Beating a dead horse, freezing it, and making it a delicious treat!

Since, once again, life is boring and nothing is going on, I'm going to pull from the headlines around the world and comment on them.

In Japan, an exciting thing has happened--a revolution in confectionary delights! Japan, known for harnessing the power of the Playstation, tentacle porn, and karaoke, has developed a delicious new flavor of ice-cream that is sure to sweep the nation.

Japanese ice-cream lovers have swapped traditional flavours such as raspberry ripple for something a little more exotic - horse-flesh.

This is good news for all of the dinosaurs in the world. I know that dinosaurs and horses never coexisted, but I assume if dinosaurs and horses did ever live together, there would have been a lot of horses being eaten by them. Unless dinosaurs were smarter than I'm giving them credit for and they would ride the horses.

The new flavours are being promoted by the Japan Ice-Cream Association which has set up a summer trade fair.

There's a Japan Ice-Cream Association. There are people that exist in Japan whose job it is to decide the fate of the country's ice-cream supply. I guarantee you that they make like a million Japanese moneys a year. I work harder than they do and I don't make nearly as much Japanese moneys.

Here's the part of the article where I make wonderful puns about the ice-cream flavor.

• This ice-cream sure would be good if you're feeling a little hoarse! (read it like "horse" and it is hilarious)
• And that's all I have.

Judging by the lack of comments to my article about retarded ghosts, I can only come to a couple of different conclusions.

1. The only people that read my blog are retarded and, thus, offended by what I wrote.
2. Everybody who normally reads my blog went on a trip to Peru to buy a kidney on the black market and they'd rather not talk about it right now. (This one is most likely)
3. You've all stopped reading because I've fallen in love with making lists on this thing.

I'm really tired and I don't think this article had as much punch as it normally does. I'd say the amount of punch in this article is roughly equivalent to the amount of punch a man would probably give to his wife's stomach upon finding out she's pregnant. You know--just enough to get the job done, but not enough to kill you.

Interesting thought of the day:
The expression, "Everytime a bell rings an angel gets its wings" from the film It's a Wonderful Life was originally written as "Everytime a bell rings an angel gets its wings or a woman decides to try anal for the first time." This was scrapped at the last minute when the director, Frank Capra, decided to ditch the sexually-explicit ending in favor of one that would get a better rating. Jimmy Stewart later added this line in to the film Harvey.

No comments last time so a puppy has died a horrible death. It actually wasn't that horrible, I let him think he was going outside, but instead I threw him in the oven. So, please, comment below about whatever and I'll try to incorporate it into a future entry. Or you can always email me.

Patrick Swayze is a Liar!

While I was doing my daily three-hour meditation today, my mind wandered into the idea of whether or not ghosts actually exist. After an intense three hours, I've decided, and will convince you if you do believe in ghosts, that they do not exist.

There are tons of stories about ghosts. "Ghosts raped me in my sleep." "Ghosts moved around my picture frames and told me to pour gallons of milk all over old people." "Ghosts murdered my wife and her friend out front of my house and threw blood all over my white Ford Bronco." Out of all the stories you've heard of ghosts, you've never heard about retarded ghosts. You never hear about somebody who had an encounter with a ghost that went like this:

"Boooooo! HAHAHAHAHAHA! My pants make chocolate!" The ghost scurries away bumping into walls and giggling.

There are no retarded ghosts! This, in effect, proves that ghosts do not exist. I do, however, have a couple of ways that this could be proved false.

• If I learn that retarded people are immortal.
• If I see a retarded person die and he leaves no body, but simply fades away like a Jedi.
• If somebody can convince me that retarded people are incapable of being ghosts because they are, in fact, not people, but pixies.

These are the only things that would convince me otherwise. Until then, I will continue to believe that either the mentally handicapped are a soulless people, or ghosts don't exist. I do think that it would be great if all retards were immortal because I can just imagine a Highlander-esque kind of battle involving lots of drooling and giant-headedness.

"There can be only one! I bought a pirate! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Interesting thought of the day:
The first raffle was held in 33 A.D. The first prize given out was a $10 Gift Certificate to the Olive Garden. The grand prize? A box of Jesus.

