Just a taster's selection of my finest yearbook signings this year. Enjoy the master at work.
Russell Whitehead Outside Your Window At Night Looking In, Looking for Something
God-DAMN son, are you one creepy motherfucker. With that pale-ass skin and that crinkly-ass little red mop on your head. Busting up from behind shit at all hours looking like Communion aliens landed out in my yard.
Russell, you know I just wanted to write my novel, then you had to be peeping in on me and making me see owls and shit. Join the army or something. Pop up on Osama's window when he's trying to make a dump.
Like the ghost of a scalped cowboy. Goddamn, son. Goddamn.
Dorothy Taylor Prime. Roll It Up. Get Up in That Ball, Girl.
Oh, shit, look out girl! While you were scarfing down those ding-dongs a fucking Metroid got up on your head. Teaching you lessons the hard way like diabetes isn't a power-up.
Seriously, Dorothy, look at yourself in the mirror the next time one doesn't break when you walk past and you will see why everybody is always falling over laughing and crying and shit when you're around. I'll give you a hint: it's not because you're funny. You couldn't make a baby laugh by blowing on its belly.
You are a living fart.
Jill Miller: She's a Big Success Story
Jill, remember that game with the Lady Vikings when you shot 6 three-pointers in a single game? I sure hope so, because ain't no one else fucking does. What kind of sub-humanoid creature-thing remembers a women's basketball game? Oh, that's right, it's Jill Miller.
You cavewoman she-bear, you towered over most of the men at the school and had grades to match the meat even the cafeteria threw out. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when you walk into a realtor's office looking up in it for a data entry job and you hand over that one-page speedstick-smelling resume carved into a stone tablet and a Lady Vikings Regional Championship Title. You'll be lucky if you qualify to mop junkie puke off the window of the methadone clinic downtown.
Who are we kidding? You'll be the junkie puking on that window. Catch a shooting star, Jill!
Robert Fauntz Loves Gay Dude Buttholes
Hey Robert how's that forehead working out for you?
You look like fucking Leader. You remember that shit? You fucking hate Hulk and shit?
What the heck happened to you, dog? I remember 4th grade you looked normal and then you went to summer camp and came back looking like your hair was trying to up and escape your eyebrows. Did you get bit by like a big gay radioactive forehead or something? Head caught in a taffy puller?
Christ it sickens me just looking at you.
If you are 35 and you are not integrated into the Gigathrax then you are not ready to retire.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
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