• Special thanks to Katie Marino, Happy Happy Happy Man, Jake Klocksien and several other pairs of Hilarious Shoes...


  • Found this in the basement a few days ago. I don't remember being such a dork.



  • Moments Before...

    It had been three miserable days and four lonely nights since Jennifer gave Randy the news that not only was she abandoning her Abstinence Promise - which they'd made together sophomore year of high school, right before he slipped her that sweet pre-pre-pre engagement ring ring - she was also leaving him for some F*CKING SUPERHOT ATHEIST GUY ("Whoops, sorry God," Randy thought) from her Intro to Philosophy class.

    Randy's roommates, who'd always been dicks to him before tonight, suddenly, mysteriously changed, coercing him into joining them for a night on the town. Having never before imbibed alcohol, Randy insisted on wine. ("What Would Jesus Drink?" he thought, before logically grabbing some Melon Ball-flavored Boone's Farm.)

    That was half-an-hour ago. Now he stood in front of the two cheapest tattoo parlors in town, trying really hard to focus. Wait, nvm, it's just one tattoo parlor.

    "She's probably making mouth love to him astride some demonic motorcycle, surrounded by flames," Randy thought. He tried to pray for her, but instead a single tear crept down his left cheek. He pondered a moment.

    "SHE WANTS A BAD BOY?" he wailed at the sky. "A BAD BOY WHO PROBABLY HAS EARRINGS AND AN EIGHT-PACK AND THE THIGHS OF A CLYDESDALE?? - oops, sorry again, God - Well, I'll show her a MOTHER-EFFING BAD BOY."

    Randy stormed inside, his new buddies in tow, giggling to each other about something. ("Probably giggles of admiration," Randy thought.) Soon enough, he was next in line. But as he sat down in the chair, Randy's eyelids became heavy - the Boone's Farm up to its awful, sinful tricks.

    The tattoo artist shouted: "What do you wanna have done, kid?"

    "Um, something... something God...*hic*...would be OK with," he slurred. "Jesus, maybe? Yeah, Jesus and... um...*hic*...ugh, Jesus Christ." Randy nodded off.

    The artist became agitated. "OK, you're gonna have to be a little more specific than that," he said, rousing Randy from his stupor.

    Randy mustered every last ounce of energy he had, yelling: "Jesus-f*cking-Christ, man! SURPRISE ME, OK??"

    The artist nodded in agreement, and silently went to work.

    http://www.collegehumor.com/picture:1811979



  • Confession time: The only reason I've been contributing to CollegeHumor is to launch my career as a Hollywood screenwriter. One project I've been working on is a remake of the 2000 comedy classic "Road Trip." I've always loved the original, but feel it hasn't particularly aged well due to its inclusion of things like VHS tapes, standard mail and Tom Green. So without further ado, here's my first stab at the script. Let me know what you guys think!




  • 1.) British men are unable to trim their own facial hair.

    2.) No one in London is perceptive enough to notice that 99 percent of the people who walk into Sweeney's dimly-lit, macabre-looking establishment never walk back out.

    3.) These two major weaknesses make it clear that hiring one murderous barber would've been a much easier way to win the Revolutionary War.

    4.) The taste of English cuisine is so putrid that the addition of sloppily prepared human flesh is regarded as a revolutionary innovation in flavor.

    5.) Nothing, not even sharing a lighthearted duet with a guy (twice!) will assuage his desire to violently jam a silver straight razor through your neck. (Should've snuck out when he was on that second verse, dude.)

    6.) I would probably react to the prospect of kissing Helena Bonham Carter the exact same way Sweeney does. (I dunno, something about her just makes me think she probably smells.)

    7.) If you ever find yourself in a situation where Mrs. Lovett is serenading you with lovingly maternalistic lyrics like "No one's gonna hurt you, not while I'm around," check to make sure it's not Opposite Day.

    8.) After two years of being bombarded by bad Borat impressions, the sight of Sacha Baron Cohen bleeding out like a member of the Crazy 88 is actually kind of cathartic.



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