Showing posts with label smegma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label smegma. Show all posts
Monday, May 29, 2023
Friday, October 7, 2011
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
An Open Letter To Papa John of Papa John's Pizza
Dear "Papa" John Schnatter of Papa John's Pizza,
Dude. You are too fucking YOUNG. When I first heard of you in Atlanta, I was picturing your classic jolly, fat Italian man with a chef's hat playfully worn askew, possibly sporting a black mustache and winking at the camera. A stereotype, to be sure, reinforced by years of Yellow Pages ads and takeout menu clip art. And once I actually sampled my first delicious slice of Papa John's hand-tossed BBQ Chicken and Bacon pizza, that image morphed into a chubby cheeked older man– possibly balding– but still with a jaunty kerchief and a fat belly under his apron. And you were either tossing some pizza dough in the air or doing that Italian thing with your fingers that either indicates "okay" or "delicioso!" Yeah, that was a good image.
So imagine my dismay and disappointment when I finally see a photo of you in a menu. You look like you're only twenty, son! You have a lustrous full head of hair, and worse than that, you're not even fat. I might as well have seen a photo of a skinny albino Bangladeshi girl in a pizza apron, or a robot praying mantis with pepperoni dreadlocks. Or Blanka from Street Fighter.
I will admit, "Papa," it is very impressive that you've created a multi-million dollar empire of more than 3,000 franchisees worldwide at such a tender age. It's a credit to your ingenuity that you've accomplished so much while still looking like the kid who passes out at a party and gets the word "SMEGMA" drawn on his forehead. So, kudos to that.
But don't you see your youth and fitness work against the image of delicious pizza? Don't you realize you don't even look like you could make a ketchup sandwich? All those pizza chef stereotypes exist for a reason, "Papa." People who look like you usually can't cook for shit.
Yeah, I know that in a few decades, your metabolism will catch up with you, and you'll start graying and getting a paunch. And the image will finally match the product. Maybe until then you could grow some black sideburns, start playing the accordion and hire a monkey in a fez? Please?
Age already, Skeeter.
Sincerely,
EADJ
Dude. You are too fucking YOUNG. When I first heard of you in Atlanta, I was picturing your classic jolly, fat Italian man with a chef's hat playfully worn askew, possibly sporting a black mustache and winking at the camera. A stereotype, to be sure, reinforced by years of Yellow Pages ads and takeout menu clip art. And once I actually sampled my first delicious slice of Papa John's hand-tossed BBQ Chicken and Bacon pizza, that image morphed into a chubby cheeked older man– possibly balding– but still with a jaunty kerchief and a fat belly under his apron. And you were either tossing some pizza dough in the air or doing that Italian thing with your fingers that either indicates "okay" or "delicioso!" Yeah, that was a good image.
So imagine my dismay and disappointment when I finally see a photo of you in a menu. You look like you're only twenty, son! You have a lustrous full head of hair, and worse than that, you're not even fat. I might as well have seen a photo of a skinny albino Bangladeshi girl in a pizza apron, or a robot praying mantis with pepperoni dreadlocks. Or Blanka from Street Fighter.I will admit, "Papa," it is very impressive that you've created a multi-million dollar empire of more than 3,000 franchisees worldwide at such a tender age. It's a credit to your ingenuity that you've accomplished so much while still looking like the kid who passes out at a party and gets the word "SMEGMA" drawn on his forehead. So, kudos to that.
But don't you see your youth and fitness work against the image of delicious pizza? Don't you realize you don't even look like you could make a ketchup sandwich? All those pizza chef stereotypes exist for a reason, "Papa." People who look like you usually can't cook for shit.
Yeah, I know that in a few decades, your metabolism will catch up with you, and you'll start graying and getting a paunch. And the image will finally match the product. Maybe until then you could grow some black sideburns, start playing the accordion and hire a monkey in a fez? Please?
Age already, Skeeter.
Sincerely,
EADJ
Friday, October 24, 2008
The EADJ Pun Sheriff Is In Town.
(cue Ennio Morricone music)
Round these parts, there's no sense of right or wrong. People feel they can let their wordplays and turns of phrase run wild. And because of that, nobody wants to be the lawman. Well, that's where I come in. Here, you risk your skin catching punsters and the juries turn them loose so they can come back and make you groan again. If you're honest you're poor your whole life and in the end you wind up dying all alone on some dirty street. For what? For nothing. For a tin star. But that's the job. I'm the pun sheriff of Butt Gulch.
Now some Hollywood studio tried to put up a poster near the telegraph office with a terrible joke about credit and shopping. I aimed my six shooter at their hand to stop them but hit their ankle. Looked like it hurt real bad.
Now, some different Hollywood types were doing the same thing over by the blacksmith, 'cept it was a movie about dogs. And the pun was worse. I aimed for their wrist but shot them in the neck.
Some fleabag newspaper in New York had a pretty awful pun in its headline (someone told me "BK" is often short for Brooklyn). That itself wasn't the problem...
...it's just that they ran it TWICE in the same publication. I aimed for their feet to drive them out of Dodge, but I hit them in the belly. That's a terrible place to get shot.
Mabel over at the dry goods store called my attention to a catalog that someone had left out front. Pretty standard, terrible stuff in it. But when I looked closer, I read one of the worst puns of my career as a lawman:
I rounded up a posse real quick and we rode out to Favorites Catalog Ranch. There we burned down the house and barn, raped the livestock, and I shot the owner in the thigh, though I was aimin' for his heart that time. Maybe I should start drinking whiskey again to stop my hands from shakin' so much...
Round these parts, there's no sense of right or wrong. People feel they can let their wordplays and turns of phrase run wild. And because of that, nobody wants to be the lawman. Well, that's where I come in. Here, you risk your skin catching punsters and the juries turn them loose so they can come back and make you groan again. If you're honest you're poor your whole life and in the end you wind up dying all alone on some dirty street. For what? For nothing. For a tin star. But that's the job. I'm the pun sheriff of Butt Gulch.
Now some Hollywood studio tried to put up a poster near the telegraph office with a terrible joke about credit and shopping. I aimed my six shooter at their hand to stop them but hit their ankle. Looked like it hurt real bad.
Now, some different Hollywood types were doing the same thing over by the blacksmith, 'cept it was a movie about dogs. And the pun was worse. I aimed for their wrist but shot them in the neck.
Some fleabag newspaper in New York had a pretty awful pun in its headline (someone told me "BK" is often short for Brooklyn). That itself wasn't the problem...
...it's just that they ran it TWICE in the same publication. I aimed for their feet to drive them out of Dodge, but I hit them in the belly. That's a terrible place to get shot.
Mabel over at the dry goods store called my attention to a catalog that someone had left out front. Pretty standard, terrible stuff in it. But when I looked closer, I read one of the worst puns of my career as a lawman:
I rounded up a posse real quick and we rode out to Favorites Catalog Ranch. There we burned down the house and barn, raped the livestock, and I shot the owner in the thigh, though I was aimin' for his heart that time. Maybe I should start drinking whiskey again to stop my hands from shakin' so much...
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