November 12th
Installment 3: And I am a material girl.

Hello. My name is Matt Burnz. I am the star of such stage and screen acts as "Kriss Krossing the Delaware: An inquiry into 80's rap and George Washington", "Animal Husbandry and other deep south oddities", "Why did I marry a shiftless lazy fucking webmaster who puts orange on gray? (A lifetime original movie)". I am also more well known for my daredevil driving stunts, which are featured on Cops, as well as "Highway's most dangerous and possibly gay motorists". But today I am here to talk to you about an affliction that affects 9 out of 10 demographics. Doppelgangers.

Since the founding of the looking glass, Doppelgangers have plagued our society. You or someone you know may be a doppelganger. If you crawled through a brutal limbo world in order to overtake the life of your double, or "good twin" and then use their likeness to wreak unspeakable havoc. You are most likely a doppelganger. Which means you probably won't want to donate to the Society for the Prevention of Mirror's. But if you are not the heinous double of someone. Any help is appreciated. And make all checks payable to "Get Burnz hot sexy clothing to impress that brunette bank teller with the jubilant breasts and not quite so jubilant but still reasonably happy with the way things are going ass fund."

Well, if you are worried about your evil twin, then this update will be totally useless to you. And not just because you are illiterate and happened upon this site by a random depression of keys as you battered your daughter to death with the keyboard. And incidentally, Terroronthe32ndFloor.com has been ranked #1 by CNN for the site most often left on the screen of dead girls between the ages of zero and twenty nine. And all in my neighborhood! This update is all about becoming the evil twin of someone else, at least in the financial world.

Chapter 2: The Anarchist's Cookbook teaches us the subtle art of redirecting your Chi in order to steal credit from some unsuspecting person in order to order. Stuff that is! They break this down into a simple four step process.

PANARCHY!

Step 1: Get credit card numbers. Do not do this from a credit card with your name on it. It makes the subsequent steps much more difficult. What they recommend is that you obtain the credit card carbons from a department store. They strongly suggest you dig through the garbage for them, and while you are at it, see if that chicken sandwich is still good. Only two bites, and it still looks fresh. An even simpler method is to get a job as a store clerk, slowly accumulate an hourly wage. Call American Express, give them your name and in seven to ten business days you will have a bona fide credit card number. I pity the fool who will then suffer your wicked expenditures.

Step 2: Decipher the numbers on the carbon. Assuming you went the digging through the garbage route, and were not stabbed by one of the evil mole people that live in the refuse of man, waiting for their chance to rise, you now have a carbon with numbers and a name, but you aren't sure what kind of card it is. The anarchist's cookbook gives you a simple formula for each type of credit card on the market. But I am not sure what is entertaining about it. Except that it doesn't explain how to identify a diner's club or discover card. I will rectify this now: If while digging through the garbage you came upon a card with either the words "Diner's Club" or "Discover" on it, and it looks like no one had ever used it. Then you have found one of those. The cookbook recommends that you then put it in a time capsule for all the damn good it will do you.

Step 3: Testing credit. You can use either a standardized Mensa exam. An essay format question. Or a rigorous moral debate in order to test the credit on your card. If you feel that it is not up to your standards DO NOT THROW IT AWAY. Instead, lead it along with a promise of gifts and/or sexual favors until it inherits the family fortune or you can pump a bunch of sedative's into it's fifteen year old sister. You can do this in the first place, and then make your test the always accepted will it have an incestuous three way with an unconscious sibling. You can also call a credit testing line, smash your balls between a coffee table and a dictionary (Random house recommended) and try to convince them you are "Sarah Connor" despite the lovely baritone you normally speak with. If you do this be warned that machines may come back from the future to kill you and prevent the birth of your unborn son.

TANARCHY!

Step 4: The drop. Once you have tested your credit limit you will need a place to have your Collector's Edition Platinum Series Urethra, cow bell, and Complete Klingon Encyclopedia sent. Do not send them to your home. The postman will judge you badly and laugh with all his naughty little postman friends about how much money you wasted on that homo cow bell. The cookbook says to try an empty house, a graveyard, an abandoned church, a fire station that burned down or....wait, I skipped ahead to the haunting section. If I made any comments about putting a sheet over your head earlier in this article, disregard. Unless you are a Klansmen in which case it is absolutely necessary.

That is it kiddies! The Better Homes and Garden's Pre-holiday catalogue blowout shopping extravaganza awaits you. Godspeed and good luck.

