Did you know that the president of Toyota is named Toyoda? Whoa.

by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

‘Sup, bitches? I guess Lord Eddie has finally crawled out from under his rock long enough to take offense at the righteous smackdown I laid on his liver-spotted ass. Well witness the quickness as I dish this, and lay down a dis track with lyrics so fresh they be still bleeding.

So some of you might know about Lord Eddie’s “estate”, which is what he calls that POS McMansion near the train tracks and the hobo graveyard. Well, a few years back, I heard he was having some trouble with undesirables in the neighbourhood and, unlike a proper gentlemen, didn’t have the balls to dish out some justice by himself.

You see, a real man can deal with that shit himself. You set one foot on Reggie’s lawn, you get a cap busted in yo’ punk ass. Or else you’ll get a curb-stomping as a warning, but either way you can bet no fucker crosses the Phlegmer a second time. But most of the time, troublemakers know to stay clear. It’s because of the ‘burns, you know what I’m saying? Same reason you don’t tangle with Wolverine. Straight up.

Anyway, Lord Eddie Pissinghimself doesn’t know how to throw down with punks, so he paid someone to dig him a goddamn moat around his house! That is messed up! What did he expect, that marauding Huns would be repelled by his kick-ass medieval defences? What next, Eddie? Are you gonna keep cauldrons of boiling oil on your ramparts? Fuckin n00b.

Well, as anyone who hasn’t killed off their braincells by smearing Bryllcrap on their heads could have predicted, the moat didn’t work. The transients discovered that it was a good place to bathe and swim, and so it turned out that Eddie just ended up attracting more of them. A good curb-stomp would have set them right in a jiff, but Eddie had to go and create a fucking swimming hole for every hobo who stumbles out of the local LC.

Soon enough, some tramp had one too many Thunderbirds and ended up floating tits down in the moat. Quite the embarrassment, so Eddie panics, and figures that he needs to do something to keep the ‘bos from hanging around the water. Hey, the local poultry farm has truckloads of chicken shit, right? Half goes into the moat, half goes into Brylcreem Ultra. Problem solved!

Thing is, Eddie and ‘Dwina must have lost their sense of smell after one too many coke parties in the ’80s or something, cuz… Damn. That moat is nasty!

by Daniella A. Apple, Concerned Citizen of Humanity

On Friday I watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympic “Games” in British Empire Columbia. Normally I don’t watch things like this because the Highway 274 overpass doesn’t get good TV reception or electricity. But on Friday I was at the Denny’s on Fertilizer Runoff Lane and they had a TV on that showed everything. Normally I wouldn’t watch but this time I figured I would take a chance that I could keep my mind from being controlled if I kept my good eye mostly closed during the commercials.

I did not like what I saw. First of all, I thought it was a grave insult to the Native Aboriginal Indians that the “Games” are being held on their sacred burial grounds! If all of those athletes go home with voodoo curses on them, who will be laughing then? The Corporations, that’s who. When the Corporationist athlete sheeple were herded in they forced a bunch of Native Aboriginal Indians to dance and play drums and things but they never once addressed the deep shame of the World’s treatment of those Indiana Aborigine Natives. Funny. I thought Canada was “the land of the free and the home of the brave”, not the place that makes Native Aborginals dance on their sacred grave sites for Brian Williams.

Also where were the people representing the gay and lesbian nations? They should have danced too. Ashley McIssac does not count. Sometimes in parades there are whole gay floats. Funny. The Olympics are supposed to be about the oppressed peoples of the world, so where was the gay float at the opening ceremonies? Where were the gay and lesbian Aboriginal  Indian Natives? And transsexuals? I know where they are. In prisons run by Monsanto.

And the other thing that made me mad was the guy they got to carry the Torch at the end and drive in the pickup truck. I don’t know who he is but I do know that it should have been Tommy Douglas, or else Wayne Gretzky.

The only part I liked was the slam poet because he looks like a boy I had a crush on in high school. He never shaved either.

by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem

Owing to my recent travels, during which the lovely, though lamentably rather old, Lady Edwina and I excursed through may exotic lands of delicate beauty and colourful locals of a distinctly destitute disposition, which disposition I am happy to inform you was not one iota ameliorated by any largess on behalf of myself or, indeed, Lady Edwina, or, indeed, our many servants, I have not been afforded the time to peruse the electronic communication media with which I connect to my many followers, well-wishers, and miscellaneous hangers on. Quite right. Yes, well, hmm.

So one can imagine my surprise, not to say shock, when, upon my wholly triumphant return from the savage lands overseas, and upon my efforts to share with you all my pearls of wisdom vis a vis the retrograde Nordic lands and their many shortcomings, owing as they are to a surfeit of inbreeding and sodomic activities involving ungulates of a wholly antleric nature, not to say reindeer-buggering, that, evidently during my prolonged absence, this portion of the Internet, which hitherto had been rather a haven for intelligent discourse and especial erudition, with the notable exception of one aforementioned elk-violator named Ingvar, and, if I am being wholly honest, which I feel I must, hurtful though it may be, the additional presence of one Daniella A. Apple, who is as lacking in intelligence and sanity as she is in the customary skills of personal hygiene, had become host to a brigand in the form of Sir Reginald Phlegminham, my eternal nemesis and onetime rival for the affections of the once beautiful, but now exceptionally old, Lady Edwina.

