I’m so sick of hearing about the 17-year cicadas already this summer. Noisy, noisy, blah blah. If any cicadas come into my hood, I’m gonna fuck wit em, big time.
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Best-Selling Humorist.
Best-Selling Humorist.
I’m so sick of hearing about the 17-year cicadas already this summer. Noisy, noisy, blah blah. If any cicadas come into my hood, I’m gonna fuck wit em, big time.
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Um. I’d icksnay the dissing of the icadas-say.
They’re bad mo-fos in numbers. I remember in Athens, OH, seeing a building on campus pulsing with life, covered completely with the buggers. Er, bugs.
Just sayin’.
I DO NOT CARE! I DO NOT CARE!
You see any sick-adas around here, you send em to me. I’ll break their little balls, you hear me? I’m through screwin around with them. I WILL BREAK THEIR BALLS! THEY DON”T USE THEM BUT ONCE EVERY 17 YEARS ANYWAY!
Another option is to walk your dog. The bugs were so plentiful, I remember our dog just sort of snapping them out of the air and swallowing them whole every few steps. It was disgusting.
Want to impress me, Garner? Screw NPR; do THAT to the bastards, and I’ll give ya mad props.
I would if they had any stones. Have you heard the host on that show, with his high voice and stammer? He sounds like someone is shaking him down for his milk money.
I stopped listening to TOTN, and to a large extent NPR, when during the run-up to this bull**** war all of their programming became far more right-leaning–and their theme songs all began sounding like patriotic marches.
Cicadas, OTOH, I like.