was the ice block

Really big

A big bloody ice block

And icy was the ice on this big ice block

Really icy

Every part of its iciness was made of ice

And pure was the ice that made it icy

Pure in a the purest ice way ice can be

And blocky was the block on this huge block of ice

Big and blocky

Blocky in a way that can only be achieved with blockhead commitment to blocking out any influence that wasn’t blockiness

Altogether this made for a big block of ice

Really big

Big in iciness

Big in blockiness

And big in block of ice type ice blockiness

Oh yeah, Icy and big was the big ass bitching bad motherfucker of a big ass bitchin’ motherfucking ice block

Later on, there was a puddle

The End