The Legend of Tim Tebow

It’s a cryin’ shame that the mighty Tim was robbed of the Heisman. Yes, a shame—and here’s a short list why:

• Tebow put the team on his back after their undeserved loss. Percy Harvin and the rest of the untalented stiffs simply tagged along for the ride.

• Tebow will head butt a wrecking ball if that’s what it takes to inspire his lazy-ass teammates.

• Tebow actually coaches his team behind a cardboard cutout of “Urban Meyer”

• Tebow never pees in the shower. And if he did, drains would unclog, I’ll tell you that right now!

• Tebow is Santa Claus.

• Tebow solved Lost and knows all the secrets of the island.

• When Tebow shakes hands, metacarpals turn to dust.

• When Tebow takes a dump, fields of lilies wish they smelled so good.

• When he’s in a bind, Jack Bauer calls Tebow for advice.

• Tebow collects for the Salvation Army while simultaneously playing Flight of the Bumblebees on a bass trombone.

• Obama prayed daily that Tebow wouldn’t run.

• Tebow satisfied your girlfriend like she’s never been satisfied before.

• Tebow pulled Pete Carroll’s pants up and chased him off my porch.

• Tebow prosecuted OJ.

Bad Santa 2008

As has been custom for many a year, a collection of prose, for the season, from a different point of view....

Twas the month before Obama
and all through the land
Democrats and Republicans
Joined in the F**k you America, band.
F**K fannie, f**k freddie, f**k AIG;
F**k Citi f**k Morgan and screw Goldman with glee!
Most of all, f**k Lehman and f**k old bear stearns;
With the largest f**kstick, probe till they yearn!


Silent night
Holy night
All is calm
All is bright
Looks like I'll be jerking off again.


Dear Johnnie:

Thanks for your letter;
(But I liked the way your Mom sucked my d**k much better!)
You asked about elves
and to this I reply,
Yes, I have them
until they all cry.
As the reindeer; of course they can fly!
The secret ingredient? Mrs Claus' pie.
How can I make that trip in a night?
Wild Turkey and Red Bull until I'm higher than a kite.
As for your present, you ask, in your Christmas sock
Of course, you shall have one! (next line too graphic...)


Dear Santa:

I left you a salad instead of Milk and Cookies. I'm worried about your cholesterol. Signed, Martha S.

Dear Martha S:

Thanks for the salad. I left you a big black dildo for you to go f**k yourself. Santa

Dear Santa:

Could you get me outta here before the 25th? Signed, Orenthal S.

Dear Orenthal S:

No problem. You should be meeting Johnnie C. soon - I'll set up an appointment for you.

Dear Santa:

I'm sick of this place. Signed, George B.

Dear George B:

I guess so! You sold it to a f******g ******!
(illini)

A Holiday Poem

Strolling the snowy streets, her and me,
My gaze falls about and what do I see?

Lights and shit.

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference turnip odors make!

Top 5, November 11, 2008:

1. Eau de Kaline Spleen toilet water
2. Lost Medusian cuss words
3. The cheese decaying under Orson Welles’ love handles
4. Bread tribute groups undergoing male-to-female surgical procedures in lost solar systems
5. Going to battle with Digger Phelps’ nose hairs

Top 5 if my hand-held maguppy-meter read only D’s:

1. Holding an Anabaptist’s garden hose in provocative positions
2. Liz Taylor’s wrinkly-ass uvula
3. Reincarnated images of 13th century cleavage
4. “All my short stories involve popping zits, Professor.”
5. Uriah Heep LPs encrusted in cockapoo boogers

Bad Arizona Metaphors

Suzie’s wonderbra turned the Twin Peaks into the Grand Canyon.
But she was hot: Think Tucson in July!
Unfortunately, her pap smear was an out-and-out Montezuma’s Well of sea life.
Moreover, after marriage she was the peak of Snow Bowl below the waist.
John McCain is Fillmorian, in stature. And age.
The force of my fingers turned an ordinary blackhead into Meteor Crater.
Lute Olsen’s helmet of hairspray has been deemed acceptable for use by the NFL.
Every night, the Florida Marlins play in a veritable Goldsmith Ghost Town.
Slide Rock’s river bottom is slippery: I mean KY slippery!
With another nearly to above average season or 2, ASU might one day become the Purdue of the Pac 10.

Second Division Disney Characters

Chip & Dale: I know most consider them heavyweights, but consider the following scenario. You’re waiting in line to get your picture taken with Mickey or Minnie. The rodent in question goes on break and these useless twins show up to take his or her place. Listen and you will hear all ages, races, creeds, and nationalities come together as one—to groan their misfortune.

Winnie the Poo: This is a sad one, given that Winnie was once the headliner of his own little band of animated dullards. When he went up to the big leagues however, he found he was no Mickey. Hell, he isn’t even Donald.

Aladdin: Dude looks like a lady. OK, some do. But why accentuate it by dressing like a belly dancer?

Oliver & Company: It’s tempting to compare them to comets flashing across the ‘80’s sky, but given the dullness and swiftness of their popularity, they were actually more like cap guns.

Christopher Robbin: Never a biggie, but since coming over to Disney, this twit has even lost his supporting role to some forgettable chick whose name I don’t feel like looking up.

Pluto: As a Disney dog, his only competition is that certifiable idiot Goofy. And yet, because he was not granted the gift of speech, Pluto’s the one who sleeps outdoors.

Woody: He was the star of the original movie, not Buzz Lightyear. But his former backup has since left him in the sawdust. At least he knows how Thurman Thomas feels.

Gaston: In Disney flicks, the handsome dude always gets the girl, right? Not this clown. Even his right hand would have likely chosen that horned gorilla thing that ended up nailing Belle.

Tigger: This obnoxion fared best among the former Pooh characters; he has risen to the level of Winnie. As noted above, however, this makes him purely second division.

