If Captain Kangaroo were on today, Twitter would be organizing conventions for strange adult men who claimed they were into it because it’s “good television for all ages” but were all really into some kind of fetish involving being showered in ping-pong balls.
I wonder if there was a margarine that was about to go with the slogan “The Super-Spreader!” and COVID just ruined it.
Everyone always talked about Bond’s license to kill but I’d love to see the bureaucracy behind the licensing process. Does he have to carry around tags like a deer hunter? Is there a written test? An eye exam? An awkward line for the ID photo?
The band “Hiss Golden Messenger” sounds like an obscure late-run G.I. Joe villain action figure. The title for Serpentor’s senior aid-de-camp, perhaps.
Okay, Mister Owl, but how many licks does it take to get to the pizza roll centre of a pizza pop, huh? How about THAT?
Why call it an omelet when you can call it “eggs over difficult”?
They could’ve called the microwave “the defrigerator” but it was just a lack of vision.
Like the very best coffees and beers, I am full bodied with a hint of bitter notes.