This is what passes as "humor" on the Internet! I don't even know what it means! I think the fish is gay.

As you may or may not be aware of, I start many updates with the phrase "as you may or may not be aware of" and end them with a preposition such as "of." Hey, I'm a writer on the Internet; it's not like Something Awful faces stiff competition from rival humor sites such as "JeD2912's LaUgHiN K00L sItE" or the equally powerful "-={J0KE -A- DAY & MATRIX FANS1TE}=-" online humor resource, each of which risk exceeding their hourly Geocities bandwidth limit if both webmasters' parents decide to read them at once. Regardless, I recently made a huge move in my life, and I'm not talking about the kind of moves I make after eating a particularly large Mexican dinner. I purchased a home in Lee's Summit, Missouri, and drove there from the Seattle, Washington area, a 1900 mile drive in a Honda Accord full of cats, computers, and guns. The surly, burly moving people currently own all my worldly possessions and for all I know, they're taking turns hurling each box off the top of a waterfall and into some dangerous troll-infested forest below. I have no idea when they'll show up with my stuff, as the time period given to me by the sales representative was roughly along the lines of "between five and one hundred zillion billion jillion days." It's a good thing that all I need to perform this job is a computer, Internet connection, and distinct lack of good judgment skills, all three of which I currently possess in my barren, empty new house inside suburbia.

However, today's update is not about my many failures in life or the many failures I will be able to provide to you in the following decades of my adulthood; today's update is about speeding tickets. For a good portion of the 1900 mile drive from Washington to Missouri, I intentionally traveled at a velocity greater than the Federally-suggested limit. This was so I could make "good time." People like using the phrase "good time" because it sounds a lot more mysterious and skilled than simply stating "I drove really fucking fast." Let's say you want to purchase transsexual pornography from a store named "Joe's Tranny Hut." Wait, that's too unbelievable, let's make it something more plausible; you want to purchase transsexual pornography from a store named "Ed's Tranny Hut." This store is located 60 miles from where you are currently located. The speed limit between your home and the target destination is 60 miles per hour. If you leave and arrive there in one hour, you officially made "decent time." If it takes you longer than one hour, then you made "bad time" and can either blame traffic jams or the fact that everybody in the entire world except you is an absolutely horrendous driver. If you reach your destination in under an hour then you've made "good time" and are somehow viewed as a major deity who has the ability to warp the space / time continuum. Making "good time" implies some mysterious force of magic or Baby Jesus fueled your enigmatic ability to travel along a road and somehow get there quicker than somebody who would get there slower. Please examine these two conversations and note the distinct difference between bragging about "making good time" and the failure to do so:

You're under arrest for being a female driver! And you appear to be nine inches tall! And what the hell is that guy in the background doing behind your car?

GOOD EXAMPLE:
Person #1: "How long did it take you to get here?"
Person #2: "30 minutes."
Person #1: (So excited that his eyes begin to bleed and his heart detonates) "Wow! You made good time!"

VERY BAD EXAMPLE:
Person #1: "How long did it take you to get here?"
Person #2: "30 minutes."
Person #1: "Wow! You must've applied extra pressure to your vehicle's acceleration pedal, thereby causing it to proportionally increase in velocity and result in a decreased length of time required for travel!"
Person #2: (Outraged) "Did you just call me a nigger?!?"

The previous two examples have shown the raw power that "making good time" gives its users. It also demonstrates how failing to compliment somebody on "making good time" can result in them mistaking your comments as a crude racial slur, resulting in their outrage as seen in between those two italicized curly bracket symbol thingies above. I was making "good time" a majority of the trip to Missouri, which means I was traveling at roughly half the speed of light and emulating that time-traveling car in "Back to the Future" only my vehicle was emitting significantly more fire behind it. Oh yeah, and I have less Parkinson's Disease than the driver as well.

Hey you stupid kid, where's your license plate and registration? You're going to jail early on so you can learn what it's like to live a life of crime, you little jerk.

As previously mentioned, I was making just a whole hell of a lot of "good time" for most of my trip. The speed limit on the I-90 was 70 mph, so I naturally traveled around 100 mph because I safely assumed the government accidentally switched numbers and the speed limit was actually 90 mph on the I-70. Unfortunately, some clay-slingin' lockjaw highway cop busted me as I traveled through the desolate wasteland known as South Dakota. At the time of my bustationment, I was trailing a white SUV at 79 miles an hour. This asshole-mobile in front of me was steadily accelerating while I was moving at a solid 80 mph, yet God decided to show he has a great sense of humor by allowing the police to pull me over while the Shithead Utility Vehicle escaped. This is another reason why Congress should pass my proposed law allowing non-SUV drivers the chance to launch surface to surface missiles at SUV owners and their kids' grade schools.

While I was sitting inside my vehicle and waiting for the South Dakota Highway Patrol Officer (their motto: "hey, it's South Dakota, we don't have anything else to do for God's sake"), my mind began racing for excuses that would let me slip out of ticket like a lubricated ballpoint pen inside Madonna's vagina. I had to come up with some slick, glossy, infinitely clever ruse so I could pull the proverbial wool over the proverbial South Dakota Highway Patrol Officer's eyes. I began pounding out alternatives as the officer ran my license plate tags to see how many people I recently murdered and raped to achieve a criminal rating of "SA Goon" in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. Did you like how I weaseled in that shameless self-promotion? Yeah, that's right, if you buy Grand Theft Auto: Vice City and murder enough elderly people and minorities, you can be a SA Goon as well! That's one of the "perks" of being a webmaster, besides the obvious lack of money, heterosexual sex, and excitement which would otherwise distract me from my lofty life goal of "being on the Internet."

