Colfax McLiverneck

What’s butt, hot fog?

There once was a man from Corntucket whose cob was so long he could shuck it

On today’s show, the inventor of Shortaloons—Cornelius Von Mustacheboobs!

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of stale corn meal, I shall fear no weevil.

Chapter the Twenty-Third: In Which the Soothsayer of Cornlingshire Whoopsies Her Rider-Waites in Bungerfold Street and Has an Aural Vision of the Apocalypse in the Form of a Chortle and Two Bangs

Chapter the Twenty-Second: In Which Lord Fillian Mongreith of Underhamfordsmold is Stupefied by the Sudden Appearance of a Previously-Undescended Testicle During an Unseemly Tryst with a Plate of Bangers and Mash

Chapter the Twenty-First: In Which an Obtuse Pol Learned in the Liberal Arts Becomes Enamored with Jacques Derrida and Deconstructs Parliament with a Purloined Excavator

I got this bit straight from the horse’s mouth.

I’m a jack of all trades, but a master of off.

I don’t care what the song says—you will address me as Mr. Pacino. Only Mrs. White gets to call me that.

Corn to the left of me, corn to the right. Here I am. Standing in a corn field.

Some people call me the Space Cowboy, but I was born Cowford Spiceman, Jr.

Today’s show was generated entirely by A.I.—Albert Ingersoll that is, some rando from Wisconsin that we met at Hooters.

I was pro-tractor until my father was crushed by a giant plastic angle-measuring device while trying to plow his cornfield with it.

More like Elf on your mom.

I was working in the lab late one night, when my eyes beheld nary a sight, because it’s too dark to see inside of a dog.

Here at Comedy Bang Bang, we have an Open-Scary-Closet-Door Policy.

Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Maximillian the Corn-Hoarding Dickbag.

Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Stab, stab. Dismember, dismember. Create plausible alibi, create plausible alibi. Say no more, say no more.

I came here to chew bubblegum. This is the Bubblegum Chewery, right?

I did the mash. It was a creamy smash.

I was working at the second smallest Great Lake late one night, when my eyes beheld an Erie sight!

One bang! Two bangs! Ha. Ha. Ha! TWO bangs!

Everybody knows that the early buh-bird gets the worm.

Thus corn science does make cowards of us all, and thus the native kernels of resolution are picked over by a dark murder of crows, and lose the name Nebraskan.