Oooo . . . that explains the smell. Sorry, Santa!
Okay Betty, I cleaned your stack…!
Mom! If you don’t turn up the gas, I’m tying a noose!
…and if I do this, I get part of the Mega Millions jackpot?
Noah! I want you to build a boat that can fit EVERYBODY! When Spring comes we’re all going to head down to the Caribbean! It’ll be wild man! We can be total ANIMALS!
Well, here’s the problem: It’s full of reindeer crap.
Why am I thinking about Veronica?
I think its time we staged an intervention for Jughead and his auto-erotic asphyxiation addiction…
“Now I know what Ronnie’s gynecologist is like!”
Sorry about the obvious joke . . . if there was a hacksaw present, there would be something reminiscent of a Robot Chicken bit, which (sadly) I cannot seem to find at the moment.
“Funny story, Betty, but my house is actually NEXT door…now, Betty, don’t pick up that burning log, I’m coming to get you…”
“Okay, if I turn around and the sky is blue, these fumes aren’t hallucinogenic and Jughead gets off scott-free!”
Hey Santa! It’s Giuliani time!
“AAAAGH!!!!… IT’S GOT M-MY FACE… IT’S G-GOT… M-M-MY…. F-F-AAAAACE………”
This doesn’t taste like gingerbread at all.
“I’m still not sure that ‘Phoebe Cates is playing your daughter’ is a good reason to do this…”
THE ARCHIE BEAST HAS COME FOR YOUR SOULS, CHILDREN. PRAYERS TO YOUR DEAD SANTA WILL DO NOTHING TO STOP ME.
Fuck. I just killed Tim Allen.
I’ll never get this right in time for the show, is it “Round the chimney” next or is it back to “Never need a reason, never need a rhyme?”
I’ve caught you at last, house.
“And you’ll stay down there ’till you die!”
“Productiveness is your acceptance of morality, your recognition of the fact that you choose to live-that productive work is the process by which man’s consciousness controls his existence, a constant process of acquiring knowledge and shaping matter to fit one’s purpose, of translating an idea into physical form, of remaking the earth in the image of one’s values-that all work is creative work if done by a thinking mind, and no work is creative if done by a blank who repeats in uncritical stupor a routine he has learned from others- that your work is yours to choose, and the choice is as wide as your mind, that nothing more is possible to you and nothing less is human-that to cheat your way into a job bigger than your mind can handle is to become a fear-corroded ape on borrowed motions and borrowed time, and to settle down into a job that requires less than your mind’s full capacity is to cut your motor and sentence yourself to another kind of motion: decay-that your work is the process of achieving your values, and to lose your ambition for values is to lose your ambition to live-that your body is a machine, but your mind is its driver, and you must drive as far as your mind will take you, with achievement as the goal of your road-that the man who has no purpose is a machine that coasts downhill at the mercy of any boulder to crash in the first chance ditch, that the man who stifles his mind is a stalled machine slowly going to rust, that the man who lets a leader prescribe his course is a wreck being towed to the scrap heap, and the man who makes another man his goal is a hitchhiker no driver should ever pick up-that your work is the purpose of your life, and you must speed past any killer who assumes the right to stop you, that any value you might find outside your work, any other loyalty or love, can be only travelers you choose to share your journey and must be travelers going on their own power in the same direction.”
Dammit, Archie! Stop shouting Ayn Rand passages into people’s houses!
MGK, I have taken this idea into my classroom:
Third grade genius FTW.
“…..Christ, what an asshole!”
(somebody hadda say it..)
“Wow, when Reggie invited me over to lick the soot off his chimney, this is NOT what I imagined!
… because what I imagined was that Reggie had taken Jughead from behind and he wanted me to orally remove the feces from his engorged man-wood.”
“J-just saw W-weatherbee go d-down on Mrs G-grundy…. BBLLLOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Stay inside, gang! The icing sugar fallout from Dilton’s candyland bomb is real thick!”
Well, I’ll huff and I’ll puff…
“WAAH~CHOO!” “Sorry, just caught the flue.”
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