Bad Choice Barbie and her friend Enabler Midge, who are obviously tripping balls, are about to experience a very bad time in Levi’s. For these two hapless chowderheads, the bad times begin when those hideously fuchsia slacks become entangled in the spokes (pinwheeling Barbie face first into the concrete) and end with the midget whose bike they ripped off catching up to them and crawling up through the legs of Midge’s Levi’s to deliver a solid vagina-punch before reclaiming her wee bicycle and pedaling over Barbie’s comatose form on her way back to the Fisher-Price factory.
Not that I’m judging, I’ve had far worse experiences with mushrooms in far larger phat raver pants.
Male strippers have come a long way since the era of breakaway polyester jumpsuits, which were apparently popular enough to justify bringing back for no less than five seasons.The term “manscaping” did not exist in the 1970’s so one can only imagine the full bouquet that Zach Galifianakis here is about to reveal before pelvic-thrusting around the stage in harmony with the melodic strains of “Macho Man” and the quiet sobbing of several tipsy bachelorettes.
“OH YEAH?!? DEVILED HAM WHIP! What do you have to say about THAT, Henry?!?”
“I…um, I, uh, I love you, Marianne?”
“ALWAYS GOTTA HAVE THE LAST WORD, HENRY. Well, I hope you and your glistening peas are happy SURFING THE COUCH TONIGHT. Bastard.”
Talk about an identity crisis. We have one Native American seig heiling a tin of porked gel-meat, one socially unaware Caucasian raver in a headdress, and for some reason a baseball player. And like that stupid Disney ride It’s a Small World After All they all come together to convey the message that this meatfood-flavored gelatinous cube is protecting your table from what I can only guess is some 1960’s ad man slamming his forehead to the wood. There’s a new vocabulary word for this, and it is “lo-pot-o-meat.”
Separate those buttcheeks as far as you want to, girl, but that fart you’re trying so hard to silence is going to be ricocheting around those jeans until you shake it out your pant leg and into the elf’s robe, and your ruse will be exposed when Arwen casts the spell whoever smelt it dealt it with +10 squeaky shoe blame.
I’ve never seen terrified food before.
The sheer delight on these little sociopaths’ faces as they prepare to take down the escaping wiener so they can add his head to their platter makes me grateful for both vasectomies and restraining orders.
Somewhere in the Midwest Tornado Zone there’s a box of Speef lying under a three inch layer of dust in an abandoned bomb shelter and I’m going to hunt it down just for the sheer glee I’m going to feel when I see the kids’ faces as I drop those cans into their trick-or-treat bags.
THERE WAS A GRAM OF CRYSTAL METH IN THE BOTTOM OF THE TIN OF DINNER POOP LOAF AND WE ARE SO THRILLED TO NO LONGER BE HUNGRY!