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You must be the one they call The Orifice. -Yes.
The infinite knowledge of The Orifice is what you seek.
An inquiry is in order, my fellow mortal friend. -Wow.
Your voice is *** irritating.
What do you know about Joey Fatone?
I beg your pardon?
Joey Fatone.
What do you know about him?
Um... I... don't know Joey Fatone personally
I just know he's the fat one from 'N Sync.
Coincidentally, if you put a space in the middle of his last name
it literally spells out
"fat one." -Joey Fatone ain't fat.
Yo momma's fat. -Okay,
let's get something straight.
My mom is dead.
So I hope that makes you feel like a complete *** for saying that. -It don't
change a thing.
Actually, it does.
She wasn't fat as of the time of her death when she got shot while
para-sailing, so your insult is completely without merit. -I stand by what
I say.
every word of it. -Okay, that's... great.
Now I'm severely depressed.
Thank you.
What do you know about Joey Fatone?
I don't know a god damn thing about Joey Fatone.
Like, seriously.
If you're gonna have a man crush on a member of 'N Sync,
why wouldn't you at least pick the gay one?
I'm not gay, sucka.
Maybe you don't understand the question I'm framing for your honkey ***. -Jesus
*** Christ.
I am so confused right now. -I'm just playin', Mr. Shocker.
You should have seen the look on your funny white face.
Oh, thank God.
Muffin Girl warned me that you speak in riddles sometimes,
but for a minute,
I felt like I accidentally struck up a conversation with a random crackhead.
That happens to me a lot, it turns out. -Pat Morita died in the arms of the
pulsating wendigo whistle.
Rock lobster. Rock lobster.
Here it comes...
One two, one two. Check my *** for leaks. I menstrate like the
Greeks. A Sadie Hawkins smile rides jaundiced by the mile. Grandpa can't sit down
because he's got dicks on his knees, dicks on his knees. Grandpa can't sit down
because he's got dicks on his knees. Might as well be getting *** by Christopher
Reeves. He's got dicks up his sleeves. My black heart grieves. Busta busta busta. Be-
bop be-bop be-bop. ***' totes be the weather. Let me squat like Heather.
*** is a last resort for Klingon malfeasance as documented by
the late great Jean-Luc Picard, a sound board for our fledgling generation of
full frontal *** and other displays of carnal Barbara.
What the *** do you even expect me to say to that?
Am I supposed to say something smart?
Now your stupid costume makes sense,
because whenever you open your annoying *** face,
diarrhea seems to pour out of it. -Diarrhea is the universal language of
mortal men.
Also,
during your little speech or rap or whatever the *** that was, I didn't
appreciate you bringing up the death of Pat Morita.
Quite frankly,
it's too soon.
Just around the time I finally began to get over his death, they released that
*** God-awful Karate Kid movie with Jackie Chan as the sensei to that stupid
*** of a kid played by Will Smith's son,
whatever the *** his name was,
I don't care.
That ridonculous piece of cinematic feces resurrected my grief for the loss
of Pat Morita and yet again sent me spiralling into a hopeless depression.
So congratulations for somehow finding two sore subjects within the span of
three minutes to put me in a completely *** mood.
The barracuda in my pants beckons to the bastion of whabber whabber that is
your face. -Okay, you obviously don't give a *** about anything I'm saying,
so I don't know why I'm even trying.
W.T.F.?
Why not just say "what the ***" like a normal person?
The irony of you saying "WTF" as short form is that it actually takes more syllables
to say than just saying the phrase
"what the ***?"
That's just simple phonics, you ignorant ***.
Ignorance and mockery will be the death of our race.
How about you say that a little louder, dumb ***,
so your own god damn ears can hear what what you're saying.
Maybe if you followed your own *** advice,
you would be a halfway decent human being. -Recall your original purpose and restate
your query.
Sadly,
I was told by Muffin Girl that you would be a worthy dispenser of sage wisdom and
other-worldly advice.
I was recently violated by Dr. Grenade and am grieving the untimely death of
Bronson Pinchot, so I was seeking some guidance in my increasingly miserable
life.
It would appear that stupid *** pointed me in the wrong direction.
Either you are not the same Orifice as she was referring to, or you are just an
awful human being and a disgrace to your dumb *** suit.
There isn't enough toilet paper in the world to clean up the verbal *** you
just puked out of your mouth a minute ago.
Maggots, maggots, on the floor.
This here heathen just opened the door. One two, one two. Here we go again. Jack
hammer ***, you have stained Lady Liberty.
Why, oh why, the brown waterworks of Christ... -Okay,
I'm gonna have to stop you right there, because I feel my ears beginning
to shrivel off the side of my god damn head and can't take anymore of your
shrill unintelligible beat-boxing *** soliloquies that are raping
the living *** out of my brain.
I was going to wait until the next stop to get off this train, but I am pretty
sure I'm just gonna cut my losses and throw myself out the emergency window
prematurely.
Whatever the hospital bills amount to,
they will be completely worth it.
I apologize if your behavior is the result of autism, down syndrome,
asperger's, shaken baby syndrome,
or some other crippling mental illness that may or may not be the result of
being dropped on your head repeatedly as a helpless child.
But the truth is this conversation has been pretty *** dreadful,
and I think I would rather *** while wearing gloves made of steel wool
rather than listen to you speak another minute.
I'm seriously wording that as nicely as possible,
which is really sad.
What do you know about Joey Fatone?
*** my stupid face.