Colfax McLiverneck

A rolling stone gathers no moss, but the Rolling Stones get that mossy skunky stanky yo-fanky.

In the beginning was the Corn, and the Corn was with God, and the Corn was God.

"Kill Us All" is the finest accomplishment of musical improv since the Bunyon Sisters debuted their smash hit "Nibble O' My Cob" in the 1933 Archibald County Fair! Bravo, kiddos. Bravissimo! Molto bravito!! Bravomegalegawowza!!!

She sells B-sharp-shells down by the B-sharp-shore.

The Tale of the Unpopular Wizard? More like The Smell of the Corntacular Fart-Turd.

Trigger warning—Roy Rogers’ horse is dead.

Never ask how the creamed corn is made.

I got a problem locating my cattle in the fog, and the only prescription is more cowbells.

Ennis Lundquist the insidious polygamist failed to resist the mysterious misses’ kisses and mistakenly whisked his catfishing sis into incestuous marital bliss.

I came all the way here to chew bubblegum—and now you tell me that there’s no bubblegum? This makes me VERY angry. So angry, in fact, that I think I’ll kick some ass!

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

Pie nipples. Why not? Why. Not.

What fuck, loud duck?

A kernel in the hand is worth an ear in the bush.

You ain’t nuthin’ but an anthropomorphized perpetually lachrymose canid.

I said a clip, a clop, a clippy to the clop, I’m a migratory swallow and I don’t stop.

I was pro-tractor until my father the corn farmer was run over and killed in his field by a giant cheap plastic angle-measuring device.

Yes, I’ll have the Lint-Draped Corn Loaf with Creamed Shrimp and Limestone Gelato Cubes on a bed of Wind-Crisped Winter Median Grass.

What’s up, emulsified cylindrical extrusion of mechanically separated pork & chicken meat, high-fructose corn syrup, water, salt, and sodium nitrate?

I like my smooth jazz like I like my corn—canned, in a dim stairwell at 4 a.m.

There be a corn-pebbled grump-rumbler a-comin, and you be in the catcher’s crouch, Mr. Mittencheeks.

We bear no ear well, but do trail fart smell.

Beware ye o’ the wilde bewildebeast, which doth wander wackily and uncraftily ‘midst these very halls.

Coming up next, the Cynical Puppeteering Podcast with Mark Maronionette.

Cornburglar™