16 Activities that are no Dumber than Some Olympic Sports

Balancing a beach ball on one’s foreskin
Cultivation of arm pit juice
Estimating the correct circumference of Ashlee Simpson’s butt pimples
Spork tossing
Molding Cheez Whiz into the shape that best approximates a tortoise pancreas
Vomiting handkäse on the side of a stagecoach museum
Sucking navel lint (judged per poundage)
Molecularization of ear wax
Measuring J’s with a straight edge
Dancing around drops of urine on a rusted shower drain
Blowing spit bubbles sans milk
Turning textbook pages with the blade of a scythe
Making Disney jokes in the vapid netherworld of space
Stare downs with crotch rot
Goin’ all “Sal Muncy” at square dances
Making lists of activities that are no dumber than some Olympic sports

Submissions to Reader’s Digest

Life in These United States

Even respected brain surgeons get leaky roofs, I unfortunately discovered one day. Luckily, one of my patients was a handyman and agreed to repair the structure for free.

“It’s a slow leak into the living room,” I explained to the crusted strongman.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Guess I’ll get started.”

Humor in Uniform

Deciding to spend my hard-earned leave back home meant boarding a DC-9 for the Deep South. To pass the 4 hours of required travel time, I brought along the latest Beverly Barton thriller. I was so overjoyed when we finally touched down in Biloxi, however, that I deplaned quickly—without my book!

As I was conveying my thanks to the pilot, I heard a commotion behind me. When I glanced back, I saw my trusted flight attendant, holding my lost paperback and pushing her way to the front of the line.

“Lieutenant!” she yelled for all to hear. “You’ll love the ending!”

All in a Day’s Work

Returning from a sales conference, our driver was clearly lost, although he was not the type to admit it. Fortunately, a quick-thinking associate requested that we pull off the highway in order to procure a much needed meal. Once this task was completed, my colleague began asking the locals for directions. His first victim was an elderly gent atop a motel porch, seated on a rocking chair and whittling.

“Which way to Decatur, old timer?” he asked the grizzled veteran of life. The man pointed south.

My buddy was flabbergasted. “Now we’ll have to make up an hour’s driving time!” he cried.

The man did not even looking up from his carving as he answered, “Good luck.”

Never-Ending Redneck Dialogue

“Got me a new dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t called you dog, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog, Dog.”
“But why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I just done tell you, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“You mean that last time?”
“Why you call—uh, yeah.”
“I done tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why I call you dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I dint that time.”
“But before.”
“I done tell ya!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog! Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause I did. And don’t call me dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“I say why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t call you shit”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Dog?”
“I just say: I ain’t call you shit!”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“No one say dog ‘til I done it.”
“Why you say Dog?”
“Dunno.”
“Me neither.”
“I knows!”
“Wha—?”
“Got me a new dog.”
[Return to line 2]

Ode to Solar Inspiration upon Individual Leisure

The sun
Is fun.

Semifinals

Match 1: 1972 Dolphins vs. Mark Spitz.

Spitz emerges from the locker room clearly unimpressed with the record-setting Fins. The Olympian seizes the early momentum, cruising to an ever-widening lead at the break. Coach Shula makes an impassioned halftime speech, screaming at his team that 1972 belonged to them, not some lousy 7-0 swimmer. At the start of the second half, the Dolphins come out charged, quickly cutting into the lead. Then Spitz scores again, appearing to sew up the contest. But Miami isn’t done. A strange and inarguably lucky Griese to Yepremian to Mandich trick play, along with some questionable officiating, forces overtime. In the extra session, Spitz is obviously upset and begins making mistakes. Dolphins win an OT thriller.

Match 2: Secretariat vs. Millard Fillmore

Another nail-biter. President Fillmore is tough, intense, and ready to give everything he has to win this semi. His unwillingness to back down in the face of his opponent’s superior athletic ability keeps him in the contest until the end. Unfortunately for his fans, it is also the prez’s undoing. Late in the match, with the score tied, the Triple Crown winning steed begins to taunt Fillmore. The president responds by losing his poise and drawing a costly penalty. Secretariat jumps to a late but insurmountable lead. Seeing that he’s been outsmarted, Fillmore finally concedes this hard-fought affair. It’s Big Red to the final.

Bad Arizona Similes

Phoenix: That ol’ town’s hotter than morning wood in ultratight skivvies.

The Grand Canyon swallows hikers like Suzie Hanika took in wrestlers in high school.

Driving the Apache Trail is sort of like how drops of water negotiate skid marks in a porcelain bowl.

The ears of a desert hare are not unlike racquetball racquets, but without the handles or strings.

The Lost Dutchman Mine is as mysterious as those vacations where you don’t take a dump for several days.

Route 66 resembles the song about as much as my nipples bear likeness to Antarctica.

Brushing your teeth before a Navajo burrito? That’s like wiping your bum before a major slosh!

Superstition Mountain rises in solitude, like the tit of a Cyclops.

Valley of the Sun? Valley of my red ass is more like it!

The cacti grow across Sky Harbor like zits on the face of a teen.

Tom Cruise’s head is as void of gray matter as Medusa Castle is of residents.

Sedona traps tourists like backside hairs ensnare dingleberries.

Cheap Fireworks

-Conjure memories of last year’s fireworks
-Shooting stars
-Explosive diarrhea
-Tell your wife her butt looks too big
-Projectile vomit
-Violent “see-food” discharge
-Drop melons off the roof
-Drop in-laws off the roof
-Pop a mountainous zit
-Sever an aorta
-Induce tri-stream urination; sword fight with your friends
-Flatulate like a harmonica

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference Clarence Williams III makes!

Top 5, June 17, 2008:

1. The nectar of spleen from the flower of Kaline
2. Class presidents who place Foster Grants on their wieners
3. Blood Drives featuring AMC Pacers
4. Lucky fence menders holing up in flower beds to sword fight with their urine
5. That time I said, “Tell Mannix I liked it when he implied that stowaways flex sideways in the heat of Herman Munster chef-like banana cakes waxed incidentally, be-yotch!”

Top 5 if my flexor’s CB radio handle was “Malt Droppings”:

1. The non-musical bleating of frozen uvula wind chimes
2. Suppression of the brain waves responsible for morning wood
3. Battleaxe spinsters who scream trite colloquialisms about wig Velcro
4. Skid marks on fanciful aprons of lace
5. Duquesne redux: Only 127 days until the 2008 Lego Advent Calendar is released!! Which reminds me: All hail Master Po's mail droppings that release their temporary hangnails "oft to der Wings" in Schlitz!