The South Dakota Highway Patrol Officer exited his vehicle after a while and approached my gun / cat / computer filled deathtrap. I knew that the moment of truth had finally fallen upon my skinny, pasty shoulders and I had to either splooge out a clever lie or pony up the truth. Since nobody got anywhere by telling the truth, yet many liars have become world-famous presidents, astronauts, and corpses, I decided to go with the first option. If you are ever caught speeding and have your back against the wall, feel free to use any of these well-thought out excuses to escape the icy clutches of the law's iron grip:

THREE FOOLPROOF EXCUSES WHICH WILL GET YOU OUT OF ANY SPEEDING TICKET:

"Highway Patrol": in color!

EXCUSE #1: Claim the officer's radar gun is actually a thermometer which he doesn't know how to properly operate. I thought of this great idea when I was traveling at 98.7 mph. If you get busted going over 100 mph, then say that you have a fever or AIDS or SARS and that you're rushing to check yourself into the hospital. If the cop gets you going around 80 mph, then tell him you have pneumonia or you just got out of the neighbor's pool. If you're clocked at going under 80, insist he took the temperature of your car and it's insane to think that you'd have to pay a fine for your car being sick.

EXCUSE #2: There is something happening to something else and you've got to do something about it. This is kind of the "catch all" excuse of all excuses. Your[grandma]just[fell down a well] and you've got to[help her]. Your[dog]is[on fire]and you've got to[return a Blockbuster Video VHS tape before noon or else you'll have to pay a fine]. Feel free to make up any words and insert them in the appropriate order like a game of "Mad Libs," only if you fuck up then you'll probably be arrested or shot in the mouth. If you do get shot in the mouth and have to explain to your grandma why you weren't there to help her out of the well, be sure to tell her your[mouth]just[got shot]and you had to[die on the shoulder of a busy highway].

EXCUSE #3: The racism card. Police organizations across the United States have gotten a bad rap lately just because certain bad apples have been singling out minorities, planting false evidence, and then eventually being busted by Sylvester Stallone and Ray Liotta during a harrowing gunfight. If you're white and the officer who pulled you over is black, claim he singled you out just to "get back" at the bigoted white cops. If you're black and the officer is white... well... I doubt you're reading this page, as I don't think there are any black people retarded and unhip enough to read this website. I don't think black people can achieve the same level of pale-white skin as people like me gain from countless hours of LCD exposure, thereby legally prohibiting them from reaching festering nerd cauldrons like this page. If you're white and the officer who pulls you over is white, claim it's "white on white crime" and is an example of reverse racism in action. Threaten to call either Jessie Jackson or Jessie Helms or Jessie "The Body" Ventura, depending on who has the most flexible schedule at the time.

I eventually opted for the exciting "excuse #4" choice, which dictates that the sucker being pulled over should stammer on about how he just bought a new house and he's driving to the new house and it's his first new house and HEY, WHAT'S THAT OVER THERE IN THE DISTANCE? IT LOOKS LIKE A MURDER CRIME! OFFICER, QUICKLY GO AND ARREST THAT PERSON FOR HIS MURDER CRIME! Since I acted particularly polite and docile during my stay in the squad car, the officer knocked a bonus four miles off my ticket and claimed I was going 75 mph in a 65 mph zone which only ended up infuriating me more because who the hell does he think he is, giving me a ticket for only going 10 miles an hour over the speed limit? I mean, that's really ridiculous; if he was to ticket me for going 79 mph in a 65 zone, then that's something else, but 75 is an insult and you can clearly tell that the South Dakota Highway Patrol is simply looking for additional funds to buy that shiny new Snapple machine they've been eyeing for months now. No matter what you decide to say, make sure it does not reference "making good time," as they'll see through that excuse quicker than Superman folding Madonna's lubricated underpants. Okay, that last joke didn't even make sense, but this isn't JeD2912's LaUgHiN K00L sItE, so you shouldn't really be expecting too many great things in the first place

I know Deep Dish

Ryan "OMGWTFBBQ" Adams here for another Goldmine Tuesday. I'm really, really excited about today's Comedy Goldmine. It started out as a thread in FYAD, and grew into quite possibly the funniest Comedy Goldmine ever. I'm serious. Stop looking at me like that.

In today’s Goldmine the SA Forum Goons answer the oft asked question, "What if The Matrix had been about making pizza?" I know that I and various people I associate with ponder this very question hourly. What kind of sauce would Morpheus use? Would he stay true to the essence of pizza and be a thin crust man, or would he be a master of all forms of pie?

(Street)
Health Inspector Smith: Mario...
Mario: Oh shit.
Health Inspector Smith: Mario, you were given specific orders.
Mario: Hey, I'm just doing my job. You give me that '30 minutes or less' crap, you can cram it up your ass.
Health Inspector Smith: The orders were for your protection.
Mario: I think we can handle one personal pan.... I sent two delivery men. They're bringing her the pizza now.
Health Inspector Smith: No Mario, your men are already dead.

Now if that isn't the finest cinema to ever grace a webpage, then I'll eat my hat. Click here so you can see how far down the block the pizza man delivers.

– Rich "Lowtax" Kyanka (@lowtax)

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