Euripides’ Shorts

Yore momma’s so old.

Your mother is so overweight she makes the figurative literal.

Robotic crushable spiders that can hold dog poop are the new flaming brown paper bags.

You never know you’re low on floss until it’s too late.

Twist and shout, rub one out, down the spout.

Scoot on the ground with your pants pulled down—and that’s how you do the Slug!

Believe me, there’s no shortage of nuts over here—ripped or otherwise!

Someday I’ll own a house with a yard I can piss in without getting arrested. Someday.

And thus we find the dual function of the word “who,” as both rhythmic onomatopoeia of canine verisimilitude and as tireless and timeless interrogative, pressing us to question, among the chaos of primal vocalizations, who really DID let the dogs out?

I might be dumbfounded but it’s hard to say.

Either think you can or think you can’t: either way, no one gives a shit.

Third-rate romance, long Lake Pontchartrain.

I’ll suck your dick for a Klondike Bar.

Either Jennifer Garner has Benjamin Button’s disease or Neutrogena makes some damn fine makeup.

If poops and scoops were salads and soups my dog would never go hungry.

I’m calling winner on this one.

If Seths and Burts were candy and nurts my Blu-ray collection would be a naked QVC Christmas special.

We could all wipe our asses differently and none of us would ever know.

“Everything come out okay?” I asked meinen Vater as he left das W.C.

When you told me she went to town on that donkey, I thought you meant something else.

Stickers shaped like butterscotches work the same as do most crotches: scratch and sniff.

Nefertiti? I hardly know her!

Asparagus fumes Linger since yesterday eve. When will my bane end?

If boobs and butts were candy and nuts I’d be about 90 pounds overweight.

Ska Tockerm anise sack chew Ali arrow bot. The sis Howie’s hounds win is peach pro-graham Aesop dating.