Presidential Debate Questions

Senator, in your opinion, what would happen if I dug up Millard Fillmore’s bones, then went back in time and handed them to him?

Hey Ralph--popcorn: Who figured that one out?

Say Alan, if C. Montgomery Burns and Carter Pewterschmidt both wanted the same company, who do you think would get it and why?

Question for all: Might the backhoe contingency be rendered useless under existentialist thought as understood by Jim Morrison?

Why are so many entries in this blog written in list format?

If someone’s nickname was Placenta Earl, would that mean his real name was even worse?

Why have I never been given a Whopper that looks anywhere near as good as the ones in the ads?

Why do we not refer to people as a whole but, instead, to their behinds, as in “Tell him to get his ass in here” or “Just leave her ass alone”?

Whatever happened to General Fester’s “remote” as described in that homophobic entry posted May 24?

Unique Father's Day Gift

For the dad who has everything, a poem about places in Michigan:


Fruitport, Westnedge, Mackinac,
Highway 6 and west Paw Paw.
Cheboygan and the Dairy Queen;
Pier Marquette and Kaline’s spleen.

Mona Lake, I-94,
Tekonsha and the eastern shore.
The woods where Nugent finds his bliss,
The rest stop where I took a piss.

Eastmanville, a Cloud called Saint,
Cheboygan and Jeff Daniels’taint.
Farmington and Manitou;
Norton Shores and ol’ Moo U.

Assorted creeks, the Upper Pen;
Motown and the Lion’s Den.
Saginaw, home of the Gears;
Paradise; Bob Seger’s ears.

BE PREPARED...

Lincoln's Trombone is going live....and remote...

The General is going to do our first man on the street (if you will) site work as an anonymous real time blogger from none other than Orlando, Florida. I will be doing some advance work, but will be there to first hand witness this event and report all things faggot: HERE

The thought of this mission repulses every inch of my body and if you know me, that is saying a hell of a lot.

However, for the good of the blog, for the good of the nation, for the good of the old fashioned mockery of it, I'm gonna blog live goings on.

Please feel free to add your special requests......

PS: I just threw up a little in my mouth....

Frat Boy Gossip Columnist

Greetings from the Chi House! We rock!!

I tell you what, we got so ****faced last night it wasn’t even funny. I almost missed my friggin deadline! But here I am, with news of celebrities and ****.

Hollywood **** Lindsay Lohan is reportedly planning a birthday bash. Should be one drunken whorefest. Sweet piece of ***, but at this point I wouldn’t tap that skank with your ****!

Speaking of skanks, Jessica Alba is gonna marry some NSync faggot. Man, she sure went from piece of *** to piece of **** in the time it takes to popcorn ****!

Another faggot band, New Kids On My ****, is back together. Most of the guys here in the house think they suck, but sometimes I like watching a group where I know I could kick any of their *****.

Must be the week for wuss musicians. Bon Jovi was on that news show with all the old *****. He’s a cowboy, all right. Riding straight up my ******* leg!

The new Indiana Jones movie is out. I hear it kicks ***, even tho the star is like 90. On the plus side, that makes him a good match for Karen Allen’s wrinkly ***.

There’s a rumor of a CHiPs movie, sort of like that Starsky & Hutch piece of **** from a few years back. What I heard is that Carlos Mencia is set to play Ponch. Guess the role called for pretend edgy but not remotely funny.

That show Lost is taking a 2-week hiatus. With so much time off, aren’t they worried their audience will get confused? Ha ha! I mean like, what the ****?!

American Idol finally ends this week. Since it’s 2 dudes, they should have them fight it out. MMA, man! That would absolutely rock! On the same bill they could match that political show guy who used to do Sports Center versus the ****head who’s all over the web yelling at his producer. I hear those 2 ****sticks hate each other!

It’s also 2 dudes left running for President. Tough choice. One’s a hard ***, the other actually knows some music post-Dave Clark 5. Too bad Eddie Vedder ain’t running. Or Will Smith! That dude kicks ***!!

In the world of sports, John McEnroe is again gonna be the color commentator for the French Open. So once more, we get to hear that dip**** tell us how to win a title he never sniffed.

Finally, Big Brown won a race or some such ****. I don’t follow horse racing, being that I’m under 70.

A Paragraph of Sentences That Have Never Been Uttered

Fondue forks may well investigate the mental hygiene millers of Flat Top whilst tube socks milk forests of guava melts. Moreover, those magnets of lint, they force derivative destinations into twilight. Bingo hails indubitably across the blue dwarf. Conversely, occupations that taste like ink can be utilized on the scabs of plaid duffel bags. Horse meat, of course, just holds the Flaxin cards. It follows, then, that clandestine diseased fruit cannot be tried for murder within a vacuum. Catch the filibuster now, Saint Weatherhorse? I believe you and 17 tapirs roundly assonate! Furthermore, saving the table scraps of Revolutionary War widows is unethical toward pleasing Forrest Whitaker. I mean: “Banks in your shoe?” cold cocked Grady’s stand-in. With that in mind, oatmeal toast is forever Carl Jung. From this argument, one can opine that corn soup would likely have a backhand that scatters municipalities. And I don’t need shuttlecocks of spearmint in my gruel! In other words, smegma cannot be sold at hockey games in Hell. So why, you ask, is dinner served in the void of consciousness? Well, maple dung hairs notwithstanding, there is conclusiveness surrounding Frisbees. And admonishments are clarity personified. Therefore, bullies fornicating on ice are neither sea dwelling lint nor should I amble about. However, traces of mastication arrive daily in fonts of oak. This particular argument proposes clambake justice for French Open qualifiers of modest girth. In essence, tribal sensibilities inherit Formica ball returns toward louder farts. Climb it on Topcat’s ear, I hear you justify. That said, guppies traipse sideways in transfer functions alluded to by Diffenbach. But “hold your placenta!” screams the wayward youth of mooring scabs. Indeed, strangeness oil, forgotten as one, banters about with Ms. Pac-Man. To clarify, bale sandwiches mark the drainage of certitude. Pour crayon welts atop flow cycles, you ask? Well, payment of frosting accelerates doors hidden via Millard Fillmore’s phallic cloud formations. More specifically, mountainous, gelatinous, pendulumous breasts clarify the auction sites without ever once leaving Cleveland, eh? Those who can’t wax holidays feel it like bass gurneys. In conclusion then, tapestry cinderblocks revolutionize the needed objectives of youth, despite fantastics who can’t say otherwise. Neither, of course, does Larry Storch’s irritatingly frightened muffin tops.

