My Misunderstandings

[GravitySucks]

The people who brought us Sea-Monkeys really should have their asses kicked.  But just as guilty, and found in the same books, Charles Atlas, Arnold S. and Joe Weider...selling their shake mixes and stretch rubber bands.  I was supposed to be able to build a fantastic physique, the kicking of sand into my face was to halt, and wonderful pets were to be waiting for me when I got home from the beach.  Bastards!

STFU and go get me another cold Coke.

[Billy Joe Mulgreavey]

STFU and go get me another cold Coke.

Keep pushing it Gravity.  I still have that pic of Arnold with Betty Weider hoisted up on his shoulder, and I still have that stretch rubber band around here someplace.  After I get the muscles, sell a few more Grit subscriptions...you're toast fella.  Now, would you like ice, or no ice?

[Camazotz Automat]

This thread is an example of why I keep trying to convince people that you're not just another remorseless Mesoamerican bat deity with a fearsomely pretty face who controls a vast empire of self-service eating establishments based on the ingenious concept of coin operated pie and sandwich dispensing contraptions.

And Lady Mondegreen.

Praise BP and give my love to Karen.

I bet you say that about all animal-headed deities. 

Speaking of the illustrious Lady Mondegreen and her interesting origins, I don't know if there could ever be a more fitting name for a Nevada golf course/bunny ranch combo establishment!

(Foghorn Leghorn:  I say, I say that's a golf joke, folks.  Not Arnold Palmer humor, oh no, but I say, more like a jest with a Tiger Woods under, I say, undercurrent.)

[Robert Ghostwolf's Ghost]

I bet you say that about all animal-headed deities. 

Only Nekhbet, and that's entirely different. The things I say to her while prostrating myself before the makeshift shrine in my man cave would make Larry Flynt blush.

Speaking of the illustrious Lady Mondegreen and her interesting origins, I don't know if there could ever be a more fitting name for a Nevada golf course/bunny ranch combo establishment!

I would invest in that, and suggest you provide automats for every tee and rumpus room. There's nothing a man who plays a round of golf in gaudy slacks and stupid hat enjoys more than a sandwich and slab of pie after cheating on his wife with a prostitute. That's a license to print money!

Again, there's always a sofa bed in Branson for you and Karen during the two weeks after Joe Don Baker's birthday. Don't forget, I can also get front row center tickets at Yakov Smirnoff's theater any time, and if we're lucky he'll be in town! "Wot a cahntry!"