It appears that over the weekend, one of our staffed writers decided to fulfill his state-mandated community service requirement by bringing a busload of special needs children into our workplace. As expected in these potentially disastrous scenarios, one of them found himself fascinated by the computer that said writer left on and open to the New Post section. And, well, yeah...you all saw.
What you just read below was not a test; it was a mistake. It was a massacre upon the entire world of media. It was a backstreet mugging of an innocent language. It was rape. It was wrong. But rest assured, we promise to hold this deformity's parents accountable to the fullest degree for subjecting you, the loyal readership, to this unspeakable travesty. And by "this deformity," we, of course, refer to writer Jean-Luc Bertrand Dingleberry.
As of this post, that motherfucker of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed limp llama dick is skating on the thinnest of ice. If this trend of open-air idiocy continues, we will not hesitate for a moment to replace him with, literally, that 10,000 monkeys typing theory.
For the time being, however, feel free to send your local Soviet Phonebook writer a bag of steamed vegetarian turd.
Signing Off,
Your Fearless Leader
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
OH MOI GOD
BREAKING NEWS FROM OUR PREVIOUS STORY
EL CAGADOR CAGALISTRO HAS BEEN CAPTURED
HE HAS BEEN IDETIFIED AS HAL NEWHOUSER
CHOWDERDICKS
EL CAGADOR CAGALISTRO HAS BEEN CAPTURED
HE HAS BEEN IDETIFIED AS HAL NEWHOUSER
CHOWDERDICKS
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Image To Be Retired
Readership, countrymen, robber barons, landlords...Soviet Phonebook is many things, but self-indulgent is not one of them. We are masters in the art of recognizing borders and knowing our limits- after all, we're convicted felons and ex-lacrosse players. And as such, we are well aware- and on the scene- when a certain image has already reached its critical usage mass. In this case, it's happened within 24 hours of SP's humble existence.
So, it is with great honor, a tinge of heartfelt sadness, and in spirit of SP, some self-righteous feigned moral outrage ("Oh. My. Goodness. That is just sick and wrong. And now to Susan with traffic.") that I call for the permanent retirement of the infamous turdpedo picture, which has already been used in consecutive entries.
Turdy, we hardly knew ye. R.I.P.
For the untimely death of this revered shitshuttle, we place not the burden of blame on Most Venerable Jean-Luc, but rather, on the mind-numbingly mundane shoulders of Mediocre Money's Average Economist, Dungbeetle Dave Farrelmackis, who is currently out fucking a lady in an uncomfortable place- like the back of a Volkswagen.
May he feel the wrath of 1,000 constipations.
So, it is with great honor, a tinge of heartfelt sadness, and in spirit of SP, some self-righteous feigned moral outrage ("Oh. My. Goodness. That is just sick and wrong. And now to Susan with traffic.") that I call for the permanent retirement of the infamous turdpedo picture, which has already been used in consecutive entries.
Turdy, we hardly knew ye. R.I.P.
For the untimely death of this revered shitshuttle, we place not the burden of blame on Most Venerable Jean-Luc, but rather, on the mind-numbingly mundane shoulders of Mediocre Money's Average Economist, Dungbeetle Dave Farrelmackis, who is currently out fucking a lady in an uncomfortable place- like the back of a Volkswagen.
May he feel the wrath of 1,000 constipations.
Cockstallnacht - Night of the Broken Cock
From the Archives of His Excellency, the one true savior of the Jah people and Mike Tirico, Conqueror of Zab Judah and Purveyor of Atrocious Atrocities, The Most Venerable and Esteemed Sir Jean-Luc Bertrand Vincent Van Dingleberry.
It was a sunny day this morning, drivers were driving, walkers were walking, workers were working, and dicks were flaccid. Bustlers were bustling through the boisterous community.
At approximately 9:34 AM, a woman, who wishes to have her identity concealed under the name CockWhopping TittyVulture, was gruesomely and perversely attacked by what is now known locally as the Brown Massacre.
As miss TittyVulture was walking down Candydick Avenue, our unknown assailant, who will, for reasons which will soon reveal themselves to our readers at home, be known as "Asshole of Zyklon B" proceeded to pounce on her, in what eyewitness reports describe to be much in the motion of a cheetah pouncing on a gazelle and take a massive shit directly on miss Cockwhopping's face.
After doing aforementioned despicable deed, mister Hemroid of Cyanide proceeded to competely remove his pants and undergarments and release one of the most horrifically putrid farts ever to be whiffed by human nostrils.
Our culprit then decided to very specifically tell the public, who at this point looked on in terror and disgust, the difference between his, as he refered to them, Mystical Releases of Bowel Discharge. Key differences in his "Shits", as we commoners normally refer to them, were generally defined by their texture and structure. The Weapon used on miss C.TittyVulture was photographed and shown below.
(We warn you, the following image may be too gruesome for the eyes of the innocent)
All we have to say here at Soviet Phonebook is walk with caution, folks of the one last true kingdom of god, Papua New Guinea, for this Cagador Cagalistroso is still on the loose.
Stay tuned for more coverage on the matter.
