Category: Verbal Assassinations

I’d focus, because that tiny patch of skin on my son’s forehead is more important to me than the entirety of your whole high-fiving, head-shaving, air-balling, mole-lipping, insulin-needing existence, which I guarantee you will come to an abrupt very unnatural end.

Oh, and Nervous Guy- if I were you, I’d go ahead and swallow that entire mouthful of baby carrots. Because, if I hear you make even one more damn crunch, I’m gonna use the remainder of the carrots in that bag to make you completely air-tight, son.

Back off there, lady. How’s about you save up all that energy for the cruise? Go on get out of here. Hippity hop to the barbershop. Come on, Mom.

No, you look! If someone had asked me just this morning, Is there any way that I could have less respect for you two geniuses? I would have said, No! No, that’s not possible!” But, lo and behold, you went and pulled it off. Congratulations. The only problem is I’m -I’m fresh out of blue ribbons, so instead, you’re gonna have to settle for a lifetime supply of my foot up your ass! Now go home. You’re not fit to work tonight.”

And on behalf of men everywhere — and I do mean everywhere, including the ones in the little mud huts – let me be the first to say thanks and alleluia!

Look, Tammy, as far as your love life goes, normally I couldn’t care less who’s laying your quivering body down by the fire while your lips whisper No, no…no” but your eyes scream, “Yes. Yes. Oh, big daddy, yes!” But when you’re dating Jordan’s sissy-poo, it forces me to spend time with you outside of the hospital, and I just won’t have that. So, hhhere’s the deal: Don’t want to have dinner with you. Don’t want to go bowling with you. And I never, ever again want to walk into my kitchen and hear you say, “Ohh, it’s waffle time! It’s waffle time! Won’t you have some waffles of mine?”

A tip jar. Really? So what am I supposed to do, just duke you my change because you poured hot water through beans? Well, I’ll tell you what, my friend, unless you’re also planning on giving me a complimentary reach-around with my beverage, I’m afraid the answer is yeah…no! Here’s a–here’s a novel idea: Why don’t you go fetch me a very large cup of coffee with so damn many fake sugars in it, that the coffee itself gets cancer.

Hey, Bobbo, now when the dark prince does finally call you home, please promise me that you’ll donate your body to science. And I don’t mean medical science, I mean NASA. Because when those buzz-cuts have all but given up on trying to figure out just exactly what a black hole is, and they get one look at that space where your heart was supposed to be, well by-gum, you know they’re just gonna say, Awwww, shucks! That’s what it is!”

Oh! I’m sorry! Are you talking? Because I’ve decided to keep my finger on the button, so I actually can’t hear anything that’s going on in there. But, for fairness’ sake, I’ve decided to do your end of the conversation. It goes a little something like this: Blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, cool hip-hop lingo, blah-blah, blah-blah-blah.” Anyway, I’ve come up with a whole new plan about Mr. Iverson. If you wanna take that liver away from him just because you and I are having some kind of personal beef, then you go and tell the man yourself.”

Oh, that’s funny, because Jack here was just wondering why the crazy lady who just spent the last hour chain smoking and talking on her cell phone while her kid ate sand would come over to two complete strangers and give them parenting advice!