GWiMMRN, Jam Out with Your Ham Out Edition
Remember when GWiMMRN had editions, like they were installments of a news program? Well, those days are back.
Guess what's in my mouth right now:
A) Jam.
B) Ham.
C) Jelly.
D) Pork.
E) A wee bit of constipation accompanied by some unusually hard and jagged turds.
F) That fat kid.
G) An unusually gay day.
H) Blood, for oil.
I) A big, fat ham out.
UPDATE:
Guess what's in my mouth right now:
A) Jam.
B) Ham.
C) Jelly.
D) Pork.
E) A wee bit of constipation accompanied by some unusually hard and jagged turds.
F) That fat kid.
G) An unusually gay day.
H) Blood, for oil.
I) A big, fat ham out.
UPDATE:
posted by My Mouth at 8:16 AM
13 Comments:
I remember when GWiMMRN had DIFFERENT THINGS as choices, instead of the same link posted over and over again.
What the hell is wrong with you? I'm sick of seeing that fat kid.
I think you're being a little harsh here.
I quite like looking at pictures of the, ah, husky young fellow.
He seems like a handsome gent.
Now get me another Big Mac before I shit in your hair.
I concur with the...well, let's just call him the "hefty" commenter above.
That's a fine photo there, and deserves to be linked many times.
Many, many times.
I'm a little hungry, by the way. Mind getting me a double bacon cheeseburger, supersized french fries, large strawberry shake, some McDonaldland cookies, and seventy-seven apple pies?
Thanks.
Do I need to remind you that if my request isn't met, there will be a follicle-feces collision the likes of which hasn't been seen outside of a schizophrenic ward?
Good.
Go on, now. My stomach's growling.
kill me
I'm awfully confused as to why Little Debiie put tasty cake's website, as opposed to her own, littledebbie.com.
I wonder what the fuck her problem is.
I don't think that being a fat youngster the age of 6 entitles you to 77 apple pies.
I really feel that way.
I remember when you cock noodles used to FOCUS instead of complaining about whatever.
FO-CUS, you rectum fried chicken guts. FOCUS.
It's pretty damned difficult to focus now that you've put that horrible UPDATE up.
I TOLD you I didn't want to see that horrible fat kid any more. Now with the Michelin Man superimposed over his fat little corpus, I'll never get that image out of my head. NEVER.
What's your PROBLEM?
Actually, I'm seven years old, not six.
As such, I'm not only entitled to seventy-seven apple pies, I'm owed them.
All hot, all ready to eat.
Get going. My brother can feel a big shit coming on, and I have no problem with scooping it out of his drawers and flinging it into your hair like a chimpanzee on Bran Treat Day at the Zoo.
I refuse to give in to the demands of a deranged, obese, and thoroughly sickening little fat kid's younger fat brother and his ridiculous demand for 77 warmed up apple pies.
First of all, there's no way the 77th pie will still be warm by the time that hefty beast works his way through the first 76. Thus, his demand can not, by all means of physics, be possible.
Second of all, The Lord so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whomever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life, which apparently goes for those two fat little monsters screaming it up at the Mickey D's.
I have significant doubts that the person purporting to be the Biblical "John" would call me a fat little monster if he was the real John.
Significant.
Jesus loves the world unconditionally, even husky young men like me. Even extremely husky young men like my older brother, who is right now turtling out a gigantic wad of shit into his Ronald McDonald underoos.
Obviously, a large enough hot plate, or an individual manning a nearby microwave oven would be able to keep the uneaten pies ready for me to consume before they have grown cold, so your claims of physical impossibility are quite false. In addition, I am certain that you have not ever seen me eat, and as such are wholly unfamiliar with the speed at which I can shovel hot apple pies into my slavering maw.
Finally, I feel that I must inform you that even after I've thrown my brother's fecal matter into your hair, you are not free from the responsibility of bringing me the aforementioned seventy-seven hot apple pies. Wouldn't you rather just serve me the pies with clean hair?
This is your last chance to avoid a fecal facial. I have it on good authority that my older brother's diet has included nine pounds of peanut brittle, so the chunks of peanuts in his shit will be stinging.
Stinging.
Look. You better give the kid his 77 hot apple pies. I really think he means business there, Chief.
I really don't know what's worse: the horribly obese kid who's shitting himself, or the slightly less obese kid who's ready to throw the shit around.
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