More conversations and e-mails added to some of our fine ladies. Click me and ye shall be saved.

November 4th
It is what the internet was created for.

Ben: Boredom combined with inebriation can make you do some stupid things, granted, but they can also come together to create a wonderful medley consisting of humor and mental illness. The following, I think, is a perfect example of that, and I'm not afraid to share it with you.

During the course of countless shots of scotch and God only knows what else, while online conversing with the Olde Burnze, we took it upon ourselves to create personal ads on various online dating sites. I'm sure you're quite familiar with the plethora of advertisements for them, depicting star-crossed lovers on a warm sandy beach with the perfect backdrop of a tropical sunset. Eye to eye or mouth to mouth, seemingly swimming in a pool of newfound love for each other, complete with cute little cartoon hearts and a testament from one or more of their satisfied users. But something like that just isn't complete without good fellows like Matt and myself to troll them and destroy several people's faith in humanity during the process. We would be decidedly more feminine this time around.

Now, guys are visual demons. You can be the most interesting, educated woman on both sides of the Mississippi, and brimming with wonderful amounts of great personality, ready to love your prospective man like no other before, and a guy will shoot you the fuck down based on a displeasing physical feature. Even if he's as ugly as all hell breaking loose himself. So, duly, the first thing I did was procure a picture of a woman that I'd like to fuck, which proved in the end to be quite effective. Then I would have to become this woman (sans the breasts, high estrogen levels, and actual need for a man), and embody myself with the one thing guys jump at like they're one of the Super Friends: Distress over lack of sexual gratification and the need for a "real" man. I needed a big ol' hunk to come running out of the woodworks and sweep me off my feet, thereby saving me from all of the other miscreants out their that are treating me foully. And naturally, every guy thinks he is that hunk.

Burnz: We fully admit that we have degenerated to the level of 12 year olds claiming to be 22 / Cheerleader from L.A. yay Eagles! But shit, it is my goddamn site and I think it is funny. I will now take the time to point out you read our drivel instead of writing your own. Stick that in your critical pipe and ...well just don't do the thing with it you did when Teddy "Party Foul" Meisienger offered you a pack of cigarettes and his place in the meal line behind Eddie "Biting Goose Down's Syndrome" Theisman. Anyway, here are the profiles we've created with responses to be added soon. Enjoy!

October 28th
Installment 2: New car, caviar, four star daydream.

Before I get into this update, I would like to point out that I changed the one just before it, so if you have already read it, you might want to look through it again. This will be a test of the Burnz updating system, this is only a test. Had this been an actual update there would be a lot of drunken nonsense immediately following the ugly blue title and probably some personal insults about your questionable heredity and undoubtedly an allusion that you were almost certainly not the creator of the ergonomically designed gel seat. I just would like to point out that the date the patent request was submitted, you were in a Russian forced labor camp. And don't start with the "you think a man can't make a comfortable, affordable, and aerodynamic cushioning system while he breaks rocks for the Pinkos in their Siberian wasteland?" because frankly I have heard it before from both my parents and they are very clearly ectoplasm, so fuck you.

CANARCHY!

Anyhow, what we are doing tonight is a further in-depth study of the Anarchist's Cookbook. And I realize as I write this, it will be most necessary to have a graphic worked up for it. I will add that when I put this in a separate archive. Because I am lazy and have other irons in the fire. And now your filthy mind is on my irons. That is just sick.

Chapter 1: The first chapter is cryptically entitled "Counterfeiting Money". It turns out to be a charming and clever schoolhouse rock piece on how a piece of paper starts out as a simple bit of 25% rag content (as I am sure we can all relate to!) and then climbs his way up to the top of the proverbial food chain to become a five to ten year federal offense. The musical number halfway through "My honey can copy money" was fun for the whole family. The best bit was the offset printing plate rolling a joint on the thigh of a hooker in the background. I can't get my kids away from it. What confused me most about this chapter was the fact that it only explains how to counterfeit American money. I have compiled a comprehensive list of a few ways to counterfeit the currency of other, simpler countries.

•Japan: Small American girls are often easier to trade than Yen, just breed and kidnap. Rinse and repeat. Virgin preferred round eye.

•Any other Oriental type country: To us it is man's best friend. To them it is a whole goddamn buffet. Puppies are worth their weight in culinary gold.

