I knew that stable hand who kept twirling his handlebar mustache and melting my clocks was suspicious. That’s the last time I let Dali groom my pony. Ha ha. Ha? Does anyone remember how awesome it was to read Black Beauty?

I’ve always preferred Old Testament God over New Testament God. Smite makes right, I always say.  But that was before I discovered New New Testament God. He’s not a vengeful God or a forgiving God. He’s a fucking bat-shit crazy God. No, no. This chef isn’t the Antichrist. Ronald McDonald still has that gig covered. Look at the lower right corner. That’s breast-milk cheese, the latest greatest thing in New New Testament God’s creation (i.e. Brooklyn). And don’t worry, according to this NYP article, it tastes pretty much like cow cheese. So, you know, the benefits are obvious. Don’t question New New God’s wisdom! Or the way he applied those almond slivers to that cheese ball. His cheese balling is beyond reproach. Amen.

Via Buzzfeed, The All-Knowing.

Dateline, My Butt. The Chilean earthquake altered the axis of the Earth and  slowed time. But, breaking news, the value of a picture has changed and brought world-wide financial markets to a standstill. The picture-to-word ratio has plummeted from 1:1000 down to 1:140 over the course of the time it took someone to create The Museum of Tweets. No, not 140 words. But 140 characters.

That’s right. Filling your 401k with the scribbled drawings of  your toddlers was a bad move, as was allowing your employer to pay you in doodled-up napkins. You should have taken the empty gum wrappers and chewed shoelace ends like I did. Now if you’ll pardon my running off, I have a money-diving appointment with Scrooge MacDuck over in the natatorium.

If my under things turned into adorable, wayward sea creatures like in this illustration by Agata Nowicka,  that would be a pretty great day. Except that I would have no underwear and I think they might clog up my shower drain. I wonder if that big red one used to be her period panties?

I thought the secret to amateur porn stardom was having a rack or dick of freakish proportions, completely lacking any moral hang-ups, and putting aside your repulsion for unsavory, hairy pot-bellied men and/or women with frizzy perms and ingrown shave jobs.

Little did I know the actual secret is a willingness to digitally print your ceramic tiles. Gorgeous, isn’t it? Seriously, for every fifty tiles you order, they should throw in a free latex buttplug.

If we were in England I’d tell you to be the belle of the bloody ball. But since we’re not I’ll just point out that this chandelier doesn’t come with any applicators. Which means you can stick your hand way up in it. And sure, it might feel a little funny at first, but remember, it’s your chandelier. Finger it.

via The World’s Best Ever

Guess what I don’t need? Another pink sphincter on my wall. But I could use some body paint remover. Seriously. My taint looks like cotton candy.

When thinking of screenprinting a Franklin Mint plate, most people would probably have gone with “I love cheesecake,” or “I love cherry pie.” But Carrie Reichardt loves Satan, which is why I love Carrie Reichardt. You can tell because I’m standing outside her bedroom window right now, lighting incense and singing hymns to myself in tongues while I take pictures of her sleeping.

via Stephanie “Fist Pump” Fisher

I desperately want the Candelier: a chandelier made of fifty pounds of gummy bears. The price is available upon request, but I can only assume that it costs a billion dollars. Maybe some of that is hush money, so they don’t write in your obituary that you died from a severe case of simultaneous electrocution and constipation. They’ll say it was something way less embarrassing, like Toxic Shock Syndrome.

this is a space holder and also a space cowboy

via Swiss-Miss

Yes, the tattooed old man doing the macarena is kinda scary. And sure, the half-toad, half-boy with a dash of Gene Simmons thrown in freaks me out. But the creepiest thing about this Night For Modern Living nightlight (besides its name) is that Freak Boy’s head is totally a penis. Don’t fret, you poor, terrifying bastard. I’ve found your dad!