NBA All-Star Weekend 1883 is Hoop Heaven

It’s impossible to reference churning butter without it becoming sexual. Unless you actually churn butter for a living– then you probably hate to stroke weiners after work. Or maybe you’re the dong-tug master? I’m really confused.

My feet are so small they barely emerge from the bottom of my pant leg. Or maybe my pants are so big my feet can’t escape? I bet if I wore clown shoes and leather pants, life would be way different.

When the Earl of Sandwich fights Mayor McCheese in a battle of bread and meat – I will be there to clean up the remains.

Today, I saw a couple of TVs and a VCR on the side of the road, each with a sign that read, “Free! Does Not Work!” At the end of these objects was a hobo with no pants on wearing the same sign. One of these statements is not true. There was no VCR.

After years of wearing boxer shorts I’m beginning to think my balls are going to eventually droop down like the boobs of a bra-less old hippie woman. I really don’t want to wear tighty whiteys or boxer briefs but the alternative might be having African Bushman boobs for balls.

Boobs For Balls should be the name of an organization. I’m not sure what they do – but I’m eager to volunteer. Even if it didn’t have to do with actual boobs it would still be cool. Maybe you trade in old golf balls and get a free chicken breast? See? Brilliant.

I met a girl recently who said we couldn’t be together because she only dates Italians – which is totally fine because she’s Chippewa and I only date full-blooded Cherokee.

I was sad when the only black guy at work got fired but now we get to listen to gangsta rap without all that awkward white guilt. Ass and titties! ASS ASS N’ TITTIES! Sorry, Lem.