•African countries: These crazy fuckers like any kind of dead animal or crop. I got a village for an 8 piece bucket of the Colonel's chicken strips.

•Canada: What the fuck are you doing in Canada? I think they use pixie dust or bottled starlight as their primary legal tender up there. Or pucks or something. Just get out of that fucking country man.

•South American countries: Here, the best thing to be traded for goods and services is just getting the fuck out and refraining from chopping down the whole fucking habitat and effectively raping the whole goddamn world you stupid dirtbag shitwad.

•France: Pretend to be German, they will just surrender everything to you.

•Italy: You ain't got nothing they want.

•Australia: Just tell them you think American football is for pussies and they will be so overjoyed to meet you they will buy you whatever you want. Which is good because you better plan on living down there you UNCLE TOM!!!! Next you will say that you don't believe Pearl Harbor happened.

•Mexico: You don't want anything they got. Unless you are addicted to Venereal Disease. Plus I think their economy is based on grease and yelling "aiy yayayayayaya". I don't go there too often.

MILLION MANARCHY!

Needless to say, the anarchist's cookbook is only useful in America. But as the first chapter describes the counterfeiting process is only slightly more labor intensive than getting an actual job and then working at it. Hell, get a job at a printing press and fondle the paper and make believe, but it just didn't sound worth it to me. You would have to learn offset printing, get a paper that has a 25% rag content, make lithographic plates, line them up, remove parts with serial numbers and alter each bill to a new serial number by manually changing around negatives. Yeah, that is a lot of work to take that big a risk just so I can afford the newest copy of The Ultimate Director's cut widescreen collector's edition of "Bridges of Madison County" from the private signed collection of Steven Spielberg. Two notes: 1 - Steven Spielberg did not direct Bridges of Madison County, a joke that might have eluded you. 2 - I almost put Martin Scorsese (also a film director) but I somehow figure most of you don't know who he is. Bet you don't know what the article title is from either do you? This has been a Burnz talking down to you moment.

The final part of the chapter says: "There is another method. The Canon Laser Color Copier." Assuming you can get any Canon product to do anything but suck so bad that you're happy if what comes out of it is entirely dead and not trying to consume your brains.

And just to tell you: There are 219 more chapters to this book.

October 25th
Installment 1: J-RO.

They asked me "Burnz, are you sure you have the growth capacity to handle this update?" And I said, "Fuck yeah, I have people in HTML. I have people in XML and PHP. I have people in firewalls, servers, administration. I have people in l33t haXX0ring, phreaking, and for a very brief period before he was digested alive I had people in time traveling carnivorous Brontosaurs."

Anyone remember phreaking? The mad craze of phone hacking that those of us in the real world thought was entirely the creation of The Jolly Roger and other such fine upstanding members of the community that write books that have the phrase "find a geek" when describing a test method for exploding tennis balls full of match heads.

ANARCHY!

That's right, I am talking about the famous, often imitated but never duplicated Anarchist's Cookbook. That fine banned bit of information that taught you such useful techniques as how to cook LSD from seeds and a chapter entitled "How to send a car to hell!" Which spawned the fan fiction classic by Dante2001rulezU!!! called "The Fucking Car Inferno and Shit!!!! I hope I don't wake my mom up. Shit dude, why did you type that? Oh fuck man! Delete it you stupid tard! And stop fucking typing". It is the woeful story of the afterlife of a 1983 Mercury Lynx L as it travels through the 7 circles of car hell with it's poet guide: a mentholated virginia slim that Billy Joel tossed into the gutter after his mad bitchin' 1985 concert tour "The red badge of the piano man: Revisited".

But I am talking about the anarchist's cookbook. I thought I would give a brief outline of the content of this book for those of you "Eloi"* numbnuts bitches that have no idea the grotesque underworld that us total underground, above the law, badasses have constructed.

Intro: I am the Jolly Roger and I am hella fucking cool and am a hardcore, underground, above the law, badass. And you little people have no idea what the real world is like you just live in this sheltered suburban house and drink Evian water out of a bottle and think you are above everyone but you don't know fucking shit about any shit. And you think that correct grammar and a good vocabulary and knowing lots of words makes you better than me just because you think all that stuff is so great. But I am DEATH INCARNATE. And I didn't get that from the original Castle Wolfenstein or shit. So don't you think that. And you fucking cops will never find me even though I put my name in the phone book as J. Roger. Hahahahaha.

