“Don’t look at me like that, balled up wad of toilet paper. I’m just a man. And a man has needs.”
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Recent Comments
- In The Mailbox: 02.28.23 (Afternoon Edition) : The Other McCain on Hey, longtime pw readers…
- In The Mailbox: 12.23.22 : The Other McCain on Patrick J. Carroll truly IS a sad, embittered psychopath
- Danger on Patrick J. Carroll might be a psychopath
- Danger on Patrick J. Carroll might be a psychopath
- In The Mailbox: 07.18.22 : The Other McCain on Patrick J. Carroll might be a psychopath
Come again?
Spelled come wrong there J .
Hah. From the TP’s perspective, you’ve been pretty damn needy lately.
and these crimes between us grow deeper
What kind of crap is this?
I guess that’s better than talking to the tampax.
What kind od crap is this?
Not that I have ever done that.
“I guess that’s better than talking to the tampax.”
Ewww . Lesson one in ” Harshing a hypermasculine mellow ” …well played Sarah , well played .
“Not that I have ever done that.”
…..Or that there’s anything wrong with that .
Is this the “Final Frontier Days” celebration?
Thankfully, the animism stopped with the TP…
Sheesh…instead of the patented PW “cock slapping”, our esteemed host is…..never mind,I see there’s ladies here
On the other “hand”? My Sox just took out the Angels 4-0….I’ll be in my bunk…
Rubbing one out in celebration ?!
Come on, Blitz. It is not like the ladies have never practiced self love. They just do not brag about it.
JD
‘Rubbing one out in celebration ?!’
Nah,THAT will be against the Yankees if they van get by Cleveland,but I don’t think the can with the pitching matchups
Sarah! What a droll way of mentioning tea with Prince Charles!
I see a television show in this, though: The Animist.
They’re doing the movie. Warner Bros. It’s called, um, crap. Oh. A Spell for Chameleon. The guy talks to thingers.
The Kitty Whisperer
The Cooter Caller
TP ?! Doesn’t everyone have a magic sock?
JD? I know not of this “magic sock” you speak of….The Gleen Mcellersons may have a clue though, so if you can get them to PLEASE stop playing the banjo, you may ask them..
blitz – I was about to tell a story that would embarass even me. Fortunately, that internal filter that keeps one from blurting out every single thought started working just in time to catch this one.
The Minge Mutterer?
“I see a television show in this, though: The Animist.”
With a curmudgenly, crippled cock-slapper.
One small awkward moment in Animism..
One giant awkward leap in Onanism…
You get toxic shock from Tampons and not Tazers. Who’d a thunk that.
I thought this was a sports blog. Perhaps you need to adjust the filters.
The formerly healthy relationship between me and my TP was irrevocably strained shortly after a cheese enchilada binge. The refried beans and pico didn’t help any either. We don’t talk much anymore. Consequently, my love life has moved to the shower. The drain never says shit. I don’t know that it can tell the difference.
I think the problem is that, after, you never call.
Which, I’m pretty sure some lefty academa-blogger is going to argue that’s just you trying to shore up your hypermasculinist bona fides.
Or something.
Now, I know why this place is called Protein Wisdom.
6 Jeff Goldstein-trained midgets armed with spears and clubs versus Michael Vick’s 43 blood-thirsty bulldogs, 3 5-minute rounds, elevated barbed wire enclosed cage, big breasted women holding numbered cue cards between rounds, no referee, even Vegas odds and a jack-booted horde of gin-chugging, zoot-suited screamers wagering last month’s rent – blood sports, blood spoors!
For access to that thread and more you need to adjust your IE settings. Tools, Internet Options, Content, Settings, etc..
The dogs won, by the way, but it went down to the barbed wire. The bulldogs bull-rushed the midgets – go figure – and once the midgets got tangled up in the barbed wire the dogs were able to leap high enough to bite the midgets in the upper-body and face, twas relentless. With a running start those freakin’ dogs can really fly, shame if you missed it.
Midgets again? Good Allah.
Jeff,
Man, you have to do something about your inanimate friends.
I was in King Sooper’s yesterday, picking up supplies for supper, had just put a bell pepper in the basket, when I hear this “Pssssst. Hey buddy,†from behind me.
“Oh, no, him again,†says the bell pepper, loud enough for three other people to hear it and assume it was me, which was confusing. The “Psst†had come from the apples so I wandered over. It was the McIntosh.
McI: Yeah, you. You’ve read it. No, he never talks to me anymore because I kept refusing his improper advances. “Hey, I just want to ream out your core and fill you with my raisins, sugar. I mean, with raisins and sugar.†But I caught the slip, which was as Freudian as his cigar – and let me tell you, his cigar is NEVER just a cigar.
Bell Pepper, turning red, which made it useless for the recipe I had in mind: Get over it, will you? You’re not worth it and neither is he, the slut. [N.B. that was the pepper’s remark, not mine, I’m just reporting.]
McI: You got that right. We had a sweet deal: upcoming novelization, movie offer, TV series, commercials, and he ruined it for the both of us. His obsession with his Levi’s and his – well, shall we say, his “private matters†[here the apple started to turn redder, too] has totally corrupted his business sense. The toilet paper always did taunt him, even the radishes could hear it from the fridge, and you know how deaf they are. Between the TP and John Merrick’s ghost he just went over the edge. Not that he didn’t enjoy it, expressing his “needs†every five minutes. It really got out of hand. So to speak.
At that point I noticed a sale in the cookie aisle, so I hastily exited. But, Jeff, that apple really misses you.
T&T
“Consequently, my love life has moved to the shower.”
A friend once referred to that as “fast latherin'”