Colfax McLiverneck

How can you be so obtuse? This appendicitis is acute! And you call yourself a doctor? Would you like a carrot?

I’m onto you like white on rice on a white piece of paper pinned to a white wall with a white tack by a white dude named Willie the White Knight.

I figure that these figurines are figurative, not literally littoral, though the nearby beach would suggest otherwise.

Come in, Billy Yum-Yum Two-by-Two, over. We’ve got a 10-45 behind the Burger King, repeat, a 10-45 behind the Burger King, over.

Spoiler alert! This potato salad is way past its prime.

No, no, no. It was the scene from Footloose with the dancing, not the bean from Toulouse with the gangrene.

Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished and much anticipated by the commoners; however, I am concerned that yo mamma won’t last five minutes in the pit with Commander Whipsnatch the Impaler.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; and thus my pantaloons are yet again replete with a hot load of fear-induced turds.

Once, twice, three times a flaming black groundhog has crossed my path. Begone, thou dark, gay rodent of misfortune!

Let’s all just take a moment here and think about the consequences of dropping a penny off the Empire State Building. Not much, it turns out.

Would it be unhumblebraggadocious for me to point out that my catchphrases are better than all others, even the legendary Shampoodler’s?

It’s smellementary, my dear Snoutson.

I just got off a big fat plane from Iceland, which is as fat as your huge, fat mom is. She’s so fat, she’s as fat as a plane. The fattest of all the moms that are as fat as planes.

There’s a bluebird on my shoulder, and I think it’s about to pinch off a stinky white one.

There once was a man from Savannah/Whose finger resembled a banana/He said with a fidget/As he wiggled his digit/If they kill off Maggie, I swear to GOD I’m moving to Canada

Those who would give up their mac ‘n’ cheese to save room for a little pie deserve neither mac ‘n’ cheese nor pie.

Never judge a book by its cover. Except the book “Die Because I Hate You,” by You. Screw that book. And you too, for that matter.

Perhaps you should try David Coperfield (with one "P") by Edmund Wells.

Sufferin’ succotash, granny, please stop torturing that savory mixture of corn and beans!

Bury me not on the lone prairie—instead, please dismember me and inter the parts throughout several prairies in order to deter the mad prairie scientist Dr. Vaquerostein from constructing an abominable undead cowboy from my remains.

“You’re all hat and no cattle!” said the haberdasher to his non-livestock-owning chapeau.

I schnew I schnould’ve schtaken a left schturn at Schmalbeschqeurque.

Peter Parker plucked a pack of purple peckers, and with sticky hands, sticky hands, climbed a wall so tall.

The Fab Four? More like the Blab Bore...

Sixty sextants smoked six cigarettes in each of their six hands, and, though carnally satiated, soon became lost at sea.