Over 40 flavors of Awesome!
Home About Comic Rejected Lastest Page

The number 10 is notorious for being involved in literally billions of top, bottom, and even middle ten lists. These lists are always changing randomly because their generation is as random as their “usefulness.” Seriously, I care as much about the top cellular ring tones as I care about the shape of my reader’s anal cavity. The only people who actually actively set their ring tones are the losers who never get any calls. The number ten is a beacon of ignorance, begging would-be writers to fill pages with filth that would otherwise be filled with important advertising telling us which brand of gum would protect us better from bears.

Danger-scale: Dropping a spoon next to a ninja.

The number one-thousand three-hundred and thirty-seven as been passed through society like a supra on the race track.

Even soccer moms use this term now. Seriously, I was in a coffee shop once and these two soccer moms were talking about how “1337” their coffee mugs were at holding ice tea and this ninja, who was trying to grind on his axe, got so pissed off and told those soccer moms off. He was like, "look ladies, I don’t know what garage sale you’re waiting for, but that term is so overused and hackneyed that it doesn’t even have meaning anymore, so stop using it." The ninja then packed up his axe and left without paying his bill.

Danger-scale: Conor induced suicide and nearby bleeding ears. Perhaps some damage to OUR SOOOUULLLL, OUR SOOOUULLL.

One, it is the loneliest number after all and that Bright Eyed son of an astronomer Conor knows it. He “sings" about it in pretty much every song he does. Implanting subliminal messages in his CD’s telling the confused youths of the nation, constantly under pressure from the adults to enjoy life more, to look up to the sky and find the consolations because there is no hope left on Earth! All to fuel his star lust for alien tourism! Pretty soon Conor will have aliens from all over the universe hanging out in our arcades, movie theaters, and the even classy areas not filled with tools. Man, the first alien tourist to take a picture of me at the opera is getting it in the face! I don’t want some big headed, green freak taking a picture of me while I watch some fat chick sing about how she wants to eat pudding in Italian. I HATE ASTRONOMERS, AHH! You’re ruining our planet.

I'll keep you posted on the other numbers. Until then, consider ourselves at a code purple with green lines.