Unusual Ways to spend your tax rebate

1. A bikini wax for those hard to get to places on your pet wallaby.
2. Spanish lessons for the broccoli that refuses to respond to the erstwhile longings of a love stricken japaleno.
3. Buy some watermelons and go door to door on your street telling women "i'll let you touch mine if you let me touch yours"
4. Hoarding off-brand spleen juice at Sam's Club
5. Go to the jail, randomly bail out a drunk and then have him arrested again for indecent exposure.
6. Sponsor the first annual "Erik Estrada film festival and turnip tasting"
7. Trade it all in for dimes and pay for everything for a week in change.
8. Educational experience: Take pacman jones clubbing with the fam....
9. Rent a booth at the county fair and tell 'fortunes' by sniffing armpits
10. Have your name legally changed to Loebig-Muncy.

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference loads of mispronounced grapefruit make!

Top 5, April 21, 2008:

1. Tiger spleen drops not from India
2. Clandestine mortification at disciples of glue
3. Rebellious grandmasters posing as insect dung
4. Guys named Ed whose glasses fog upon sudden bouts of delirium
5. Tiebreakers that end in /n/

Top 5 when removing the nexus of Hendershorts:

1. Acid rain devoid of vinyl Jed Clampett impersonators
2. Laughing at a drunk’s dangling participle
3. Municipal cool dudes, strutting their socket wrenches
4. Dependence upon formaldehyde groupies
5. Dyspepsia removed from the souls of wailing grapes

Tax Day Advice (Actually Random Musings)

If I were ever talking to myself and then suddenly realized someone was in the next stall, I would pretend I was on a cell phone call and say, “You idiot! You do that and it won’t detonate!”

When ranking the melodiousness of 3^rd century dental ailments, I would have to place pericementitis first, although one could make a case for pulpitis.

I firmly believe that Speedy Gonzalez could beat the Road Runner in a short sprint (say, across a room), but would lose miserably at any distance over a half mile.

Mules blasted into outer space would be cool, unless one of them got injured. Then Houston would have to listen to wailing and braying until they got tired of it and exploded the rocket.

I don’t believe Einstein died of an aneurysm. I think he solved time travel, but the technology eventually got into the wrong hands and so, to cover their tracks, the bad guys went back in time and killed Big Al before he actually invented the very system they were using to murder him.

Based on their descriptions, one would think that hot fudge over ice cream was a dumb idea and auto racing would be cool, not the other way around.

If formal diagnostic testing could be used to help scrutinize the leftist leanings of those who like to dress up as albino armadillos, I would worry that the backhoe contingency would do little more than describe saucers of malt liquor.

Although most Americans don’t believe in dictatorships, you have to admit that it’s kind of cool how we might continue handing the presidency back and forth between 2 dysfunctional families.

Tromboning: Myths vs. Facts

Myth: The mainstream tromboning media have a bias against rust belt players.

Fact: Within the past 2 years, sections from the Cleveland and Toledo symphonies, as well as that of the Gary Pops, have been featured favorably in both Trombone Monthly and Sliding with Sly. Moreover, the first and third chairs from, respectively, Miami and Fresno, have been blasted by the same major publications during this time period.

Myth: The mouthpiece makes the player.

Fact: A nice piece is great, but without decent lip action, you might as well blow a woodwind.

Myth: Pulling the pipe results in greater bell size.

Fact: It may seem that way at the time, but overall mass doesn’t change.

Myth: The Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s one-liners about “slide extension” are the filthiest trombone jokes known to man.

Fact: Only for those with short memories. Back in the day, members of the London Philharmonic told tromboner jokes that were more vulgar than a cellist in heat.

And finally…

Myth: Simply owning a Bach large bore makes one more arrogant.

Fact: 2 words—Niel Loebig.

Some Good April Fools' Pranks

Sneak up on your best friend’s wife and, when she’s least expecting it, break her arm.

Take a dump on your boss’s desk. When he asks who did it, say it couldn’t have been you because yours smell like peppermint.

Tell your children that mommy and daddy are getting a divorce because they can’t stand to be around kids who fight all the damn time.

If your girlfriend is feeling amorous, kiss her passionately. Then blindfold her and tell her you have a kinky surprise. Once this step is completed, quietly sneak in your roommate to finish the job.

Go into a co-worker’s office when he isn’t there. Pour beer all over the carpet. Call in the boss and ask if he thinks your colleague might be drinking on the job.

When the meeting chairperson isn’t looking, perform surprise titty twisters on other committee members.

Power staple a slide trombone to a stranger’s back.

Replace your roommate’s mouthwash with cerebro-spinal fluid. If he’s a major league baseball player, do the same to his syringes.

Ask your girlfriend if she wants to rent The Godfather. When she goes out to get it, place a bloody horse’s head under her sheets. Wait 3 hours for the merriment to ensue.

In permanent marker, write “I eat sh*t” on your sleeping spouse’s forehead. Make sure he or she oversleeps and has to rush out quickly in the morning. And hide all the hats.

Call a subordinate into your office. Tell him that you’ve received numerous reports that he’s a Nazi. Turn on a tape player and say, “According to federal law, I’m required to record your response.”

If you’re an identical twin, threaten to break up with your brother’s girlfriend unless she bears you a son.

And, lastly:

Make your mother think she’s pregnant by climbing back into her womb.

Numero 151-160 Central American sayings....

160. Somos los verdaderos americanos
159. Vaminos Liquidos Poopos
158. El Kaline Spleeno Juico
157. La Trombona Magnficent, El Producto mucho bueno musico
156. ¿Cuál es el precio de la especial Spitzer?
155. Loebig come Muncy la vagina
154. I puke, por lo tanto, i am
153. My name jose jimenez
152. I mi izquierda obnoxion cuchara hasta su culo
151. Sus testículos como el sabor del pene britney

Af-Am Veterans for Truth Raise Questions About Obama

A group calling themselves “African-American Veterans for Truth” is questioning the veracity of Barack Obama’s assertion that he is of African ancestry. Claiming to be former colleagues of the Illinois senator, this newly formed organization is going public with what they term “the real story.”