Comment below and convince me that either there are retarded ghosts, or other reasons that it would be acceptable to believe that retarded people can't be ghosts. Or you can email me.

Fuck the troops!

All too often, you hear people on TV or, if you know and interact with people in your normal, daily life, they say things about the war in Iraq and how they are either for or against it. Well, whether Republican or Democrat or some other form of political affiliation (Wigs anyone?), they always have one thing in common. The Republican/Conservative will say something like, "It is our duty to be in Iraq. I support the war and I support our troops." The Democrat/Liberal says something like, "I am completely against the war, but I support our troops." I, for one, can't stand the bipartisanship concerning this aspect of the war and intend to do something about it. That is why I have decided that I do not support the troops. Oh, I said it. I fully support the war, but the troops don't have my intangible, unmeaning support. I would prefer for the war to be fought by robots like in that kick-ass Will Smith movie (The Legend of Baggar Vance). They're all just over there for a vacation if you really think about it. You know, it's all warm and tropical-like. Then, when they come back, people applaud them and thank them for what they've done? I want somebody to applaud me and then send me to college for free after going on vacation for a few years. "Hey, guys, I'm going to go to Florida when I turn eighteen. I'll be over there drinking, partying, and having lots of sex with many vaginas (or, for the females in the armed forces--many vaginas), and when I come back I'll be twenty-one, in the best shape of my life, tan as all hell, and you'll constantly praise me for how great I was. Doesn't anybody else see something wrong with this? I mean, all too often the troops are seen as "heroes" or as having "done something for their country" when all they've really done is get to blow a bunch of stuff up.

I'm going to make up some bumper stickers that say, "I support the war--but fuck the troops." So, if you want to buy some, check back here; I'll have that set up soon.

Being in the Armed Forces is easy, but being a college student who actually has to pay for his own schooling so I can sit there in an air-conditioned building thousands of miles away from ever being shot at, now that's difficult. I'd like to see them try.

Oh yeah! They also get all sorts of awesome free entertainment. Conan O'Brien went over there and entertained the troops. I heard somebody reanimated Bob Hope's body and had him put on a show for them (dead puppets? fucking awesome!). Who puts on a show for me? I mean, sometimes, when I masturbate I pretend that my hand is a tornado and my wiener is Helen Hunt so it's like the mini stage version of Twister, but that's as far as it gets really. One of my balls is Bill Paxton, one of my balls is Cary Elwes, and one of my balls is the cow. That's right. Three balls. Jealous?

I respond to reader comments:
This is a new section of the blog that will hopefully be used more often because it makes writing this thing a whole lot easier.

This one comes from Jimbo the Angry Clown:
Hi Toon! I saw this pictuire and knew that you would enjoy it much more than anyone else I know.

http://www.nata2.info/humor/pictures/godkills.jpg

Now, first of all, we see that he calls the item he linked to a "pictuire." Some of you may think that this is a misspelling, but I happen to know Jim in real life and know that he is, in fact, severely retarded. It's pretty messed up of you to point out his misspellings. It's okay, Jim, you still get two Fruit Roll-Ups for lunch.

Secondly, as you can tell, the picture has been filed at that website under the humor folder so it's meant as a joke. However, I happen to know that it is 100% true that every time a person masturbates God kills a kitten. I'll even quote the bible:

He who doth covet thyself will have the blood of a feline on his hands. And, remember, this is me, God saying this, so I don't mean that in some sick way as a sexual lubricant. I mean that I will fucking kill a kitten. I won't just snap my fingers and kill it, either, even though I could. No. I will put on my kitten-smashing boots and jump into a laundry basket filled with kittens. Also, I weigh a good 200 tons, so that's some fucking dead kitten. So don't touch yourself; I fucking mean it.

--Shaquille 1:87

It's weird how he starts off all authorial and old-schooly, but then he drops some F-bombs. At least he knows how to properly use a semicolon.

Thanks for the contributions. I'll be using you all in the future to make my life easier.

