Where
the author tells you of the many things out there that make him want to
become a master thief with an exceptionally large basement to hoard the
myriad material things worth owning and loving.
day. The love of consumption is a shameful yet glorious thing as
evidenced by the many odd and showy collections many of us have in our
homes whether it be things we now regret [my 40 long boxes of comic books I’d part with for a pittance] or the ones we wear as badges of pride [my neatly organized and alphabetized to a “T” DVD collection].
Some folks say that these kinds of material things ruin us and make us
slaves to pop culture and for many it does. For others like myself,
some stuff whether frivolous or not, simply must be gotten. For those
people, I present this new subcolumn.
1. Truth is Otter than Fiction.
It is apparent now that otters are cuter than the genocides in Rwanda. I needed a nudge and that nudge is here ——–>
Otters are known for pretty much one thing: Floating around and cracking shit open with rocks. Adorable. Plus they use tools!
But the big and sad truth about otters is how much other cool shit they do that they get absolutely no credit for. Otters are actually quite advanced astrophysicists. They also can type 120 chitterings a minute. They can build a tree house using only feathers and ejaculate. Do you understand what that means? I didn’t even mention a tree as one of the ingredients they need to make a tree house! They are fantastic accountants. They keep a secret no matter how inflammatory. They can haggle a car salesman down 15% on average. They can rebuild a shattered spine. They can spin a web and catch giraffes in them. They can carry two scrolls in each cheek. They can calculate what your saving throw roll needs to be without batting a gorgeous, cuddly eyelash. They are avid tetherball players. They are enthusiastic lovers and are in heat whenever you need them to be, baby.
Fucking amazing specimens, otters. This is a little ceramic version of one. It has no skills aside from being incredibly cute and somewhat introspective in its expression. Plus, its little feet are together! If you don’t buy it, you might as well have hammered Jesus’ hands to the cross yourself.
Nicky’s Trivia:
- Why does the otter have Burt Reynolds’ face? Scratch that, he wasn’t using it. Burt Reynolds’ face was discarded years ago.
- If someone posts “Furst!” in this page’s talkback I will have to chastise them. He was FLOUNDER, not OTTER.
- Otters invented the harmonica but concede that John Popper owns their ass on it. They also concede that he shed about two-hundred pounds of interesting.
- Otters are known to bend the light to modify their appearance. The average otter is actually fifteen miles long.
- Otters cannot breathe underwater, yet are impossible to drown. It is one of many Otter Paradoxes.
The image to the right is not a recent family photo of the newborn daughter of Romanian folk rock duo 2 Hands Only with her folks nor the remainder of my old industrial arts teacher at the nursery school with a student.
It’s a fucking PILLOW. Shaped like hands. For your child.
You can’t always hold your child and comfort them. It’s too dangerous. It’s difficult to keep your namesake warm and coo gently in its ear as nineteen fish tacos are screaming sideways out your ass as you clutch the sides of the toilet. You know the feeling. When you sit down and scream out of five holes. I’ve had times where I peered into the john and was literally surprised not to see Leo DiCaprio slowly floating downward with that “I’m glad I came on this journey” expression on his face.Back to babies:
These pillows are a Godsend. You can’t whisper sweet nothings to your special something while chairing a clandestine Nazi meeting in your basement. You can’t make sure the little treasure is comfortable if you’re beating the living shit out of his mother. Especially since the woman has those thick arms and a lantern jaw.
So they made a pillow that seemingly recreates the sensation of having Mommy and Daddy’s hands supporting them. You know, if Mommy and Daddy were just hands. I imagine a lot of kids first words in these households being something like “Holy shit, you’re bodied!” or “Why aren’t you less?” or “I wish I never ever turned around.”
Fucked up. Please buy it. If you do, some woman in Malaysia can sew one up and poetically remember when someone she loved was killed by a drunk soldier so she can create a stuffed hand for a family in Phenix City, Alabama.
Nicky’s Trivia:
- The cargo plane with the first batch of these exploded over Texas. You may have read about it.
- This is the fifth product by this company, surpassing the sales of their other products The Penis Behind Your Baby, Fist 4 Underkid, Bloodshot Eyes Around Your Child, and Stuffed Pussy Toddler Igloo.
- Weird Fact: All of these hands have the exact fingerprints of Peter Hyams.
- The secret ingredient that keeps these hands warm around your child is a patent pending chemical that steals blood from the child/host organism and channels it into the hand/reincarnated Gypsy. neat!
- Through the optional USB connection and hydraulic pump, parents can squeeze the child and simulate love from the comfort of the Cayman Islands (internet connection required). They can also squash the daylights out of them, so caution is advised with the 12,000,000 PSI model.
This is a stuffed animal of a dead sperm. I know it’s technically not a stuffed “animal”. It’s a stuffed “thing that comes out of a cock”, but my sources at Gund tell me there’s no real difference in the world of high stakes fur creation.
This is an item created after this company’s Happy Sperm toy sold so well. Reread that and decide if you want to vote for Obama, McCain, or He Who Walks Between The Rows.
I think this is actually a major step for men. If ladies are willing to cuddle at night with an effigy of a living OR DEAD sperm then they should be perfectly content to sleep with about 250,000 – 500,000 more of the real thing.
Nicky’s Trivia- Sperm cannot survive outside of your balls.
- Buy a bunch of these and play Nerf Bukkake!
- Your balls are the ultimate habitat.
- Have I mentioned lately how incredible your nuts are?
- Death, taxes, and your balls. That’s all there is.
If you own this book you need to kill yourself. Kill yourself. Not seek therapy. Kill yourself. Not experience a family intervention. Kill yourself. You need to find a way to remove your body from the world. Kill yourself. God will not help you. Kill yourself. Satan will not help you. Kill yourself. You are a lost person. Kill yourself. There is no room for you in this realm.
Bowling is a fun way to spend a few hours. Throw a hard and round thing towards other things. Watch them crumble. Wear fun shoes. Drink beer and eat thick fries. WHY ARE THEY NEVER THIN? Honestly, half of the fun in bowling is coming up with names to mystify and offend the people in nearby lanes.
“Psssst, Sarah. The guy over there bowling with the beard’s name is Eternal Handshakes.”
“Well Henry, I’m more concerned about that other guy he’s with. Can you believe someone would name their child Faggot Math?”
This is a yearbook devoted to Pro Bowlers. You’ve seen these misanthropes on television before and tried to understand before feeling a sensation akin to Michael Ironside mindwishing your head to implode and explode at roughly the same instant. The photographer hired for this cover image hung up the phone, played nine games of Russian’s Roulette, and then sadly drove to the studio to make art.
The bowlers in the picture (L-R, Squat Gunderson, Poorman’s Strathairn, and Baldy Buttballer) were asked to look tough for this image. They needed motivation. The photographer said “pretend someone stole your crayons”.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”.
Kill yourself.Nicky’s Trivia:
- Those three bowlers are known in some circles as The Witches of Brunswick, if you get my drift…
- These people have forgotten more about boring than you or I will ever know.
- I’d rather be overpowered and killed by newborn children than be featured on the cover of the PBA Yearbook.
- These people, in addition to bowling skills, can nurture the shit out of a bonsai tree. What I’m saying is that they are queer.