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Caption This!

Today’s winner wins a Christmas kitty that didn’t turn out right.

Ahoy! Roisterdoisters, all of you! The panel hereby renames you ‘captioneers’ because you are all like seadogs overdosed on rum. So be it. Shiver our timbers but we like our rum, too, but danged if last night we didn’t need to tip the bottle to get our jollies. SHEEESH. We’ve started bringing extra clothing to judging sessions. If it isn’t drizzled booze or Virginia barbecue, it’s drool or piss. Gud LAWD! Y’all stop it. We made a new rule. If you address the blog and make another captioneer wet their pants, you cancel out a caption. hmm... wait a minit....we’ve always had that rule. Heh. Well, one of the perquisites of our position is that we get to repeat the rules. All righty! First off, we have to eliminate those who eliminated themselves. You must realize the sine qua non of this exercise is to keep your laughing in your pants. Steel. Moze. Phoenix. Richard. Y’all are out. No, Steel, putting three captions in one comment won’t work. Yeah, we see you stuck a one-hung-low in there in an attempt to negate your “Right turn Clyde.” Fergit it. You brought others down with that, so you blow. Just so’s you know, you managed to get the panel to suffer unendurable howling for a good ten minutes. Call 911. “Hello? What is your emergency?” “ cccan’t gget ower mmowths closed an wee have pissed oursefs.” “Sir, is that an emergency? Have you swallowed poison?” “ Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh... ...pizen?........... ohhhhhhhh...........cccall you bak later. TTthannk yew..” No more. Do you hear! None. You started it. Okay, since you’re new, you cannot address the blog. It cancels out one caption. You had three. But your third also addressed the blog, so it cancelled itself and one caption. We ran into a problem with deciding which comment to cancel. We liked them both. We kept “The good, the bad and the truly fucked.” because of its verisimilitude and because we all like... um...ahh.... okay...we like being boinked with truth. we don’t. We like getting boinked with a nice, firm spunk-chucker. The girls anyways. Guys don’t care... just make it warm. What about that ‘truly’ stuff? We’ll get to ya on that. Moze. Too bad you roistered. HA. HA. HA. Yeah. Like blowin’ up those ropes with a kimchi fart would work. You made us blaze some saddles and one of our members messed his.... oh well.... anyways..... Imp. “...a bit late..”? We’d say! hee hee... Whai, thet liddel sweet thaing cunt hev meant to do this. Right? right...? YOOOHOOOOO.... sweet thaing!! I am waitin’! John. What a twunt you are. “doritoes”? Like Clint would dance for some Mexican snack? Richard. Some of our members are wantin’ to be your chick-chattel. They think they can tame you. Ride the rogue. Heh. OW. Buckley F. Williams. Welcome! May we call you Buck? One of our dyslexic judges thought you were the son of that fat dude who bored National Review readers with his endless periphrasis for eons. We set him straight, but we had to send him to your cool blog. As for your bitchin caption....we’ll get to you in a minit. Alex B. We changed our minds. Your neurons are too much for us. Florid, labyrinthian paths through the verdure of herbage verbiage. Yow. We love it. That and a two-bit piece of ass. Yowza. Mouse. Maybe whoever wins the motion lotion can rub his raw hide. RaaaaaaaaawHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide....roll ‘em, roll ‘em, roll ‘em..... Rowdy Yates, come home to Mama. Y e a h.... oh yeah. Coco. We asked Alex if we could gyrate in her neurons. We wus wonderin’... Could we hump yours? You used the ‘C’ word. You think this is the Vagina Monologues or somethin’? Those hungry women chantin’ the ‘C’ word need to get a life by puttin’ somthing in their damn ‘C’s’. OKAY. This is a first. We have a tie. TWO winners! Dr. Catman. You did it. DAMN! Like, we wanna know if you were tokin’ becos that was PERFECT. You are livin’ proof that pot makes you smart and excellent. Congrats! Buck. You are the other winner. Yep! Not only was it clever and scrumpin, but you got our inner-bi’s crankin’ with that ‘Stickyback Gulch’. Man, ...dude...that was soooo disgustin’!! Get back with your bad self. Any chance you can come over? Heh. Wahl... guess you guys will have to share the titties. Good thing there’re two of ‘em. Rub ‘em nice, now, boys...... yessirree boob..... nice and smoooooooooooooooth.....



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Moze's wife, Sissy, posed sexily for him as he arrived home from work and said, "Muh Muuuuz.. I have something tasty for you to eat."

Moze's ears used to extend from the sides of his head like the tong ends of a Thigh Master, but after a few years of marriage, he lacked sideburns, too.


Mom. Where d'ya get the nice bikini?


'I eat feminists for LUNCH'.

Nice blonde hair. Want to do lunch?

LOW-cal, lots of PROTEIN.


Hey Sailor! Goin' my way?


Does blue make me look too masculine?

(Thanks for the nod from last weeks contest and yes you may call me "Buck". But only you can.)

Layla conjured up her most moist inner-erotomaniac for just the right look as she commenced eye-contact with Buck, the dude from Scrapedbahookies, Utah, where too many Mormons live, and thought to herself: 'That cowboy needs to learn what his name is all about by experiencing the softness, that thick, soft, bite-me quality of my body'.



Mary-Margaret, her luscious blonde hair plaited and tied with blue ribbon that matched her temptress's bikini and which showed her magnificent and protruding torso, maundered lonely through the apartment house next to her own thrusting her key into each astounded door and suddenly thought a meeting with Buck Lee Samovar would pull from her the blues which threatened to dress her in more than she had on, and she yelled for him at his upper casement whereupon Buck Lee backed into the fire and seriously singed his nether parts.

OK. Coco, Richard and Alexandra B can too. But that's it.

The only thing I like less than singed nether parts is David Gregory speaking French...

I like you, Buck.

With drops of Jupiter in her hair seeping moonbeams into her brain, Layla contemplated how to regain the attentions of the swinging-dicks who were supposed to be talking about HER, so she flexed her womanly wiles, flashed her red-lacquered nails and prepared to take off her top.

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