Colfax McLiverneck

I mean, have you EVER seen corn on a sandwich?

Why aren’t corn sandwiches a thing?

I like to see you go, but I love to watch you leave. Because it’s the same thing. I enjoy them both. Now stop looking at me like that and get outta here.

Me and Herbie Buttcorn suckin' milkshakes down at Milton's Fount.

Me and Wormy Kornshack bleepin’ cussers down at Weedford’s Hump.

Me and Hubert Humphrey smokin’ corn silk down at Wartson’s Pond.

Me and Bunkie Twillchaps chuckin’ corn cobs down at Fingster’s Bridge.

When the moon hits your eye like a sentient pizza pie locked in transdimensional battle with the Flying Stinkmouth Nebula of Korlog-19, that’s Rick and a-Morty

Once if by land, twice if by sea, three times if by a lady

This is the way the world ends—not with a bang, but with a bang bang

When the moon hits your eye like an intangible asset incrementally devalued over a defined time period, that’s amore-tization.

Since my baby left me, I’ve found a new place to dwell—in a van down by the cornfield.

So much depends upon the red wheelbarrows on aisle 12 next to the cordless drills—we’ve got to move forty this quarter to make our sales target.

Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, this minor tributary will continue to discharge water at its current level and we can attribute it to divine intervention.

Roses are red, corn is yellow, yo mamma looks like Lou Costello

I am only podcaster to hold an Honorary Doctorate in Scatology from The University of Shartford-on-Poopshire.

If life gives you podcasters named Mark, make Marinade.

There are 1,345 kernels of corn in a can. The Black Death first appeared in Europe in the year 1345. Milton Berle once stayed in Room 1345 of the Belvedere Hotel in Manhattan. Coincidence? I think not.

Craptown ladies sing this song, doo-doo, doo-doo / Craptown ladies pushin’ brown, all the doo doo day

I like my women like I like my beef. Corned.

Chapter the Nineteenth: In Which the Dreadfully Filthy Slasher of Shropshire is Captured in an Immense Vat of Treacle Disguised as a Public Bathing Cistern

We’re running out of time, so we’ll end the show with our final segment—and that’s a little something we call on-air autoerotic asphyxiation.

Shuck on, shuck off.

On the cob, off the cob, get a job or slob my knob

In an effort to synergize our content platforms, curate relevant stakeholder synergy, and optimize SEO funnels, Earwolf will now be known as Cornwolf.