And this is a book for edukasionel porpoises and you shouldn't give it to kids because they might actually use some of this stuff to do things that are against the law thinking they are all badass when really they still watch Digimon for the plot lines. I like Digimon and all that but I watch it because I am old enough to appreicate the ANIMATRONIC MASTERWORKS of the genuses that make it over at the Digimon Inc. production studios because someday I want to make cartoons for a living. Cartoons about making shit out of ammonia and cow shit that goes BOOM! and kills the kids in my class. I of course mean my community college class because it ain't like I am no middle schooler. I am much to f***ing hardbad. Now here is how to make bombs and shit. But I repete; do not use any of this information it is dangerous and illegal and you are too stupid and would probably get caught. So this is just for those of you that are tired of learning things from teachers like Mrs. Cringleburn who smells like she has been cooking gingerbread meth in a mothball house IN THE MIDDLE OF A TRASH PILE! Probably near the highway! And if she is, you can't learn to do that in this book!

LANARCHY!

This has been the first in a chain of updates outlining the glory of the Anarchist's Cookbook. If you liked what you read so far, you can download the entire work on some site run by a dumbass that uses lots of red fonts on a black background and calls himself something like "TheTedofDeath" because I will be goddamned if I am putting such trash on this HIGH QUALITY site run on my very own internet making display machine by me. So hahajahahahahajaja. Now I think I am going to go eat a chili dog. Oh, I am sorry mom I thought you were passed out with your pills and booze again after getting fucked by the gay pool boy that just does it so you don't call INS on his Puerto Rican ass. Goddamn it, I forgot to stop typing again, and yes I think this joke is kinda funny so fuck you readers!

*Note: Eloi is the name of the race of weak surface dwellers in H.G. Wells "The Time Machine".

October 21st
Quandary.

The man has given me an opportunity. I have been handed a situation on a silver platter that will enable me to finish my community service without lifting a finger. A few forged court documents, and I've got all the bling bling I need to take care of bizness. It is risky, but in this case, almost bulletproof. Really, I have made up my mind to do it. It is too open, too perfect, too available. Roll the dice, take the chance. Because it is a rarity when you can find little loopholes in the system and exploit them. Now we will find out just how good my karma is. Is it a fallacy to even consider? Almost certainly, but I have grown so weary that....fuck it I say.

Of course there is the moral question, of whether I should comply with the orders of an unjust law. One that is constantly criticized and exists merely to generate revenue for the state. My only charge that I am being penalized for is underage drinking by a matter of months. This is a law that exists simply because were the individual state to drop the legal drinking age, the federal government refuses several kinds of really boring funding that is nonetheless necessary for highways and such things. A monetary law, and now they say that I can circumvent it with a little misplaced ink and a personal gamble. I say it sounds good to me, all signs point to the wrongdoing. To the immoral thing. It is an opening, and who would I were I not to exploit it? So onward and upward with the dice rolling and let's see how good the system is on a low-grade functional level. Because if these people cared as much about their job as I did about moving boxes, I am home free. Otherwise action will be taken and I might have to go away. Buy the ticket I say.

Don’t make me use my l33t haXXor ski11z fag0rz.
Look bitch, it is like this. I am overrun with the angst of a 14 year old male with hand-me-down playboys under his mattress. Now in real life, I may weigh four ounces, but on this machine I can talk all the shit I want about your mother. ICQ has made me a god, so you best shut your mouth bitch or I will use my l33t haXXor ski11z on your ass. Now I would stay here to fuck you up, but it is bedtime. w00t!

Mother Earth attempts to convince us only she can continue to provide the resources necessary to live.
In a daunting display of sheer duplicity, Mother Nature, our nurturer and provider has tried to tell us that we are incapable of living without her. This is a falsehood, Hostess, Phillip Morris, M&M Mars, and numerous other corporations have been providing for us without any assistance from Mother Nature. She does not hold a monopoly on the air, food, water, and sunlight that our bodies require to continue living. Do not believe anything she says, continue to destroy every inch of Earth, our home planet, without the slightest thought to the future because of course we have many other means of surviving after we have left this sphere a blasted, uninhabitable wasteland.

October 18th
You know what would look good right here? A huge, concrete abomination of man.

