Once upon a thin dime there was a Borg named Smorg in a galaxy far, far away from the Ford Galaxy, named Hardlycanafford. He didn’t quite fit into the collective so he wound up taking a long vacation in his mini-cube. He was a very short Borg, part of the Martin collective. (Hence that’s why his phone number is listed under Martin, Short.)
This was way back when a phone call only cost a thin dime, far cheaper than a fat nickel dime bag. Besides, getting all that pot down the slot makes a mess.
Well Smorg was a smartass Borg, and decided dedicate the rest of his Borg-ish mechanical life; or 100 zillion light years: whichever came first, life to helping an elderly curmudgeon compose his columns when he DOESN’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL TO WRITE ABOUT.
Hence this week’s burnt offerings, a hodgepodge of tasty and disgusting delights, better known as…
Scribe’s Smorg Ass Borg
“Filling up satirical plates since who the %$#@ knows when.”
Our first offering…
Ye Olde Scribe’s Links to Oblivion
“Surfing the net at the speed of, ‘what the HELL??? ‘”
How do you feed a pill to a cat? First don’t say, “Here kitty, kitty.” They don’t usually come when you call. Ignore cat. Catch cat. Then…
(Thanks for da giggles and guffaws, Ish!!!)
Ye Olde Scribe’s Incredible, Inedible Quotes
“Just read and laugh. If you try to eat the glass might get stuck between your teeth.”
“Dear God, if there’s an open door (I should go through somewhere…)
Dear Ms Appalling Palin,
Do you mind if Scribe calls you “Sarah?” Scribe is quite sure you do. Scribe doesn’t care. There was an open door. Didn’t you see it as you passed through after God pulled his big boot back and kicked you out it on Election Day?
Letter Department
“L… E… T… T… E… R What the hell do ya think it meant?”
Mistakenly stuck in Scribe’s mailbox…
Dear God,
Damnmodurfucintohellyatwit… Didn’t you hire me to f___k things up on Earth? Now what have you done? All set for the final days and you took the damn ball away. Obama? OBAMA? You really do wan heaven on Earth, don’t you? I thought that was just some sales slogan. Now I got to go back to my disciple/homies and get them to create more mischief. Just hope Hannity, Limbaugh and Coulter can help. These guys are like Hell’s own version of Peter, Paul and Mary trying to be The Three Stooges. YEEEEEEEECCCCCHHH
By the way, when are you going to return that Ozzie Osborne CD you borrowed?
You Faithless Servant,
Satan
P.S.- Hope this gets to you. Last letters I sent wound up in Sam’s mailbox. The jackass published them. Luckily everyone thought they were fiction.
In regard to Ms. Palin. No thanks. I don’t want her either. Pits of fire I can stand. Sulphur? I drink lake loads of the stuff. But one word out of her on Earth makes Hell a %$#@ paradise. You created her and you consider me a sadistic bastard? Did you ever take a whiff of what’s between those legs? It’s enough to gag me with my own pitchfork.
Would that be the late Sam Walton or the great Sam the Sham (and His Pharaohs)? Of course, it could also be Uncle Sam, Sam Clemens (“Letters From the Earth”) or Sam Spade. I’ll take a guess on Mark Twain, but Sam the Sham’s “Wooly Bully” is the perfect theme song for the Cloven-Hoofed One.
BTW, Ms. Sarah is a product of Wasilla, which I believe is also a vaginal antibiotic creme. Wasillans are neither fish nor fowl; neither animal, vegetable or mineral. In fact, I believe they are all birthed of an unholy union of snowmachines and moose scat. Or so I’ve been told by myself.
Which goes well with the giving a pill to a pussy link Scribe offered.
Correctomundo. Tis wherever the Twain shall meet, if one can… FATHOM… that.
Scribe, have we sunk to the level of Riverboat jokes now? 😉 Puntime on de ol’ levee, yas, yas.