It was a sunny day this morning, drivers were driving, walkers were walking, workers were working, and dicks were flaccid. Bustlers were bustling through the boisterous community.
At approximately 9:34 AM, a woman, who wishes to have her identity concealed under the name CockWhopping TittyVulture, was gruesomely and perversely attacked by what is now known locally as the Brown Massacre.
As miss TittyVulture was walking down Candydick Avenue, our unknown assailant, who will, for reasons which will soon reveal themselves to our readers at home, be known as "Asshole of Zyklon B" proceeded to pounce on her, in what eyewitness reports describe to be much in the motion of a cheetah pouncing on a gazelle and take a massive shit directly on miss Cockwhopping's face.
After doing aforementioned despicable deed, mister Hemroid of Cyanide proceeded to competely remove his pants and undergarments and release one of the most horrifically putrid farts ever to be whiffed by human nostrils.
Our culprit then decided to very specifically tell the public, who at this point looked on in terror and disgust, the difference between his, as he refered to them, Mystical Releases of Bowel Discharge. Key differences in his "Shits", as we commoners normally refer to them, were generally defined by their texture and structure. The Weapon used on miss C.TittyVulture was photographed and shown below.
(We warn you, the following image may be too gruesome for the eyes of the innocent)
All we have to say here at Soviet Phonebook is walk with caution, folks of the one last true kingdom of god, Papua New Guinea, for this Cagador Cagalistroso is still on the loose.
Stay tuned for more coverage on the matter.
Mediocre Money
Hello, my name is Dungbeetle Dave Farrelmackis. I'm 20 years old and I'm going to be in school for 12 more years. I like Mike Piazza and popcorn. I am a federal highway slut, and that is how I make money.
With my expertise, I will guide your economic policies. HAHA!
Most recently I masturbated to 69 cheating wife porn while watching Sportscenter. I see big things in the future for Dodger 1B Wilmuck Mongtard, which is why my first economic slide-piece is:
With my expertise, I will guide your economic policies. HAHA!
Most recently I masturbated to 69 cheating wife porn while watching Sportscenter. I see big things in the future for Dodger 1B Wilmuck Mongtard, which is why my first economic slide-piece is:
- Buy Houses: Houses are good for living, pissing, shitting, and owning a dog in. In them you can watch Vin Scully sex a goat and masturbate to it with the razor edged top of a can of tomato soup.
On occassion I also like to go to the movies with pussy of the fairer sex and fart a black plague in their eyeballs. This is why I believe in Harvey Dent:
- Invest In Offshore Accounts: Texas is quitting America soon. Put your money there.
I am not a crook, unless you happen to catch me shitting on your doorstep. Then, I guess that's illegal. And I'll just go back to my U.S. Government class, which I've taken 7 times:
- State Quarters Are Cool, I Suppose: When you buy stock in a state quarter, you will have what I decorate my bedroom with. I am only missing South Dakota. Also, you are helping the economy directly by spending more money and spending it on money.
Good idea, commenter BaboonWampBalls2. Everyone could just play hangman. That might help.
For the last six months, I've been chasing the myth of Zapdos from my computer, which is proving harder and harder by the minute. But even with that, this team has no hope for this season. They should quit:
- Get Rich: In dire economic times, this is the best advice. Find a way to make lots of money, hide it in Texas or Switzerland, and buy a Pac-Man device. Sex a goat.
Yeah. Bye.
Open Letter To Religious Happenstances
Your Holy Royalness Church of Jacobs,
Times have united us recently, despite my being in a functioning coma and hungrier than Teri Schiavo.
We must say, you've come a long way. Well into the past, so it seems, are the days when your purveyor of moral cleansing would turn his back to the paying studio audience and preach his word in Wookie. And with that, it appears, went the safety locks on childrens' zippers. Kyle Farnsworth no longer needs be feared. Dance to Thriller, everyone.
But, yeah, while all that is good, and whatnot...not all is necessarilly cool, dig? First off, can you people get in touch with upper management and kindly ask them to lightning-smite any "clever" asshole in the future who swells with pride and accomplishment upon "discovering" that Jesus-is-a-zombie joke? No, seriously, the sooner you could get on that, the better.
That's not really church related, however, so we'll just call it friendly customer service, and whatnot. In the actual mass, though, there's a song played during the breadline that goes "Jesus, you are the bread. Jesus, we come onto you." This flew past everyone? Seriously? We understand the sheltered social nature of the group as a whole, but did no one at all take into account the unfiltered immaturity of ourselves and other like-minded individuals? We are large in numbers. And when you sing us shit like that, the only thing we can imagine is a group of bishops and cardinals gathered in an empty cathedral, playing a highly competitive game of limp biscuit. And last to cockvomit is Pope.
Most importantly- and this is a serious matter, we promise- is the reason, the inspiration, the cause behind why you're (hopefully) reading this. All throughout our gathering, there was a child wailing his ass off in the back. This could've been out of hunger, or boredom, or he really wanted his homily in Wookie again. All possible, and all reasonable explanations. But now, nobody here wants to speculate, so please excuse our dear aunt Sally, but based on the steady crying nature for a good hour, we think something must've smelled like donkey dick back there. Everything else, and the baby would've given up by the gospel reading. We're almost certain a dead animal crawled up into that back corner and died. If as much turns out true, we reccommend getting someone on the case. That's what Jesus would do. He would dig that furry fucker out and turn its blood into wine. Nothing dies on Jesus and lives to tell the tale, goddamnit!