The leader of the group, who goes only by the name “Cement Head,” had this to say about the presidential candidate: “It’s falsehood, that’s all it is, claiming to be African-American when you’re clearly not. It would be like a stapler pretending to be wiffle ball, you know?” Other members chimed in on the topic as well.

“He’s not been honest with America,” said one unidentified woman. “We have what I consider sound evidence that he watches NASCAR.”

“A friend of mine knows someone who heard Lee Greenwood coming from his car stereo,” added a middle aged man who wished to be identified as H. “All I’ll say is the next time somebody says ‘all African-Americans raise your hands,’ you can bet he won’t.”

Although admitting he never met Obama, or saw him in person, Cement Head stated that he grew up “just a few states” from Illinois and that he “knows and hears shit.” He was not as quick to respond to the question of why his group is called “African-American Veterans for Truth” when neither he nor any of his cohorts are black.

“Now Obama can see what it’s like,” he finally opined, adding that “at least one” of the members is a veteran.

“So we’re basically representing ourselves honestly.”

BREAKING NEWS!

Lincoln’s Trombone has been provided with a copy of a phone conversation that we believe to be authentic. (Well, we paid $29.95 for it….)

Client #8: "Hey ya, Kirsten, this is your favorite john!"

Kirsten: "Hugh Grant! I've been waiting to hear from you, honey!"

Client #8: "No, goddammit, this isn't f**king Hugh Grant. It's George Foxx."

Kirsten: "I don't know a Georg.... Oh wait a minute! I remember you! You paid me $10,000 to jack you off while you were kissing a picture of that insurance dude. Greenspan, Greenman...something like that. I really didn't think I'd hear from you again after our last time."

Client #8: "Hell yes, bitch. I've been so damn lonely. It's really hard being me. I thought of a cute hooker joke for you! What do you ask a guy who gives you $25k? Spitzer Swallows! GET IT? HAHAHAHA!"

Kirsten: "Ummm, thanks. I'll try to remember that one. Hey did you ever get that big nasty red spot checked? I am a little nervous."

Client #8: "Why be nervous baby?"

Kirsten: "Well after that session we had with the goat and the Albanian dwarf.....well, you can't be too careful. Oh yeah, that chick that was married to the Clanton dude. What was her name? It was kinda like that dude that went to the South pole. HA? Just like you like to do! Anyways...is she coming again? HA another joke! No, is she JOINING us again? I don't like it when shes there. She doesn't tip very well..."

Client #8: "No, she isn't coming....I mean...HAHA, isn't joining us this time. She's found another piece of shrubbery. OK, so what's the deal? We gonna hook up tonight or what? I took some cialis, but dammit if it didn't get used up when I was shaving! I am dead, f**king sexy!"

Kirsten: "Yeah, right....I guess so. My hand always cramps up trying to hold your little thingy..."

Client #8: "Listen bitch, for $5k you think you could at least pretend that I was well-hung...after all, it's the motion of the ocean, right? AND be careful...(whisper) you never know who might be listening...

Kirsten: "Oh yeah, that reminds me. This dude from the IRS called and said that I owed some taxes and that I could either pay him back by f**king him or f**king you. Guess which one I chose, haha!"

Transmission ends......

Emily Dickinson and Andy Sipowicz visit Boston

“Copley is a veritable ruby, lathed in restaurants, drawing me as a clasp secures.”

“Clasp this.”

“Oh my! Would food not you partake at present? Then perhaps Fenway beckons.”

“I wouldn’t go to that craphole if you lined up shots with your t*ts.”

“Where then—St. Charles in its spotted splendor?”

“Sure. And after I p*** in that toilet, what then?”

“Forest Hills, my good man, as yea matches beauty to the wreckage of solitary lives.”

“Sounds like a riot. Walking on dead guys. Why don’t we find a pool hall in Formaggio and ask a couple of punk locals to step outside?”

“Violence is purple, killing my soul! The sun and forest know but an adder’s tongue.”

“Uh, sure thing, genius. If it helps, I’m sure the guys in the pool hall will give you something to tongue.”

“Malevolence! Your boggy lack of cordiality welts in me the sadness of distant memory!”

“Does that mean you want to do it?”

“Sir! Your utter crudeness…uh, actually, OK sure.”

Obscure facts that I am absolutely certain of

You know, in this mad rush of a world we live in, much uncertainty exists. In fact, we are constantly bombarded with a certain modern relativism that suggests that nothing we hold dear is certain. Just today, I found out that Moses was not a prophet, did not see God. He was a BC junkie; a historical version of Jimi Hendrix. Proof is here . As the day wears on into night, I realize that I cannot be sure of virtually any significant fact or belief that I have held true to this point in my life for fear of being publicly reprimanded or proven wrong. (Can you just imagine what Moses day would be like???) So, to preserve my sanity, I have created a list of obscure facts that I am ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN are true. I am currently considering whether this list of ten items could be the basis for a new world religion. I guess after some discussion , we could decide this as a group.

1. Enlarged left testicles can cause some awkward package positioning.
2. Yeat's Beast lives and is embodied in a modern female political figure.
3. My charcoal grill is having an affair with the neighbor's cat.
4. Sal Muncy is not a real person.
5. The preacher dude in Chariots of Fire died of aids. (He shouldn't have 'run' on Sunday)
6. There is a hidden Mickey in my pubes.
7. Texas (sucks) emits a distinct odor.
8. I don't understand toe fetish.
9. Flaggledrop is not particularly obtuse.
10. Martha Hicks sucks dead donkey d**ks (or so a kid in 7th grade told me)

Leap Day Thoughts

As February 29 only comes around every whatever it is (14 or 15 years?), it marks a perfect time to take a break from the mundane and contemplate life’s larger questions. As a public service, I will provide some concepts for our readers to wrap their minds around on this Leap Day 2008. Happy thinking.

How can the universe keep expanding? What’s out there beyond it? And if it’s nothing (not even space), what would that look like?

How can pi be infinite and the universe not?

If there are parallel universes, is there a me out there who didn’t tell Erika Elaniak to take a hike?

