Colfax McLiverneck

Kiz-nash me out sliz-nide, biz-natches.

Hello, 911? I drank weed killer. Also, I’m a dandelion. No, a big fancy African cat.

People who live in glass houses should move to regular houses so they can throw stones whenever they want to.

I’ve been listening to Future Islands all day, and I’ve been wondering—do islands in the future have corn? If not, I’m fine right here in the present.

Of all the average bands in the world, the Eagles are the averagest. Welcome to the Hotel Mediocre.

Let me not to the marriage of butter and corn admit impediments—and also corn is not corn without salt.

I normally never venture outside the CBB Catchphrase forum, but this is very wrong. The trilogy is one movie in three parts. To pit them against each other is like pitting Hamlet Act 1 against Hamlet Act 4. And to enter one into your so-called "Canon" without the other two would invalidate the list in its entirety—if that hadn't already been done by the admittance of "There's Something About Mary." Now go have a nice warm, hot buttered ear of fresh spring sweet corn and think about what you've done.

Just watched the Family Guy/Simpsons crossover ep. Meh. I would have called it Springhog.

Flat, my ass. The earth is a homeomorphic coplanar topogram with cross-embedded Cartesian autohedric Gunterblass spaces.

Was your mom raised in a barn? Cause she looks a lot like a horse I used to bang.

Malaka this catchphrase very much.

Smoove C here, baby. Let me be the first to assure you that among all bangin’ ladies I hold you in the highest regard, and that with the stimulating lubicrative effects of this warm creamed corn, the upcoming evening will indeed become a night to remember and one also to be fondly recounted at future bachelorette parties while frolicing with the other sexy mammas. Damn.

Easy guys—I put my pants on one leg at a time, just like you. Except once my pants are on, I write fabulous corn-themed catchphrases.

I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cornbread.

What is your purpose? To pass the ovuliferous inflorescences of transgenic maize. And the butter. You’re welcome.

Welcome to Colfax’s Corn Cob Pipe Emporium, where we don’t sell seashells and we’re nowhere near the seashore.

Well I’m running down the road tryin’ to loosen my load annnnnnnd there it goes. Note to self: no creamed corn before morning run.

You put your left foot in, you pull your left foot out—but as I’ve said before, it’s not that kind of show.

Vernon vends vitamins down in the Valley, visibly violating Vallejo’s vexing vagrancy ban.

We don’t swim in your toilet, so please don’t pee in our pool. What’s that, honey? Oh, right. Soooooo I guess you can pee in our pool after all.

This catchphrase is a play on a play on words, and includes the word “corn” because apparently that’s expected of me.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. But first, take two Q-Tips each and pass the box.

Today’s show is sponsored by Shit Tickets home delivery, an exclusive drone service of Flying Asswipe Inc., a subsidiary of Merde Volante Worldwide.

Scott, I double dog dare you to eat corn on the cob on air. Come on, do it. That’s right. Oh man, that’s it. Chomp it, Auckie boy, yesss.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Kangaroo Randy the Rodeo Clam. Kangaroo Randy who? The Rodeo Clam. Pay attention. And open the damn door.