My fellow Americans I come to you today with revelations. Recently, a truth was revealed to me, and it is a truth I feel I must share with you all. It is a truth that could, quite possibly, explain everything.
You see whereas most mammals have breasts to feed their young, Canadian women are different. I know what you’re thinking: “Impossible! I’ve seen Canadian breasts!” except you haven’t. Think about it. You’ve seen images, movies even, that may contain actresses born in Canada.
But those images were digitally changed to keep their secret. Canadian women do not have breasts in the traditional, biological sense we’ve come to know. Instead, due to environmental and sociological forces beyond rational thought, they have donuts, and timbits.
Here now I can present you with proof of this astounding fact. Below you will see an image of a true, unaltered, Canadian woman, nude from the waist up. This image may shock and upset you.
Now, Canadians, I know you will deny this post is true. However, it is time to stop pretending to the rest of the world and admit this truth. It’s all right. We know of the Tim Horton Protocols that enslaved your people and genetically distorted them. Come out of your frosted hiding spots and taker your place in the sun.
In conclusion, Americans, our Canadian friends are
donut-chested freaks and we shouldn’t trust them just like the rest of us in their hearts. It’s just that there is fried dough between their hearts and the world.
The times are changing. G.I. Joe and Cobra have both sufgfered huge losses in funding and recruitment. And now they have… new plans…
“Hello! You used to know me as Cobra Commander! Yes! I plotted to take over your stupid countries with might and power. Of course I did! Wouldn’t you, if faced with the sort of sniveling weakness you yourselves display?
“Sadly there has been a downturn in recruits for my Cobra soldiers. As such I have been forced to reconsider our methods. So I am here today to announce that Cobra will no longer exist. Instead I shall use my army, my weapons and my masterful plans to help you get into the best shape of your life. Organically. Safely. Artistically!
“From here on out we are…. YOGA! Yes, so please address me as the Yoga Commander. My Yoga soldiers will help tone and stretch you. We will work together to ensure your peak physical conditioning, as well as spiritual growth!
“Uhm. Hi. Excuse me. But don’t listen to Yoga Commander. He wants to train you in soft pliable ways to take over your mind and use you as his Downward Facing Army. Do not listen. Do not follow his lead. Do not trust him.
“Instead, come with me. I’m Duke. And while, as leader of G.I. Joe I commanded forces against the man you now call Yoga Commander, I, too, have seen a new day dawn.
“With that in mind, and our need to confront the forces of Yoga on their own terms, let me introduce you to G.I. Jazz! We’ll get you in shape the American Way! With sweat and hard work and possibly crying. You’ll cry, cadet! You’ll cry hard! Jazzercise on this level isn’t just for anyone!
“No, you have to prove yourself worth while to be a member of G.I. Jazz, but if you can, the world awaits you. Justice awaits. Say no to the forces of Yoga and sign up, today, with G.I. Jazz!
“Remember! Spin Class is half the battle!”
I just realized that Heathers, yes the movie, fits really well into Game of Thrones. Yes, really. Think of it like this:
You have Heather Lannister, Heather Baratheon, and Heather Greyjoy and then poor Veronica Stark. Meanwhile everyone is afraid of the new kid Slater Targaryen. Now, I haven’t read ahead or anything but I really hope Veronica blows up King’s Landing.
Also I want to reshoot Heathers with Heather Lannister’s brother Tyrion involved.
But anyway! Yeah. Heather Stark moves to King’s Landing, and she hates it. It’s run by this clique of Heathers. Well, you know how this story goes. Slater is feared, he’s known as Dragon Boy, and hooks up with Ronnie. They manage to accidently kill Heather Baratheon (well Ronnie thinks it’s an accident at first) and now the wheels start to come off.
Also – late in the movie the God of Tits and Wine shows up.
But really, come on, admit this to yourself and to me – Heathers works as Game of Thrones far too well. Which really means that GoT is, quietly, just a teen romance black comedy disguised as something far bigger. But now you’ll never unsee it.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Almost no creatures stirred, but the freelancers light didn’t go out.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
The Freelancer wanted to go to bed, but didn’t dare.
The children were nestled all snug in their bed,
But the Freelancer still has deadlines, instead.
Words, art, music and more spilled from his mind,
And the night stretched out long, the day far behind.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
The Freelancer didn’t stir, distractions couldn’t matter.
Into the house a man did manage to creep,
And the Freelancer only yelled, “Shhh, they’re trying to sleep!”
It was jolly old Saint Nick who stood in the room,
He set down his bag and came into the room.
“It’s Christmas Eve, don’t you know?” he asked the hard worker,
“That doesn’t matter,” the Freelancer said, “‘sides, there’s a ham in the slow cooker.”
“You can’t work tonight,” Santa insisted, “somehow it’s just wrong.”
“But they need,” the Freelancer insisted, “their websites, books, comics and song.”
“There’s no rest for the weary, no reason to stop,”
“You can come and leave presents and then out you pop.”
“I work only one day a year,” said Saint Nick with a hop,
“You work all the rest, surely tonight of all nights you can just stop.”
“There are updates to do,” the Freelancer insisted,
“Crafts to make, things that should be knitted.”
“Well then more gifts for you,” Said the jolly old man,
“To reassure you that your work won’t go unnoticed from here to Japan.”
“That’s sweet of you to offer,” the hard worker replied,
“But so long as my payments are timely, my brain can be fried.”
“This is my life, and this is who I am,”
“Now off with you, deliver presents and leave me my ham.”
With that The Freelancer stood and stretched producing many creaks,
Then sat back down and planned out the next bunch of weeks.
Santa left the gifts under the tree each wrapped with a bow,
Before he let himself back out into the snow.
“Now Donner! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!”
“Quiet,” yelled The Freelancer, “if I lose my place again, I’ll steal Blitzen!”
So Santa left, quiet as a mouse,
And no other sounds were heard in the house.
Until at least The Freelancer headed to bed,
Already thinking of tomorrow’s deadlines instead.
–from ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas by Clement Clarke Moore, modified by Adam P. Knave
Gaändylf the Rocking came down and knocked on the door. Bustling noises could be heard inside and Gaändylf waited, if impatiently. His fingers twisted and flexed, a kickass air guitar solo formed, with his wizardly ways of rock.
The door opened, at last, for keeping a Wizard of Rock waiting could be dangerous indeed. Bilbö looked up at his visitor, his old friend who sported a long flowing gray beard, forked down the middle, and eyebrows that came out over the brim of his hat.
“Bilbö,” Gaändylf said, “it is good you are home. I have in mind an adventure for you.”
“An adventure?” Bilbö exclaimed, patting down all of his pockets, “I haven’t even had Headbanger’s Ball lunch yet!”
“Never mind that,” Gaändylf harrumphed impatiently, “let me in so that I can tell you of my idea.”
“Very well,” Bilbö said, throwing the horns and bowing, “enter and well met.”
“Well met, and may your neck always bang,” Gaändylf replied as he stooped low to enter the small hobbit’s hole.
Bilbö ran around his house, gathering up cheese, crackers, tea and bitch’s brew – the makings of a fine Headbanger’s Ball lunch. Hobbits often had breakfast, Satan’s breakfast, lunch, Headbanger’s Ball lunch, supper and late supper. They enjoyed their food almost as much as they enjoyed their music.
Gaändylf smiled as he waited. He knew well the Hobbit proclivity for meals. He held his mighty bass staff, idly plucking strings, and considered how to tell Bilbö that soon he would be far beyond the front of the stage and deep into the realm of backstage passes and tour bus hell.
But first – cheese, and tea.