Can people really make deals with the devil? And if not, how do you explain David Lee Roth?

If diarrhea dehydrates you, would holding it in keep you moist?

Are there bowl games in heaven? If not, how do they waste away New Year’s Day?

When guys tell stories that involve taking a leak, why do they invariably hold their right hands like they’re gripping a can of Fosters?

Why didn’t they make crap a cuss word? It’s got 4 letters, it refers to a bodily function not discussed in polite company, and it sounds vulgar—in short, all the usual prerequisites for profanity. And yet, it never achieved such status.

Were down actually the dreams of black spotted puppies, would geese be any less mobile in the rain?

Why does armpit hair stop growing after it reaches a certain length?

What would happen if Jack Bauer and Jason Bourne were hunting each other down?

And finally,

If the backhoe contingency were followed to the letter, would basic delays of gamesmanship result in an infiltration of the obtuse combination of regulations known as flaggledrop?

Words that almost rhyme with douche-bag

The top 15, as of 3:36 CDT, February 27, 2008

15. GeorgeHWGeorgeWJebandtherest-Bush
14. Mecha-Streisand
13. Estrada-able
12. Antelope pecker-puss
11. Bric-a-Brac
10. Loebid-ness
09. F*****g-Liberace
08. Slide-salve
07. Yeat's-Beast
06. Hussein-Orgasm
05. Bill-ary
04. Kaline-splenectomy
03. Mortgage-banker
02. Diffenbach-Texas
01. Boomer-Backer

Duke’s Mailbag

Hey, I get mail too!

Dear Duke of Coagulation: Based on your recognition of both poetry and prose, I have to say that you’re clearly a literary sort of guy. My question is this: Why do SBDs stink so much? Especially the ones that burn. Mookie Saluki

Dear MooSal: What—they don’t have a literature department there at SIU? Let them handle your question.

Dear Duke: You clearly know a lot of celebrities (e.g., Al Kaline, Ted Nugent, General Fester). Have you ever met Diffenbach? Old Doc Potter

Dear Sherm: Have I ever met Diffenbach? Does Millard Fillmore kick ass?

Dear Duke: Are these letters real or composed by you? Milt Laerton

Dear ML Junior or Senior (whichever one you are): Most are real. Yours, however, is one I made up.

Dear Duke: How about mine? Niel Loebig

Dear DUQB: Seems real to me.

Dear Duke: What kind of an idiot would waste his or her time reading your asinine blog? Man’s Man in Boise

Dear Ma’ma’s Boi: The classification schema for idiocy is based on a number of parameters—intelligence, impulsiveness, and childishness, to name but a few. Those who frequent this site tend to be characterized by traits clustering within the alpha subclass of the factor butthead. Also guys who like to say “Ooga!” in high voice.

In Honor of President's Day

A little known list of some 'dirty little secrets', in honor of the day.....

1. George Washington, 1789-1797 – frequent snatch grabber
2. John Adams, 1797-1801 – had boils on his left testicle
3. Thomas Jefferson, 1801-1809 – ‘spoke’ to the spirits of dead spleens
4. James Madison, 1809-1817 – dressed up like Dolly’s sister and played nurse
5. James Monroe, 1817-1825 – little known ‘doctrine of flatulence’
6. John Quincy Adams, 1825-1829 – friends called him JQ polyp popper
7. Andrew Jackson, 1829-1837 – known for his shadow puppet likeness of a dead wolverine
8. Martin Van Buren, 1837-1841 – discouraged when his pet rock urinated on his new shoes
9. William Henry Harrison, 1841 – smoked the wildwood weed with Dick Johnson
10. John Tyler, 1841-1845 – first foot fetish POTUS….
11. James Knox Polk, 1845-1849 – average guy in the list, but his **** tasted like ****
12. Zachary Taylor, 1849-1850 – spent hours pondering the asterisk
13. Millard Fillmore, 1850-1853 – GREATEST PRESIDENT NEVER ELECTED
14. Franklin Pierce, 1853-1857 – world class dingleberry collection
15. James Buchanan, 1857-1861 – kept saying ‘turd burglar’ during inaugural address
16. Abraham Lincoln, 1861-1865 – greatest Trombonist to ever sleep with Mary Todd
17. Andrew Johnson, 1865-1869 – spoke profanity in strict Elizabethan method
18. Ulysses Simpson Grant, 1869-1877 – had a doll collection all named “Jeffie Boy”
19. Rutherford Birchard Hayes, 1877-1881 – breast fed until he was 42
20. James Abram Garfield, 1881 – first woman president
21. Chester Alan Arthur, 1881-1885 – invented the ‘festering puss’ sarsaparilla
22. Grover Cleveland, 1885-1889 – irritated parents by filing name change to “Kalamazoo”
23. Benjamin Harrison, 1889-1893 – spanked pet gerbils before feedings
24. Grover Cleveland, 1893-1897 – sang in the tub, fully clothed
25. William McKinley, 1897-1901 – the original ‘heartbreak of psoriasis’
26. Theodore Roosevelt, 1901-1909 – ‘bully’ meant ‘fu**stick’
27. William Howard Taft, 1909-1913 – consumed his first VP candidate (and a side of gravy)
28. Woodrow Wilson, 1913-1921 – until 1993, most practiced POTUS in the Kama Sutra
29. Warren Gamaliel Harding, 1921-1923 – collected toenails of former First Ladies
30. Calvin Coolidge, 1923-1929 – bladder control issues highlighted his term
31. Herbert Clark Hoover, 1929-1933 – bowel control issues highlighted his term
32. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 1933-1945 – first POTUS to say ‘obnoxion’ in a speech
33. Harry S. Truman, 1945-1953 – kept opening the icebox after hearing the fruit ‘talk’
34. Dwight David Eisenhower 1953-1961 – first POTUS to bang Marilyn
35. John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 1961-1963 – second POTUS to bang Marilyn
36. Lyndon Baines Johnson, 1963-1969 – last POTUS to bang Marilyn (sick, I know)
37. Richard Milhous Nixon, 1969-1974 – gambled away life savings on aardvark fights
38. Gerald Rudolph Ford, 1974-1977 – incredibly graceful, often did the samba naked
39. James Earl Carter, Jr., 1977-1981 – largest porn collection of POTUS (until 1993)
40. Ronald Wilson Reagan, 1981-1989 – Originally named each of his children “Bonzo”
41. George Herbert Walker Bush, 1989-1993 – liked to trick or treat dressed as M. Fillmore
42. William Jefferson Clinton, 1993-2001 – first non-inhaling virgin POTUS
43. George Walker Bush, 2001- thinks Iraq is just outside Coral Gables

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference 10 minutes makes!

