WAITER: Sir, your drinks will be out in just a moment. Ma'm, here are your Sizzling Fajitas. Now I'm gonna warn you, this plate is very hot...

Huh? Wha--HEY! Back ATCHA, bi--Oh. That's a cigarette...

HER: Yeah I need a Fiend's Feast, make it cry, couple cackleberries in the alley, wreck 'em, whiskey down with axle grease, and a sinker! (TO REPTILE) Something to drink? REPTILE: Yeah, coffee. Light, with two sugars. HER: And a hot blonde in sand!

Go-getting gal reporter Torchy Blane busts Philadelphia's Secret Satanic Societies wide open in her scorching expose: "I Was Baptized in Cheez Whiz for Beelzebub!"

MY WIFE, WALKING PAST MY COMPUTER: What IS that? ME: I think it's Ultraman discovered during a kaiju's colonoscopy. WIFE: He looks confused. ME: He's not alone.

Imagining the shish-kebobbery that could result from even a routine rear-ending, I liked to call this model Cad the Impaler.

GUNNER: (GASP) We were...SKY BIRDS, once...Now we're...dead ducks! (HEAVES SIGH THAT BECOMES PROLONGED DEATH RATTLE) PILOT: Oh don't be so dramatic, Bob. It's a cockpit, not Swan Lake.

HER: When you speak of this...and you will...try to hot it up a little, will ya? Three humps and a grunt do not make for a great sex story.

See? When you don’t squander your money on pricey branding consultants, you can spend it sensibly, on super catchy slogans and free clip-art spokesowls.

HIM: HA! Not on MY watch, you evil vixen! KARATE CHOP! HER: Uh...Okay. I guess we'll find some other way to signal the start of the potato sack race?

"Hypothetically if someone was accused of having sex with goats by over 30 different people and regularly denied it..."

HER: Wanna hear a real naughty one about Hollandaise?

GANDER: Underoos? At your age?

Yes, please.

White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt pauses to read the room before addressing the media on these latest silly allegations...

While Punxsutawney Phil grandstands, smarter mammals dig deeper burrows to ensure they'll inherit the earth after Trump like they did after the Chicxulub asteroid.

MAN IN BLUE: Here's your delivery! MAN IN RED: What? HER: 'Allo, ducks! I'm the prostitute you ordered. MAN IN RED: Oh! Hi! Sorry, I was expecting something from Chewy...

HIM: Hellll-LO, Nurse! Say, wouldja mind taking a look at this PAIN I got? Down HERE? Heh heh! HER: Sorry, I'm not an RN. I'm a Wet Nurse. HIM: Oh HER: I'm just getting changed for work. HIM: Well! Can't wait to see your UNIFORM. Heh heh! HER: It's just a Slanket and a nursing bra.

JAKE TAPPER: This is fine

Prom night reaches an unexpected climax, as Lorraine throws open the door, goes into her tuck, and rolls clear just seconds before a drunken, Camus-spouting Bud drives his dad's Buick off the cliff at Lover's Leap.

Also a whale fall pin, anomalocaris pin, and lots of fungi. Go look!

"Hello, I’m Ron Rhino, here to talk about PAID-FOR SEX and what YOU should know about it! I’m gonna give you the hard facts the brothel industry doesn’t want you to know, facts they would KILL to keep secret. Call me paranoid, but—Oh no! Over there! It’s an assassin in the pay of Big Whore!"

“I call this meeting of the Island of Lost Souls Junior Chamber of Commerce to order! The clerk will please read the minutes of the last meeting…” "Point of order, Mr. Chairman." "The Chair recognizes the distinguished Ocelot-Human Hybrid, Mr. Stripeypants..."

Junior Astronauts know that keeping your flattop flat is where it's at! And now you can keep your rocket tight ’n’ upright in Rocket Jockey Underpants®, the Tighty Whities for Uptight Whitey!™

Spam as a 2nd Language: “Pedophile move close to your DOOR!” I hit pedophile with bat. YOU DO NOT HAVE A BAT This is the worst text game ever

Del Monte, Jr., condiment heir and GOP congressional candidate, demonstrates the "Trump Dump", used for depositing precise "Trump Clumps" of catsup. "It discourages the ingredients from working together to produce a taste. Any attempts at unauthorized flavor are ruthlessly smothered."

