New Russian Weapon Can Travel 27 Times the Speed of Sound
AP | 11/27/2019
Straight Line of the Day: A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
New Russian Weapon Can Travel 27 Times the Speed of Sound
AP | 11/27/2019
Straight Line of the Day: A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
it’s collusion.
A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
the sounds of silence.
A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
does it really work?
…Siri giving erroneous directions.
…the sound of Obama being “flexible”
Nuclear Wessels
“You should’ve thought of that before we left.”
“Recalculating…”
Harvey Award!
… the phone call to Acme customer service requesting a refund
… the Waco Kid telling Sheriff Bart that it will only make Mongo mad
A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
damn, that’s fast.
… “You didn’t build that!”
… “No, Mr. Steele, we want you to lie…”
…”Nyet, Nyet… Oh God , no…Nyet!”
… “That’s gonna leave a mark…”
… “Which way did it go, Dzhordzh?
…pew pew
…Are we there yet?
Hillary asking how many D-Cells it takes.
…that dial up modem on the dashboard.
…the laments of the engineers who decided to give it voice-activated steering.
…Barry Allen asking what took it so long.
…Sundance audiences asking the projectionist if he can run the Hillary biopic at that speed.
…Frank J’s brain screaming “Hitler Sonic Youth!!!”
Soon to be available from Booksellers of Distinction nationwide.
Straight Line of the Day: A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is… What?!?
Why does it look like a hedgehog?
Greta Thunbergs rage… Which is still faster.
It blowing on the lauchpad
OR
…nothing, ’cause it killed you already.
Tune in next time and see how our heroes get out of this one.
A new Russian weapon can travel 27 times the speed of sound. Unfortunately, all you can hear is…
a party from Rhyl who keep singing “Torremolinos, torremolinos” and complaining about the food – “It’s so greasy isn’t it?” – and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres.
And sending tinted postcards of places they don’t realize they haven’t even visited to “All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’.
Food very greasy but we’ve found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner’.” And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watney’s Red Barrel because you’re still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you’re thirsty and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of “unforeseen difficulties”, i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris – and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing “enterovioform” and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn’t there to take you to the hotel that hasn’t yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can’t sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door – and you’re plagued by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers’ wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe – and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn’t like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone’s comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free “cigarillos” and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on “Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich” and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody’s talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane…
… “Nyeh heh heh!”
An explosion on launch:
Yawn…call me when it can travel faster than the speed of light.
Have you got a Plymouth Satellite?
Did anyone ever have one of those??