Sir Reginald, if I am compelled, as I regrettably am, to use his proper honorific, though I must pause here to mention briefly that his membership in the peerage fair soils the integrity of the institution, was a longtime friend, not to say bosom companion, of my erstwhile nemesis, Lord Beaverbrook.

I trust it rather goes without saying, though naturally I shall herein explicate for those readers of insufficient wits to comprehend the subtextual information, that Sir Reginald almost certainly shared his chum’s predilection toward romantic entanglements of the ovine sort, not to say fondness for sheep-fucking. It further goes without saying, though say it I most emphatically shall, that Sir Reginald is a most untrustworthy sort, except as the case may be that he possesses distinctly proprietary carnal knowledge of wool-bearing livestock, on which topic we may afford him a modicum of trustworthiness, if for no other reason than a singular lack of desire to investigate said knowledge further.

So, one must undoubtedly recognize that Sir Reginald’s scurrilous slanders vis a vis myself, my illustrious invention, Brylcreem, Lady Edwina (old though she is), etc., originate from a person of extraordinarily dubious honesty. Furthermore, and nevertheless, and possibly hitherto, one can safely, not to say trivially, dismiss anything that emits from Sir Reginald’s sheep-fellating cake-hole.

With especial regard to Sir Reginald’s libelous statements regarding the secret formula of Brylcreem, I trust the intelligent reader to have already disregarded his misleading and altogether uninformed speculations as regards elephant semen, as anyone who has attempted to procure said procreative fluid in quantity will no doubt testify to the commercial inviability of the endeavour, for which reason we typically use sea lions.

To summarize: Sir Reginald is a filthy liar who beds sheep. Yes, right, well, hmm.

by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem

The sudden appearance on this very Internet site of news and commentary, not to say erudition, of one Ingvar Jævel, a foreign national of Norwegian origins, or so he would lead us to believe, provides me with the welcome opportunity to hold forth on a subject of grave importance to me, given my strong moral character and not unrelated fondness for asserting my moral superiority in such a manner as I see fit at any given place and time. Right, of course.

Now, if you will allow me a modicum of artistic license in service to the argument I am about to make, by which allowance I hope to convey the particular strength of feeling I harbour toward the subject at hand, I wish to begin by using terminology which may be altogether too strong, not to say shocking, to those among you of more a more sensitive, or, more particularly, feminine nature, in which case I must forcefully suggest you cease reading this missive before I reach the point where I employ the word “fuck”, I offer my most considered and, as I shall explained, well informed opinion that Scandanavians, and in particular those of a Norwegianic persuasion, are fishmongering shit-arses. Yes, quite, hmm.

Now, my assertion, shocking though it may be, particularly if you are unaccustomed to such frank discourse, is of course based upon a wealth of personal experience and, naturally, rather exuberant predjudice. For you see, I, among my many adventures and expeditions, once visited Lapland and the other environs…

Wait, what is this?

…

What the Dickens?

WHA! WHAT!?!?!

PHLEGMINGHAM?

PHLEGMINGHAAAAAAAAM!?!?!

PHLEGMINGHAAAAAAAAM!!!!!

Seems old Rex down there is shitting the bed when it comes to hosting an Open Thread. Shouldn’t surprise anyone, really. When Pascual Perez thinks your shit is messed up, your shit is really messed up.

In my day ballplayers knew the value of a well groomed copse of jawline mane. They also beaned each other like it was their primary means of non-verbal communication. In other words, real men. The most common injury was from tripping over their own enormous nut sacks.

Nowadays ballplayers are peach-fuzz wearing pussies who don’t understand anything that doesn’t give them a reacharound, you dig?

Aw, I shouldn’t be too hard on ol’ Sexy Rexy, I guess. At least he doesn’t smear Bryllcrap in his hair. I don’t think he does, anyway.

Oh, fun fact for you? Otis Nixon’s face? He thought Brylcreem was a facial scrub. That’s all I’m sayin’.

by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

So it’s now almost a month into the new year, and still not a peep from my so-called rival, Lord Edmund Bryll. What is it, Eddie? Too scared to show your face? Hiding out in that skank-infested rub-n-tug place you call a “Gentleman’s Club”? You make me sick.

Let me break it down for you in a way you’ll understand. I am the man. You are not. It’s fucking obvious. Just look at me! I’m throwing close to two inches of glorious cheek wool out there for the whole world to see, and there isn’t a drip of fucking elephant jizz anywhere in the picture. All natural baby, cuz that’s how Reggie rolls that motherfucker.

LLRP. You know it. Ladies Love Reggie P. It’s a fact, and the sooner you come to grips with it, the sooner you can cry it out of your system, Eddie.

Say hi to ‘Dwina for me the next time you stumble home from the Hobo Palace or whatever the fuck you call it. She’ll remember the Phlegmer. Who wouldn’t?

Peace.

Bullshit. One look at that elegant, swanlike neck of his should have been enough to dispel those scurrilous rumours once and for all.

Also, Pete Rose was innocent as the driven snow. The pure, white, betting on baseball and tax-avosion driven snow.

p.s., the last couple of times I mentioned McGwire’s tendency to stuff needles into his butt, somebody in the comments took me to task for not adhering to the principle of “innocent until proven guilty”. I trust that I am now free to mock. Which is good, ‘cuz I’m not great with principles.