Colfax McLiverneck

What’s up, extruded phallic emulsion of mechanically separated pork & chicken meat, high-fructose corn syrup, water, salt, and sodium nitrate?

The only podcast to hold an Honorary Doctorate in Scatology from The University of Shartford-on-Poopshire

It seems that we’re up shit creek without a paddle. Thankfully we have this outboard motor designed for optimal performance in semi-liquid feces!

I’m gonna shit my pants at your party tonight —”shit” being birthday cake and “pants” being my belly

Show us your fun bags! And by that, we mean please send photos of your whimsically-crafted reusable organic burlap shopping totes.

Today we pledge to conduct ourselves with the same willful ignorance of your mother when she asks “What in tarnation is a podcast?”

It may not be that kind of show, but what if it was? Or is it “what if it were?” Was? Were? Guess what—NO ONE CARES, GRAMMAR

Recipient of www.thewebsiteaboutpodcastsbeforepodcastsexisted.com’s 1997 “Best Comedy Podcast, Whatever That Is” Award

Recognized by Cat Fancy Magazine as “The Podcast Cats Love to Hate While Licking Their Own Buttholes”

I’m triggered by any mention of Roy Rogers’ horse.

Me and Lonny Cornteeth noodlin’ hairfrogs down at Swampford’s Ditch

If life gives you lemons, then maybe you fucking deserve lemons, you piece of shit.

Winner of JD Power’s 2018 "Best Non-Mechanical-Engineering-Themed Podcast" Award

Morphologically similar to Homo habilis, 2.2 million-year-old Heynong man remains have been found in the very act of slaying Neandertang.

Here at Comedy Bang Bang, we focus on the Five Ws of podcasting: Whodat? Whynong, man? Why should I allow it? Whaaaa? and Thefuckyousay?

All these un-nonged heys are bringin’ me down, funny man.

If life gives you lemons, make a cold, refreshing drink to counteract the creeping sadness of your miserable and unremarkable existence.

I’m Bob Wayne Pantsdragger, and I approve of this messenger bag full of creamed corn.

Braised sweet hominy on a cushion of stone-ground polenta with flash-fried maize sprouts? ‘Tis a corn-summation devoutly to be wished

I have a pneumonic device for remembering how to inflate my air mattress.

Are we mere specks in an infinite, uncaring universe, or does the universe exist inside each of our God-like, stinky buttholes?

Phrase, caught. Line, tagged. Chute, lubed. Tea, bagged.

This is the show where we balk at ingratiating D-holes.

I’m rubber and you’re Borg—whatever you say bounces off of me and assimilates into you.

Dammit, Jim! I’m a butt doctor, not a buttHOLE doctor!