Gourdacious Adventure

On a cold dark winter night, three men became even manlier. The winds were blowing and the snow was deep, at least it was still deep where the snow plows had made those huge piles. These three men decided to set out on an adventure that would shake them to the very core. Would they be able to accomplish what they had set out to do, or would they be stopped by armies of snowmen?

Approximately at 12:00am these hardened thrill-seekers agreed upon starting a quest that many a man had failed. The quest to abolish Jabba the Pumpkin and his snow man hoard. It took many minutes of night time driving through mostly residential neighborhoods for them to arrive to the land of the Snowman. Oftentimes false alarms would cause them to leave their vehicle and wreak havoc upon what they thought to be members of Jabba the Pumpkin's Hoard. Unfortunatey, most of the times, they ended up being innocent bystanders. But these thrill seekers were willing to do what ever was required to stop Jabba and his minions. Even if it meant killing innocent snow structures.

Finally after a long and arduous quest, these three barbarians happened upon what seemed to be a friendly gathering of Jabba's Hoard. Unbeknownst to them, the three warriors were ready to set up a sneak attack in order to neutralize the deadly threat.

There were 12 of them, all lined up in a row. It appeared that they were involved in some sick kind of line dance or something. The three brawny soldiers knew that if they were to overtake the Hoard, this was to be their only chance. So stealthily, like panthers in the night, they settled upon the line dancing snow army and proceeded to dismantle them, limb by limb. When all of the hoard had been taken out, Jabba the Pumpkin was left to fend for himself. Just when Jabba was in their grasp, Andre the Snow Spire emerged from the darkness and challenged Willie the wildebeest. Although it would seem that Willie was outmanned, he was able to stop him with powerful pelvic thrusts. Jabba was left without protection and being the coward that he was, he surrendered and the three young mountain adventurers imprisoned him in the lowest level of the oldest dungeon. America salutes you for keeping them safe.

Fowl Play

On a rainy Sunday afternoon, a dear friend of mine decided that it was the perfect afternoon for some grilled chicken. As he began to prepare for his scrumptious meal, a certain person we will refer to as “Tyson” began to scrutinize his cooking skills. You see, my dear friend had decided to cook his chicken on what will call “The Formanator,” and Tyson, Iron Chef of the world (apparently), informed my dear friend that the chicken would most definitely burn. In fact, he was so convinced that the chicken would burn, that he said it FOUR TIMES. “It’s gonna burn. It’s gonna burn. It’s gonna burn. It’s gonna burn.”

Regardless, my dear friend was determined to cook his chicken in The Formanator. After a short period of time, the pollo was listo. As my friend placed it on his plate, it glazed a triumphant gold. How proud he was. It was a vision of perfection. A food fit only for the gods. He made his way to the living room, and as he sat down to enjoy his meal, another friend mockingly said “I told you you’d burn your chicken!”

“Ya dude it’s totally burnt,” the Iron Chef said.

“Are you serious?” my friend responds. “This golden glaze is beyond comparison. I’ll even turn the light on and prove it to you.” I flick the light on to inspect this chicken for myself.

“It’s absolutely burnt,” I say sarcastically.

“Are you kidding?” he responds.

“Obviously.”

“You guys are retarded, it’s so burnt.” The Iron Chef says, all-knowingly.

Ok Tyson…Ok. I’ll agree with you. It was burnt…but only in a world where burnt actually means perfection. Only in that world.

Lactose Sabatoge

I just want to throw a hypothetical situation out there. This is in no way true. I swear to the untruthfullness of what you are about to read.

A young man named Tyson went to the store. While at the store, he purchased some foodstuffs including a gallon of milk. Now, milk was a top-notch choice. He could use it on cereal, he could dip cookies in it, hell, he could even drink straight out of the jug to quench his thirst. Milk was just what he needed.

Sadly, there were people out there who wanted to see Tyson unhappy, so they devised a plan that would strip any giddiness from his already pathetic soul. These evil-doers knew that if they could compromise Tyson's 2% goodness, they could compromise his prosperity. So, cunningly, these deviants swooped down upon his milk and drained it like wraiths in the night.

Tyson returned home from his promiscuous activities with the one known as Desperado, only to find that his milk rations had considerably lowered. "Who has been stealing my precious milk, the only key to my happiness?" wondered Tyson to himself. Then, he realized that he was the victim of an elaborate assassination attempt on his joy. So he knew that the only way to escape from the sights of those shadow assassins was to sabatoge his own milk. He knew that if he were to set a trap where no one would expect it, he would be able discover the identities of those who were out to betray him.

So in short, Tyson put salt in his milk so that nobody could drink it. If he couldn't partake of the nectar of the udder, then nobody would be able to. If you didn't catch it the first time, he actually put SALT in his OWN MILK just to prove a point...I mean honestly are you serious...good one Tyson.