Empty

How I feel today.

Luckily, these fine fuckers don't:

That smoke you see? dguzman tells us that it's the residue of warning shots from you-know-who.

And you-know-who has a plan, proclaims jen clark in painful detail. Read the whole series, dammit.

I'm not sure anyone is on more of a roll than distributorcap.

When I grow up, I want to rant just like fairlane and PoliShifter.

But don't you dare use these stupid fucking words, demands dcup, unless you're slicing them into tiny little bits of bloody, quivering flesh.

Dry those tears now that Willard is gone. It'll be alright, for tomcat dissects the toxic sludge that was his withdrawal speech. Wait, you can't cut slime, can you. Well played, wearer of the Magical Underpants!

Parts of the south have experienced some humanity-assisted natural fuckery, and jess tells us very nicely to help out. I'm not telling you nicely: help the fuck out. You too, Chimpy.

Since we're on the subject of stimulating things, Kevin Hayden speaks the truth: it won't stimulate dick. Not even if you provide a month's supply of Bob Dole's favorite drug.

Yet, despite all the blasphemy against decency outlined above, the cunning runt provides the visual evidence that the world is indeed still beautiful, especially in winter.

Oh, and POP's been around for two years now. I feel so young. Let's send her a fruit basket -- no, how about a cake since she likes baking them so much for the incessant birthday celebrating chez Randal. Speaking of celebrating, a dude that some of us know and some of don't, but have most certainly seen leaving Hemingway-esque commentary throughout the series of tubes, has returned home from the sands of Iraq. Welcome home, Wyld.