Statler and Waldorf grew jaded as they aged, and required increasingly cruel and unusual spectacles to inspire their vinegary japes.

That time my cat stole my swag "I hereby claim this Pro Bowl commemorative tote bag, and its attendant NFL branded promotional merchandise for the Sovereign State of Me."

HER: A Murder done in gold? ALL gold? No accent colors?? TACK. EE! HIM: Um, Ma'm? Excuse me? Are you done with the restroom key?

HER: 🎶If you want my body and you think I'm sexy🎶 HIM: AUGH! Sheila! What are you doing here? Is this a booty call? HER: No! I'm here to borrow your lipstick. HIM: Oh, okay... HER: Psyche! I came to slide down your manly banister, Bob! Although I do wanna borrow that lipstick...

That's nice. But try my brand--new King Size Menthol Kittens.

In order to TO HEAL THE SICK... it is first necessary to... SEE THEIR BOOBS!

JUDY: I know you don't approve of Bob because he was raised Lutheran, but we ARE going to be married! MOTHER: But Judy, what about the children? JUDY: We've already agreed, they'll be raised Catholic. MOTHER: I mean how will you have any, when it appears your fiancée is just a circulatory system?

What? I AM wearing pants! ::looks down:: Oh crap. I'm wearing CHAPS...! Never get dressed in the dark, right? Hehe...

A LIGHT FLASHES ACROSS THE SKY...! HER: The Alibi Signal! Somebody's been caught in a potentially compromising position by law enforcement and in dire need of a third party to confirm their movements and whereabouts on the night in question! THIS looks like a job for...

I don't know if there's a medical term for this condition, but whenever I brush my teeth my brain involuntarily coins old hardboiled detective tropes. For the record this morning's was: "She blushed, bashfulness blazing in her cheeks like two dueling Yule logs."

After getting his ass kicked a few too many times by the Mighty Morphing Power Rangers, Face Stealer decided to retire, and currently works as the 8th Hole at Golf 'N' Stuff in Norwalk, California.

PENNY: Will! Your nocturnal discharge! It’s become self-aware!

HIM: Take it! HER: No! HIM: You NEED it, sister! Your breath smells like an octopus with B.O.! HER: ...? HIM: You know...like underarm odor, but from 8 simultaneous armpits. Now CHEW! HER: Never! I HATE Juicy Fruit! Don't you have any Dubble Bubble or Hubba Bubba?

That's #3 on the list of Classic Blunders, after Never Start a Land War in Asia, and Never Go Up Against a Sicilian When DEATH is On The Line!

ANCIENT EGYPTIAN: Say, how's that job up at the palace working out? PHARAOH'S SERVANT: Good, except last week I found out that when he dies, we get buried alive. So now I'm seriously considering looking for another job-- AG: In THIS economy? Oh I'd think twice about that...

It was Desi Arnaz's third date with Lucille Ball and he was about to get to second base, when suddenly the archangel Michael appeared and cut In on his action.

Now that your mustache has peaked, you need a part in "Deep Throat."

Damn, look at that. If they'd only let me, I could replace those drafty, obsolete, energy-inefficient casement windows with triple-paned, low-emissions glass that would boost their thermal performance. But they won't. And WHY?? Just because I like to gad about the job site in a dance belt!

That moment when you suddenly realize, after all these years, that J. Edgar Hoover hated Dick Van Dyke's guts.

HIM: Wut the HELL--? Whatta ya dizzy dames done to my lat-pull machine?! Alright, that's IT! Out you two pixies go! You are BANNED from Curves!

I don't believe in racial profiling, but I just heard myself shout "Honey? Where's the mayonnaise?" and realized that's probably the Whitest thing I've ever said. Maybe the Whitest POSSIBLE thing one could say, apart from "Actually, I prefer the Pat Boone version of Tutti Frutti"

🎶When you're least expecting, You're detecting! You're the dick today, Smile! You're Candid Detective!

I like my coffee the way I like my soul: dark and bitter

Spouse spent time in high school, through 4H, helping Hmong families acclimate to this stupid country. They were cheerful and grateful and happy to be here. Hardly terrorists. FUCK ICE.