I am going to make a quick note to all of you little people out there. When someone has to deal with certain pressures i.e. death and unemployment and whatever else might be going on in their lives that is unusual and a bit extreme and tense, you shithouses standing around stroking your little ego with your little sense is appreciated about as much as a salt lick is to a drowning man. Some of us do not have the time or patience right now to cope with your ignorant lack of timing and don't need you adding to our complications. But you oblivious animals seem to only respond to hot lead enemas. Please do not push someone, because if they're anything like me, they're perfectly happy with any excuse to hurt you right now. And certainly do not test my drama. Personally, I don't have time for your advice, your bullshit, your emotional state, and your typical thoughtlessness. And my reactions are becoming gradually more severe every time I need to tolerate your complete shit. None of you are helping, you fail and insult my intellect. Now fuck off and read the update.

My lord, this is terrible. I am all the way out here with my lady friend and we turn back to gaze romantically onto the scattered lights of the city, and comment perhaps on the insignificance of life, or something else I could steer toward pulling her down in the grass and giving it to her raw dog, but when we turn, trees. What the fuck is that about. It is dusk, we are out walking and I want to incite a romantic moment.

At that point I figure fuck the trees, stars are good enough I guess, at least it will get her on her back. But no, too many branches, this is when it hit me that what we need right here is a massive concrete abomination of man to clear away this obstructing flora and level off the terrain. Nothing fancy, maybe a Gap or a parking lot. Something that just flattens everything out and lets us enjoy the glory of the city. I mean, really gives you a view. When this occurred to me, I almost forgot about sticking it hip deep in my date while I considered the possibilities.

My head swims, just something simple, like a Hike and Shop, an outdoor mall that has little trails from one store to the other, with heated covers over the paths of course. And carpet over the dirt is a given. Maybe a balcony up top with large cushy couches set in a solarium so as to be able to properly see the city, and grab a little ass. Use multiple tiers for many many couch available views. I love it.

We do totally need some kind of monstrous asphalt laden scheme to be designed for this silly hole of nature. Then we could use the timber for a log ride, after proper treating and lacquering. Fake stream, logs, Hike and Shop, couches for view. My God, I truly am an idea man. Pave this shit now; I mean we must have this, who will miss that spotted faggot owl over there? I’m sorry, don’t use the phrase “Ecological Balance”. Try this one asshole “The customer is always right” or maybe just “Bite the Curb”.

I did fuck my date you know, and I mean fuck, if you put it in normal, it is just sex, but I got every hole but the nostrils. I took her to the boneyard. Boom Daddy.

And for a tasteful conversation set in lovely orange and lavender tones: The Ben and I.

October 11th
I am the ultimate jedi badass with the force-fu in the hizzy and you are the total jealous man with the weakness of the minx in his spirit where should reside the mighty spirit of the tiger and her suckling cublings.

So I am staring blankly at my AOL Instant Messenger buddy list right now. I have had about six total hours of sleep in the last two nights. I am curious why I read away messages. Because I don't like to initiate IM's. So unless I am under the impression you want to give me booze or sex then I probably have no interest where you are at the moment.

But I am going to make an etiquette statement now: If you are going to go to the trouble of putting up an away message, make it make fucking sense please you jackass idits (I find it satirical to misspell derogatory terms which insult your intelligence. It is ironic ...don't you think?) But seriously, I am a big fan of such away messages as: "I am the ORIGNIAL BADASS MOTHERFUCKER and so if you want to LEAVE A MESSAGE then you can BET I will whoop your EVER-LOVING ass." But then I put something like "back in a few minutes" or "gone for lunch, back in an hour" or "driving...this could take a while."

Ambiguous away messages are the TOOL of SATAN and IF you use them then you can bet I will BEAT YOU DOWN LIKE A GIRL SCOUT WHO AIN'T GOT NO SKILLZ. I'll tell you, those bitches piss me off. I was out there selling some fucking dope popcorn on the strip with my dope-as-something-that-is-really-dope boy scout troop while those little hussys were just taking all our biznezz. I was living from bucket of caramel to bag of buttered, not sure if I ever live to see 13 while they just soak up their bullshit corporate sponsorship. I'm telling you, it is a Pepsi world now, if Sesame Street had a popcorn monster I would be able to afford that gold plated girlfriend I always wanted. With some chrome subs to make that ho BUMP.

You are soooo gay. You are such a little queer. Oh my god, I had better turn my penis away before it catches a mean case of the straightlessness germs from you you are that gay.

