That means the white sticky stuff Peter has been shooting out of his wrists all these years is…Oh, god. Poor Aunt May.
If anyone is wondering, when I die (after being smothered in a giant pile of puppies), I want my ashes to be blown into the unsuspecting eyes of my vanquished enemies.
My plan, in the unlikely case that baby fever strikes, is to get a puppy.
I can’t decide whether this idea is really awesome or really depressing.
And for all you sickies out there presently reading this from your toilet, here’s hoping for a speedy recovery.
With every passing season of AMC’s The Walking Dead, it seems there are always new developments that have message boards aflame with the special caliber of hot, fiery rage that only nerds and sports fans can muster.
I was always envious of Calvin… and his rocketship underpants.
My cousin once told me she farted into a jar and sent it to her friend as a joke. Disgusting? Yes. Hilarious? Obviously.
In the wake of Thanksgiving, finding this gem of a story online made me thankful I don’t have a penis. As if I needed another reason.
“I bet it’s a good conversation starter with the in-laws. Art!”
So I guess the real message here is that some people’s brains (mine) are just broken…. And also that math sucks.
…Star Wars is something untouchable. It’s on a master list with Back To The Future, Who Framed Roger Rabbit and The Princess Bride of titles that you simply don’t touch.
I mean, what would All Hallows Eve be without the requisite female population walking in huddled groups, arms clutched tightly to their chests in an attempt to raise their core temperature, and enough synthetic material between every five of them to make maybe one full outfit. Maybe.