Edible Scrabble: Where no one can yell at me for telling people to eat shit and die.

Okay, loyal readers, do I need to set you up with the “Can you hear me meow” jokes, or can you handle them all by yourself? (rimshot!)

Also, if you’re the kind of person who buys a cat case, I have a feeling you spend a lot of time at iHome. (buh duh bum ting!)

Please take these terrible jokes as proof that this has been the week from hell.

You nerds better get some of these hand-stitched Vulcan oven mitts. I would hate for you to be reaching for a roast and accidentally burn the only woman you’ve ever loved.

Pixel oven mitts. So you can dunk straight-outta-the-oven hot wings in tangy blue cheese dpi.

via He’s not British, he’s just Pablo!

As a fledgeling Arch Villain here at Nemesis University, goal numero uno is to seize the moon and somehow befoul it to the detriment of humanity. Why? If you have time to question me, you have time to give me 50 evil cat-sidekick curls. Now! Of course, if you’re a lazy sack of crap who’ll never amount to more than a third-rate Dr. Evil, you may as well go with the Cliff’s Notes version – the Illuminated Remote Control Moon. Bend it to your every evil whim. Bwa ha ha ha ha. So long as said evil whim is just to remote control a fake moon.

You know why they had to write “Carl’s Beer” on this shirt? To distract Carl from the obvious alternative use of these multi-pockets. You know, for pocket fondling his schlong and gongs. His willie and wonkas. His frank and beans. His sausage and biscuits. His kirk and tribbles. His poke and emons. His dingle and danglers. His tamale and empanadas. His ping and pongs. His meat and potatoes.  His tardis and companions. His R and two D2s. His chicken and dumplings. His snake and gerbils. His sock and rocks. His tree and ornaments. His merry and go-rounds. His dave and lettermen. His cone and o’briens. His castle and grayskulls. His top hat and monocles. His raccoon and trashcans. I can do this all day. And – bonus – at that angle, the jizz will definitely shoot directly into your eye.

If that’s the size of your pad, remind me never to borrow a tampon.

Better to fog your spectacles than flog your testicles, amiright?

Eh, fuck you. It’s Friday and I have a brand new house to decorate. Catch you drips on the flip!

No sir! This creepy beast freaked me out as a kid and now it’s back to haunt my fucking days. Oh sorry, your Facebook page was up… What are we talking about? This adorable felted Falkor? Aww, he’s sooooo cute.

One night in the summer of 2006, I spent many hours drinking on a beach in Cannes, France with the guy who did the laughs for both Beavis and Butthead. The experience was incredibly odd, as he was totally normal in every way, but then I’d say something unbelievably witty – naturally – and a hybrid Beavis/Butthead laugh would come out. Also that night, I was asked on a date by a very sweaty dancing man with Alopecia, shortly before making out with a German guy with blonde dreadlocks.

And these, my friends, are some of the many reasons you should get into advertising: free 10-day trips to French Riviera, the meeting of D-minus-list celebrities, dance parties that resemble an episode of True Life, horrible champagne-goggle decision making of the Aryan-nation-cum-Reggaeton variety, and the audacity to start a blog solely for the sake of talking about these things. Also, these dudes are terrifying, no?

via that Bunghole, Alan McCoy