“Twelve years of deafness. Five years designing and building my Sono-Ears. 18 more months of testing and tweaking them. Now I can finally hear what people have to say. What a fucking waste of time.”
Later in his career, The Magnificent Jimmy’s shows veered further away from hypnotism and slight of hand and closer to gassing a crowd and fucking them in the ass. Largely unsuccessful in theater settings, the “And Relax Hour” was wildly popular on radio.
“I just snuck into our chickens’ home, covered in feces, earned their trust, and swiped their unborn children right out from under them, just so we can put food on our table, and you want me to smile? I’m not a man. I’m a coward in a hat. Oh Jesus! I just stepped on a fucking egg. That hurts emotionally and financially. Fuck this shit, Julia. Fuck this shit.”
“Fuck you, Janet. This is who you married. For what it’s worth, I think that doily on your head looks childish and ridiculous too, but did I tell you to take it off? No, no I didn’t, because I respect you as a per— on second thought, take off that god damned doily, it’s fucking up my sea man photograph. Cheeeeeeeeeese!”
Joe Battin, 2B, Philadelphia Athletics. Bats: R. Throws: R. Murders: Silently.
When life gives you white people, make a boss ass hat. And white people-aid. You’ve got to chop, grind, crush, and juice white people into a beverage. It’s king nasty, but it’s better than dealing with white people in general. We’ve gotten a bit off topic here. Back to the point: that hat is fucking amazing. The poncho’s pretty nice also. The two go together like white people-aid and, shit, back to juicing white people again.
“Daddy, we don’t have a dog. Not any more.”
“That’s the media mail rate, right? And a leg of lamb stuffed with cocaine is media, right? I mean, think about it, what is media? What is media, son?”
Fucking white people and their nutella.
Worst Harlem Shake ever.
Best case scenario for what followed immediately after this photo was taken: the room was struck by a stray atomic bomb.
Anonymous asked: Why?
Why not?
Randy Travis Fan Fiction, Vol. 1
Randy Travis snapped his pencil in half with one hand and threw his guitar across the room. He had just written the best song of his career, but he knew in his heart country radio would never get behind “Anal Fissures and Nosebleeds.”
He picked up his phone and texted his assistant Jenny. “FUCK U- U GODLESS WHORE” Jenny was young and his pastor’s daughter, so she’d take that kind of shit.
