Who says Sunday nights are for great TV? Put down the remotes, close your incognito tabs, and relax with the best comments on the world wide web.
We start with the h8ers, from the Neighbors review:
SmartFilm: FACT: Ken Jeong is a doctor.
Mike Keesey: FACT: Ken Jeong should return to his practice.
Burrrrn, Ken Jeong! Take your shitty Coke commercial and millions of dollars back to your job as a life-saver, loser!
And speaking of losers, Roger Rodas’s wife is suing Porsche because he was only going 55mph and death can be prevented and life has meaning and everything happens for a reason and a six-figure settlement provides lasting comfort against the cosmic void’s insatiable appetite for chaos:
Surly Thor: Tonight go into your local bar and ask for the Roger Rodas. Its a car bomb followed by a fireball.
Burrrrn (literally), Roger Rodas and his mourning family! Best of luck on your wealth acquisition. Plus the director of Searching for Sugar Man died:
kazoshay: It’s the Oscar curse. Just like when Heath Ledger won and then died a year earlier.
You made me laugh, kazoshay, despite the fact that I haven’t stopped crying from watching Brokeback Mountain three weeks ago. Let’s be done with death now, and talk about how Quentin Tarantino can only cum if literally all of his skin is being rubbed by the freshly pedicured toes of struggling actresses. There are simply too many to list, but if you’re into feet puns, look at the thread about his legal drama with Gawker.
This week’s runner up is a comment so finely crafted it’ll inspire each and every one of you to put a little more story into your contributions. Include some nearly erroneous details, reference a strange but ubiquitous phenomenon, be, aggressive, be be, aggressive. So when “party monster” Michael Alig was released from his murder-by-drano prison sentence, one of you beautifully mocked the wholesome fear of young hooligans and their hooligany ways:
warmbutter: There’s a new threat sweeping America, and they’re called…”Club kids.”
When I was a boy, the only clubs I knew about were the ones my father used to knock a golf ball around. If we wanted good fun and raucous good times, we needed look no further than a rousing game of hoop n’ stick or swinging on that old rope swing down by the crick. Now, sure we got up to the occasional shenanigans. Like that time Betty Muellerstok drank too much of the parish wine and we all took turns with her. But even Betty, rest her soul, would never have dressed in these garish costumes or painted her face to look like a monster-person. The soul of America won’t be found in a club, Mr. Alig. No amber waves will be fertilized by your cocaine drugs and ecstasy party favors. Shame on you.
Bravo, warmbutter. Normally, you would have won for this comment, but instead you won for this one:
Henrich von Muscleman
1234 Hollywood Place
HollyWEIRD, CA 91601
Teen Boy Rape Assistant
*Held teen boys for raping
*Used large, muscular hands to pin limbs
*Complimented raping skills of employer and employer’s associates
*Avoided eye contact with employer the day after so he wouldn’t have to confront his own monstrosity
*Did strong muscle punches to legs to stop squirming
*Licensed butt-cheek spreader, Class IV muscles
*Informed customers of health benefits of juice
*Cleaned machines and food prep areas
*Keyholder since 2002
I mean, Jesus Christ. I’m a sucker for job application jokes, but I wasn’t expecting this level of dark, biting, melted down comedy. Thank you for your sweet nectar, warmbutter. Everyone else, remember to keep your wits about you and nominate your favorite comments in the comments section to this very thread. Next week’s winner will be blamed for the fall of net neutrality.
Editor’s Note: Send me your address, Mr. Warmbutter, sir (no imposters, please, I can track your IPs), I’ve got an extra Blazing Saddles Blu-Ray with your name on it.