Comment below and be made fun of until you cry yourself to sleep like the crybaby you are or email me.

Crap in the Cup

Just a couple of minutes ago, I was drinking a big old glass of hearty American milk. You know it's American milk and not German because it knows it's white and good, but it doesn't go bragging about it or killing Jewish people. Anyway, as I was drinking it out of my blue tupperware cup, I got near the bottom and found that there was something in the bottom of the cup. It was some mucuous-like substance that was nestled in the bottom corner of that cup. I can't tell whether it was already white before I began drinking from the glass or if it turned white by growing up in Montana.

Many things go through one's mind when this happens.

First, I thought to myself, Did I check the bottom of the glass? I always check the bottom of the glass. Then, convincing myself that what I just imbibed was not completey disgusting, I think to myself, Well, the milk didn't taste any different so it can't be that bad. Next I start to wonder if the thing that was stuck to the bottom of the cup actually came from the milk itself or, somehow it came from me. Finally, realizing it's useless and that there's nothing I can do about it, I decide to cut open my chest and pinch off my esophagus before the milk can make its way into my stomach. See, because there are times when one has to realize that there's ALWAYS something that they can do about it.

I write this sitting in my hospital bed on suicide watch because the paramedics and police don't quite seem to understand what I'm talking about. THERE WAS SOMETHING GROSS INSIDE MY GLASS OF MILK! How hard is that to understand?

Interesting thought of the day:
The xylophone is the musical instrument that is attributed to garnering the least amount of vagina. The most? Surprisingly (or not for those of you who play it), the sitar.

Comment below (you can comment anonymously if you like) and Jesus will love you, or you can email me and Jesus will kind of think that you're cool for a few minutes.

Iran, you smug motherfucker!

This gets political, so, some of you (Ryan) may not want to read this one.

Well, looks like Bush wants to move on from the overwhelming success he's had thus far in Iraq and throw more dead teenagers at Iran. He'll really show them, just like he did to Iraq. I mean, the proof's in the pudding, Iran may have, accidentally, at one point, let some terrorists pass through their country before September 11.

What a bunch of dirty motherfuckers. You're going to feel the heat of an angry president with no sort of reasoning or access to the more complex, "human," thought processes. Having George W. Bush as president is like leaving a monkey in a room with a box of ninja stars and forty live chickens and expecting to open that door in a week and find everything in the room the way you left it. Then, when somebody asks the monkey why he did what he did, he poops in his hand and throws it at them.

I heard the real reason Bush is going to send the troops into Iran is so he can complete the "totally kick-ass" new rollercoaster that he's going to have built going from Afghanistan all the way to Iraq and, since Iran's in the middle, that's just as collateral damage. That W, he sure does love his coasters.

I just saw a commercial for Spider-Man 2, which I saw a while ago, but Doctor Octopus's robotic arms just reminded me of something. They look like metal versions of those paper things that girls would make in elementary school. You know, those things that would have numbers on the four panels, they'd tell you to pick a number, they'd swish it around, then pick a color, they swish it more according to the letters in the color you pick, then, finally, pick a panel and then they'd lift the tab to reveal to you something insanely interesting like, "You have cooties" or, as my mom called it, "Feline AIDS." The first documented case in humans, thank you very much. I liked Spider-Man 2, but it would have been cooler if that's what Doctor Octopus was chasing everybody around for--just to play his game with him. "Where's Spider-Man? He picked a number, but then he left, he has to PICK A COLOR!"

Interesting thought of the day:
Hammers were originally named such because they were made from pigs.

The naked massage sweepstakes is over with the winners being nobody (or everybody if you've seen me naked). The new contest will begin with this post. Those who comment may be entered in a contest to receive an original haiku on the topic of their choice as long as I receive 3 or more original comments per entry. This doesn't mean that the entries themselves have to be original, as I doubt my readers are capable of much more than repeating some mid-80's catch phrase like, "Cousin Larry, let's do the dance of joy!" What I do want are comments from 3 different people. Or, if you don't like clicking anything online that says submit because "you're not a pussy," you can email me.