Oh, and speaking of dying and living to tell the tale, was it truly necessary to say a prayer for the wretched soul of Jason?
Quite obviously, it's too late for that.
Best,
Nikita Khrushchev (by way of Pisses on Wolves)
Times have united us recently, despite my being in a functioning coma and hungrier than Teri Schiavo.
We must say, you've come a long way. Well into the past, so it seems, are the days when your purveyor of moral cleansing would turn his back to the paying studio audience and preach his word in Wookie. And with that, it appears, went the safety locks on childrens' zippers. Kyle Farnsworth no longer needs be feared. Dance to Thriller, everyone.
But, yeah, while all that is good, and whatnot...not all is necessarilly cool, dig? First off, can you people get in touch with upper management and kindly ask them to lightning-smite any "clever" asshole in the future who swells with pride and accomplishment upon "discovering" that Jesus-is-a-zombie joke? No, seriously, the sooner you could get on that, the better.
That's not really church related, however, so we'll just call it friendly customer service, and whatnot. In the actual mass, though, there's a song played during the breadline that goes "Jesus, you are the bread. Jesus, we come onto you." This flew past everyone? Seriously? We understand the sheltered social nature of the group as a whole, but did no one at all take into account the unfiltered immaturity of ourselves and other like-minded individuals? We are large in numbers. And when you sing us shit like that, the only thing we can imagine is a group of bishops and cardinals gathered in an empty cathedral, playing a highly competitive game of limp biscuit. And last to cockvomit is Pope.
Most importantly- and this is a serious matter, we promise- is the reason, the inspiration, the cause behind why you're (hopefully) reading this. All throughout our gathering, there was a child wailing his ass off in the back. This could've been out of hunger, or boredom, or he really wanted his homily in Wookie again. All possible, and all reasonable explanations. But now, nobody here wants to speculate, so please excuse our dear aunt Sally, but based on the steady crying nature for a good hour, we think something must've smelled like donkey dick back there. Everything else, and the baby would've given up by the gospel reading. We're almost certain a dead animal crawled up into that back corner and died. If as much turns out true, we reccommend getting someone on the case. That's what Jesus would do. He would dig that furry fucker out and turn its blood into wine. Nothing dies on Jesus and lives to tell the tale, goddamnit!
Oh, and speaking of dying and living to tell the tale, was it truly necessary to say a prayer for the wretched soul of Jason?
Quite obviously, it's too late for that.
Best,
Nikita Khrushchev (by way of Pisses on Wolves)
Friday, April 17, 2009
Weekly Happenings
Today, the world might end. Scientists believe there is a statistic probability, which is valid evidence, because statistics can also prove that Iowa is real. While you're in that mindset, though, I need you to do me a huge, important, life-or-death favor. Actually, nevermind, Cock Lobster's mind is changed.
Statistics do not measure hustle, however, or why this turd is baked. In a just world, it would be mostly steamed...and maybe a bit charred. This would overpower the Cleveland Cavaliers.
I love Zizz-Zazz! And so do my fans! ZIZZ-ZAZZ!
Skinned penis.
Oh, yeah, from this moment on, we are your sole, official provider of fair and unbiased news and weather happenings. We say this because weather isn't news, it is dancer.
Six Important Facts of Fact
Statistics do not measure hustle, however, or why this turd is baked. In a just world, it would be mostly steamed...and maybe a bit charred. This would overpower the Cleveland Cavaliers.
I love Zizz-Zazz! And so do my fans! ZIZZ-ZAZZ!
Skinned penis.
Oh, yeah, from this moment on, we are your sole, official provider of fair and unbiased news and weather happenings. We say this because weather isn't news, it is dancer.
Six Important Facts of Fact
- According to stock market expert Lt. Dungbeetle Dave Farrelmackis, water is wet and rocks are hard. I use aliases when I speak of the Irish, but Dungbeetle Dave is actually quite mediocre. We have hired him recently on an immigrant's salary.
- Scientists on the space shuttle Challenger are finding out, through a series of trial and error studies, that guns don't kill people, 4th grade teachers who pressed the wrong button do.
- Pope John Paul Georgeandringo released Papal Decree this morning from His Holy toilet confirming the Church's stance that a few human beings are entirely worthless, and as such, should be deemed treasonous agents of cultural terrorism if they dare reproduce.
- Duke University's esteemed Athletic Department has recently changed their program motto from I'm blue, dabadeedie to It's not a championship season if you don't use a roofie.
- If Rodney Dangerfield were still alive, a $10 bet on him scrubbing his balls at some point before yesterday before dawn may have netted you $375.36 by 3 PM the today.
- For the first time since Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet mattered, a two-eyed, two-legged sentient child was born in Chernobyl. We suggest you don't make him mad. You won't like him when he's mad.
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