Just twenty years have totally changed the implication of the sentence:
“My anus went viral.”
Which implication is worse, the old or the new, is hard to say. I suppose it depends on what virus your asshole has sprouted, in the one case, and whether you’re some kind of anal exhibiting sex professional in the other.
Now, a combination of the two would just be the worst. Like: “I caught a terrible ass virus, and some asshole doctor (in both senses) tweeted a picture of it, which went viral. #fml”
Tis a funny old world, isn’t it?
Olde time Yuletide
days of yore
ride up in me pantaloons!
bung up me fundament!
Oh pour me some gravy
and I’ll throttle me colon with turkey.
This morning, in her truncated press scolding, Sarah Huckabee Sanders read the following statement:
“I can assure the American people that, fake news to the contrary, there are no velociraptors roaming free within the halls of the White House or the Capitol.
“I might add, that even if there were such dinosaurs roaming free and consuming members of government at their leisure, this in no way should be regarded as anything but a failure of the Democrats.”
Following this, the White House Press Secretary exited the briefing room with more than her usual haste and could be overheard muttering something about how, “it’s always the wrong ones that done get et.”
Now, “Manic Street Preachers” is an awesome band name, don’t get me wrong. But the first time I heard the band on the radio, I misheard the name and spent a couple of days thinking it was, “Manic Tree Creatures.”
I’ve never been entirely able to shake the disappointment that it isn’t their actual name.
However, this means that “Manic Tree Creatures” is up for grabs as a potential band name. Feel free to use it, because I have already decided on my future band’s name:
Our first album will be called, “Dreams of an Embryonic Yak.”
I know! Don’t injure yourselves, ladies, in a rush to throw your panties on my stage; there’s room enough for all of them.
They called her, The Crimson Poonani.
Me: Grande Poubelle.
Together we saved Paris. Or, rather, the part of it that mattered.
It’s dead now anyway, killed by its own excesses.
Much like our love.
by Balls Malone
In the olden days of the Bavarian Alps, folk would whisper of the Anusrasiertleckenman.
As the story goes, on the vernal equinox if you slept out of doors or in a barn or shed, the Anusrasiertleckenman would visit you.
Wearing only undersized lederhosen, the Anusrasiertleckenman appeared in the form of a small, rotund man, perfectly hairless but for his marvelously swirled handlebar mustache.
Now, if as you went to sleep, you left beside you a pitcher of fresh cream and a bowl of newly churned butter, the Anusrasiertleckenman would strip you naked, massage your body and his with the cream and butter provided, and then shave your anus skillfully with a razor-sharp hatchet. Only when your anus was perfectly smooth would the Anusrasiertleckenman lick the rest of the cream and butter from inside it.
However, woe to those who might fall asleep out of doors or in a barn on the vernal equinox without providing the Anusrasiertleckenman his dairy offering. For this offense, or for providing cream and butter not of the utmost freshness, the Anusrasiertleckenman would exact a fearsome toll with his hatchet: adding the offender’s anus to the collection he would tote around in a sack made from a troll’s scrotum.
What an exquisite torture it must have been, to feel that blade’s edge in your anus, wondering the whole time if your cream was fresh enough to prevent your hole’s extraction! Thrilling!
These days, cultural anthropologists who can be persuaded to speak of the Anusrasiertleckenman tend to regard him as a cautionary folk tale emphasizing the importance of hygiene standards in dairy production. Of course, the hatchet ass shaving and rim job stuff is just Germans being German.
On the job I combine highly professional and skilled work with aggressive and horrifyingly repulsive guerrilla flatulence.