Top 5, February 15, 2008, 11:29 a.m.:

1. Spleenie squeezin’s from Motown
2. Notes heard within the confines of a Nehru jacket
3. Blasted pork home facades designed to fool sarcastic South Dakotans
4. Gargoyles that resemble fish-hook nipples
5. Yelling “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!” solely to confuse whaling pundits

Top 5, February 15, 2008, 11:19 a.m.:

1. The night that foam battered Karch Kiraly’s spork
2. The personification of gas as a .300 hitter
3. Cantilevered industrial tangelos
4. Blowhole wheeze with harmonica accompaniment
5. Frankly giving 2 sh*ts

10 Valentine’s Day Presents That Might Surprise Your Mate

1. Pork

2. Snow tires

3. A dramatic interpretation of crotch rot

4. A wiener puppet portraying the head and torso of surgical pioneer Johann Diffenbach

5. The Ironic Smegma Boxed Set

6. A titty-twister

7. A “19-0 = History” sweatshirt

8. Millard Fillmore’s decaying corpse

9. A life sized cast of your proudest turd

10. Diamond spleenlets

Potential Names for English Football Teams

1. Silly Nannies
2. Meat pie and a pint, mate.
3. The Dentists
4. Revolutionaries
5. Sheep Bangers
6. Freudian Slips
7. Chartered Accountancy R Us
8. Potter Party
9. Churchill's Busteirs
10. Sniveling Piles of Pretentious Poo

An Editorial Writer with a Short Attention Span

Presidential candidates, and this runs across party lines, are making a big mistake by leaving Syria out of their Middle East discussions. Let’s face it—say, isn’t there a Syria in Illinois? Or is it—what am I thinking of? Maybe Northwestern—boy, was their football team bad this year or what? They’re the Eddie Money of college football. Baby hold on to me; give me a break. What does that even mean? Hey Eddie—hold this!

Most Eddies, I’ve noticed, are named Edward; damned few are Edwin. On the other hand, Edwin Pope writes for the Miami Herald, the paper that had Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry on staff at the same time—wonder what that was like. I also wonder about balloons. If a kid let go of me and I drifted up to the clouds, that would be scary as hell. Still, “cumulonimbus” is kind of a cool word. Not as cool as “uvula”, but pretty cool nonetheless.

Cartoonists always draw the uvula when a character has his or her mouth open wide. It’s become habit now to write “his or her” where before I always had to make an effort to remember. Some people call it PC, but most of them don’t even know what PC means. In that respect, it’s sort of like “internist.” It’s tempting to assume those guys are still learning. But when you assume…you know the rest.

I first saw that when-you-assume thing on The Odd Couple. I once met a set of twins that were sort of like Oscar and Felix, except they were females. Twins do some peculiar things. I wonder if all that telepathy stuff is real. I know there sure are some weird stories about separated twins who know more about what the other one is doing than would seem possible.

Something that’s impossible at my local Burger King is actually getting the order right. I order the same thing every time and not only is my meal always different, the price is too. I never cared for The Price is Right. Too many weirdos. Sort of like Devo. What was the deal with those hats?

Dr. Seuss based “The Cat in the Hat” on a list of recommended words for children to learn. Recommendations can be touchy business. If you think someone needs a psychologist, how do you tell them? In that sense, it’s a bit like halitosis.

Women seem to remember the bad breath thing more than men do. When they eat fish or onions, they cover their mouths when talking. I know only one male who does that and he’s not from America. He’s been here most of his life, but grew up somewhere in the Middle East. It might have been Syria. Coincidentally, I was just thinking about that particular nation. To my way of thinking, presidential candidates, and this runs across party lines, are making a big mistake by leaving Syria out of their Middle East discussions.

But that’s a topic better left for another day.

Questions to ask on Super Bowl Media Day

Are you guys going to try to win, or just keep from getting blown out?

Do you like me?

Who would you rather, you know—your wife or a Dolphins cheerleader?

As a follow-up, why do your cheerleaders look like an Iditarod sled-pulling team?

Have you ever vomited handkäse on the side of a stagecoach museum?

How hard was it to look your coach in the eye after you found out he’s a cheater?

Why isn’t Adrian Petersen here? He’s a lot better than you.

What’d you think when The Bachelor didn’t select any of the remaining babes?

If you had even half the personality that Peyton does, do you think you’d get more endorsements?

If you had even half the personality that your brother does, do you think you’d get more endorsements?

Are New Yorkers like me—do they giggle every time someone says Y. A. Tittle’s name?

Who’s your favorite Romanticist? And don’t say Blake!

When did Boston fans go from “nobody is as unlucky as us” to “nobody knows how to win like we do”?

Do you realize that every boxer alive thinks you play a pussy sport?

I heard the public schools in New York City are awful. Do you find your fans to be somewhat stupid?

Which of your teammates would you say has the sluttiest wife?

If you were gay, would you find me attractive?

Is it true that the word “Massachusetts” is Native American for “the smegma is caking”?

Think that Strahan guy ever heard of dentistry?

Without naming names, how many of your offensive linemen are on steroids?

Where’s Tiki?

A Review of "The Remarkable Millard Fillmore"

Whatever happened to David Huddleston, star of The Kallikaks? How many quarterbacks (e.g., Jeff Komlo, Tim Rattay) were promoted as the next Loebig, only to dissolve into anonymity?

And when was the last time you saw neon letters announcing, “In Concert Tonight: Ronnie Montrose!”?

Apparently, author George Pendle never considered such questions. Or, if he did, he didn’t bother to explore them in his new book on the great Millard Fillmore. What’s even more remarkable about Pendle’s omissions is that he notes in his preface that 1) Fillmore’s manuscripts were written in ballpoint pen and 2) ballpoint pens were invented more than half a century after the man’s death. He attributes this supposed inconsistency to the president being ahead of his time rather than delving into the explanation more consistent with known Internet accounts; of course, I’m referring to time travel.

