Friday, March 17

Top o' the mornin' to ya! You lousy punks! Think you're all that and a bag o' chips! Well you can suck on my shillelegh!

I'm goin' ta pour me another round of this here greeeeen beeeeer.

I’m going to start off with Bushmills!

You’re not even Irish you son of a bitch! You’re Welsh! Which means you’re cheaper than a Scot and you’re vowel intolerant!

Leave my bowels out of this!

What the hell are you anyway? Laotian? I killed people like you for a hobby years ago.

And I hate that goddamned pork pie hat. Who do you think you are anyways, Buster Keaton? I knew Buster Keaton, and you sir, are no Buster Keaton!

I’m two beers away from telling everyone about the time I made out with Uncle McGreevie behind the Dollar Store.

Holy shite! Old Tom McGreevie? With the full, florid lips and “never-you-mind” smile?

The same!

Whoa…that’s a shocker.

Who said anything about “shocker?” We made out, that’s it. And then we traded backrubs, then little more making out.

He had a suprisingly tender touch for a woodsman.

I hate to break it to you

...but that ain't green beer. That's your urinal bottle, you crusty old fucknut! What the hell kind of vitamins are you on anyway?

Ya Bucket o' snots!

Don't slash your Y-Fronts!
At least I'm still catching me a buzz!

Remember that time when we pulled the ol' "Farmer's Blow" into the tapioca? Miss Esterhaus done shit her nappies!

I've only been your roommate for 11 days.

You must gots the Alzhemiers again.

And Miss Esterhaus always done shit her nappies.
That's what she do, jackass.

Shut up!
JAG is on.


A strange man just called and said that if I don't call you "cunt" within the next fifteen minutes, then our St. Patty's day live blog isn't authentic.

So there, Cunty McCunterson! Drink to that you lousy pretend Mick!

I'm gonna go offer free sponge baths to all the fine ladies in the Parkinson's wing.

See ya next year!