If you watch the news at all, you will know that I was reasonably excited about a most prudent occurrence that happened in the most amazing ordinary way to one of the dullest people I know. Man, was that jumping. Remember the good old days? Like that time I got reasonably excited? It seems like a paragraph ago. There was more to this thought, but when I wrote it out, it just sucked. So what I am putting here instead is the text equivalent of the Boston Philharmonic's performance of the musical of the 1999 fiscal year income statement for Jefferson Largemont of Kansas City.

*Tuning up in the background...the stage lights dim...some fucking baby starts crying and the usher beats it to death with a flashlight...The conductor stands, haloed in the spotlight and waves his baton*
What the fuck is this? This isn't fucking music, this looks like a W-2 form with "return to sender" stamped on the front. Fuck you, I am a Cellist and do not have to take this. I have to take endless jokes about the size of my violin and how much I enjoy having that much wood between my legs for that many hours a day, but I don't have to swallow this.

October 9th
Teeny-Bopper Bitch factory found, destroyed.

In what is being called “The finest military campaign of all time” the factory that produces young, attractive female stars was discovered and destroyed Wednesday at approximately eleven-twenty pm.

The factory was established sometime in the mid-nineties in a location that has remained undiscovered for years. It had been carefully hidden in a dense patch of rainforest in Zaire. The vacuous, grinning, large-breasted, youthful stars it produced were smuggled discreetly into various parts of California for tanning and training. Once their appearance and manner had been completed they were then rocketed into stardom by mass media exposure. Most recognizable of these heinous beings are: Brittany Spears, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Christina Aguilara, Alicia Silverstone, Sarah-Michelle Gellar, as well as a mass of far less identifiable starlets who had yet to be properly weaned and unleashed upon the general populace.

Since the building of the factory many Pentagon strike forces have been established for the sole purpose of finding and eliminating this factory. General Fritz Bruckhower of Germany made the initial recognition when a California bound freighter was apprehended for carrying contraband. Inside the cargo hold were several dozen blonde females with empty eyes and high, squeaky voices that refused to eat more than once every two days. The General was called to the scene as part of the international search and destroy team. In moments he knew what a huge find it was. The ship had come from Zaire. He contacted the United Nations. The United States, as the foremost victim of the Teeny-Bopper integration, volunteered to fully handle destruction of the factory. The United Nations made the proper authorization, and soon a reconnaissance team was sent to Zaire.

Over the next few months the men were forced to live in the hardest of conditions, constantly on the move looking for the factory. It was spotted by a soldier whose name has remained classified. Allegedly he saw the pens the girls were kept in as well as the exercise yard with Olympic sized pool and tennis courts. As per ordered he alerted his team and an air strike was orchestrated. The soldiers painted the factory with a targeting laser to allow accurate attack from the bombers miles above the earth. Once the factory was obliterated the troops flushed out and executed any and all surviving Teeny-Boppers. Handlers for the girls were taken prisoner and will face charges of Conspiracy to Undermine the Intelligence of a Country. They face the death penalty.

Relief for the victory has been short lived as fear of duplicate factories arise. Already suspicions of a government-funded laboratory in India that has Teeny-Bopper capability are being addressed. Furthermore the government of the United States wishes to warn it’s citizens that somewhere there still is a Boy-Band plant that can operate unchecked and will feed America with J-Crew sweater wearing, greasy spiked-haired, dulcet toned men in their very early twenties who croon about love. Everyone is asked to be aware of the threat that exists still and not bask in the arresting of the past one.

October 3rd
My updates are the only thing small about me.

This first part is another of my personal ads that is oh-so-yummy in the tummy of your adversaries!

Bring me the Wenches!
I am an unholy soldier in the army of the one true power. I fear left handed people and their pets. Unless they have birds. Birds are just so cute. I like to teach them the theme music to national geographic and then sing it to amuse the children in the dungeon. And I am sooo smart and pretty. If you saw me on the street you would say "hey, that is just the kind of guy I want as an ex-husband who won't stay away from the tires of my car unless my current boyfriend threatens him with an unplugged circular saw." Which would be odd, because you were walking alone and then started yammering to yourself. What am I supposed to think about that?

Jdate.com - The hip, new site for Jewish singles.
Circumsized Gents Seeks Pork-less Female for Porking
And all that time I spent wondering where all the good kykes be at.
You, Me, and a Jimmy Yamulka baby!
Orthodox Girl Dreaming of a Reasonable Banker.

And the archives section is now sex-i-fied for your browsing pleasure.