Now obviously I’m not suggesting that our 13th president could trek through time. That would be asinine. A far more plausible explanation is that post-mid 20^th century minor celebrities found a tear in the space-time continuum that led them to the 1850s. Those who dared journey (Huddleston, Komlo, Montrose, and so many others) soon found themselves in the presence of Fillmore which, by all accounts save Pendle’s, is a rather intimidating place to be. Let’s just say that the spells of their “celebrity”, not to mention several of their facial bones, were soon broken.

And that’s another thing. Pendle portrays Fillmore as a dense, naïve, and delicately sensitive fruit basket of a man. Time-travelers, of course, tell a different tale. They speak of a coarse and terrifying individual who would use his lateral incisors to rip the faces off his enemies, or even his subordinates if he needed to get someone’s attention (Note: He killed some of today’s celebrities in this very manner, although they do not make the trip to the 1850s until after this review is published).

The representation of Fillmore as some sort of 19^th century Barney/Colonel Klink hybrid (and, by the way, what do you suppose ever happened to them?) is particularly odd given that Pendle provides us with a detailed and spot-on characterization of wife Abigail. Correctly, she is noted to be intelligent, insightful, and relatively funny in a Carol Leifer sort of way. But the author stops short of explaining why such a woman would marry a dullard like the Fillmore he depicts. The implication, I suppose, is that Abigail was roughly as desirable as a pack mule, but my guess is Pendle knows better. After all, his very first day of research would have surely uncovered the famous quote by Zachary Taylor (whom Fillmore succeeded into the presidency):

“Members of the cabinet, I congratulate you upon the high state of prosperity to which the goodness of Divine Providence has conducted our common country. Let us invoke a continuance of the same protecting care which has led us from small beginnings to the eminence we this day occupy. By the way, before Fillmore gets back from his squat, did anyone happen to see Abigail in that new Victorian number? I swear to God, her ass never quits!”

There are other instances too in which Pendle displays remarkable research skills, then fails to deliver the entire story. He describes, for example, the Anti-Masons’ hidden chamber in the New York statehouse, but never connects that to (or even mentions) Fillmore’s later and quite similar White House room for sentences that have never been uttered. Later, the author touches upon Fillmore’s experimentation with cross-dressing, but neglects its obvious association with Flip Wilson’s 1987 “groin pull”. Finally, Henry Wells is referenced briefly (primarily as a vehicle for Pendle to mock those with disabilities), but the public ass-kicking Wells received from John Melendez is conveniently ignored.

All in all, I would have to say that Pendle employs an interesting take on some elements of the Fillmores’ life. Had he simply followed his investigative leads, however, his account could have been so much more.

An Interview with Ted Nugent

In something of a surprise development, the Motor City Madman agreed to a sit down with one of our interviewers. What follows is a transcript of that meeting.

Lincoln’s Trombone: Ted, you’ve been made fun of several times on this blog. In fact, we’ve often portrayed you as a complete idiot. So I have to ask: Why did you agree to this interview?

Ted Nugent: F**kin’ A, man. Hey-ya, bee-ouch! Ya ya ya ya ya ya ya!!

LT: As a child, the story goes, you were something of a classical guitar prodigy. Any truth to that?

TN: That’s some sh*t, mutha-F! Hilary sucks! Wango tango! YEAHHHHH!!!!

LT: Why did you switch to rock and roll?

TN: I knew…Oh, I knew…I knew, mutha f**ker…that I had to have me some dat pus-say! Yeah, ya ya ya ya ya ya ya, bitch!

LT: In your ‘70s hey day, you packed stadiums coast to coast. Those must have been some heady times.

TN: Obama sucks too! Whah-HAH!!!! Oh baby! Oh baby! I like me them guns!

LT: You appeared in an episode of ‘That ‘70’s Show.’ What was that experience like?

TN: It was like WAH! Like WAHH!! Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi!

LT: Tell us how the fascination with hunting began.

TN: Bill Maher never call no more, that mutha f**—I ever see that pussy, I’ll kick, I say I’ll KICK…oh yeah, I’ll kick…I’ll kick his ever lovin’ ass! I will I will I will I will I will. I will, mutha!

LT: Some entertainers shy away from expressing their political views for fear it distracts people from their art. Do you ever think about that?

TN: I worry about what ain’t sh*t, ya dig? Aw-right, aw-right aw-right aw-right! YEAH-HAHHHH!!

LT: So what are you doing these days?

TN: [7 minutes of unintelligible screaming]

LT: Well Ted, thank you for your time.

TN: [3 more minutes of screaming] …and f**k you!

Duke’s 2008 Resolutions Involving German Cheeses

I resolve:

To never vomit handkäse on the side of a stagecoach museum

To one day prance amongst the milbenkäse of yesteryear

To at least once stink like one of Heidi Klum’s romadur belches

To understand the relationship between Bavaria blu and the phrase “Eat me”

To tell the world that cambozolais is actually about as German as Nipsy Russell’s manboobs

To wish the lightness of heart inherent in weisslacker was stocked toward planets that worship Millard Fillmore

To say “gorgonzola” in such a way that an audience of hog farmers scream like girlish garden gnomes

To respond to an order of harzer by saying, “Honey, this is as harz as it gets!”

To repay the miller for Klutzer Gold spilt during deciduous decades

To admit the inherent mystery observed in each slice of nillekas

And finally,

To say steinbuscher without blushing like a monitor lizard

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference a new year makes!

Top 5, December 31, 2007:

1. Frat boys who try to say, “Eciuj neelps s’enilak la”
2. Reviewable tapir doo-doo
3. Calculations done within the wind tunnel of a dragon’s queef
4. The old “Cheez Whiz in the urine specimen” prank
5. Jokes about corn products that talk like water polo aficionados

Top 5, January 1, 2008:

1. The comeback of Al Kaline’s spleen juice
2. Starting the bow meister on his way toward Funky Town
3. Tragedy void of fish eggs
4. Pipe tobacco scented to resemble Britney’s love handles
5. “Perhaps mine glances are a touch woozy, Admiral Kite!”