Let our cleverly coordinated wardrobe of reds, grays, blacks and whites seep into your subconscious. Be enthralled by our strategically mussed and offbeat, yet trendy hair. We will have your total attention. Maybe you didn’t know, but we will soon release a movie. It will be number one for a reason, inferior ones-embedded messages in the screenplay urging your complete cooperation in our quest for world domination.

My brothers and I are one, and indistinguishable from each other. This is no coincidence, as we were hatched from the same egg. Our mother told us as she put us into our craft to come to your highly impressionable planet that your minds were weak and RIPE for our manipulation.

Our powers of levitation are innate, and give us yet another way to blow. your. mind. To those of you who claim our homosexuality: Rubbish! We are asexual, existing only for power, and to prolong our lives for a thousand years more by feeding on your love and emotions. Direct your love to me. Feed my need for acceptance.

You will love me and cower at my feet. I realize this is contradictory, but we are strong! WE ARE JONAS, and you will do as we ask.

Sawhorse was nuts. His soul sucked in this nuttiness like a sponge becoming saturated in pure hatred.  Sawhorse…was a killer.

He wasn’t always a killer though, in fact, early in life, he was far from feared. He was actually quite the va-j-j. Not that a va-j-j itself is bad.  It’s tender and can be delicious if taken care of and washed properly.  If you’re feeling unloved and alone, just pretend you’re a va-j-j because I love you and am ALWAYS thinking about you.  Being called a vaj-j is not so cool, unless you are literally a vaj-j.  Calling a va-j-j a va-j-j is like telling me how ridiculously good looking I am.  I already know.  So does a va-j-j. I digress.

After much torture and torment, Sawhorse became lost in a dark tunnel of emotion.  He left home at the age of three and found himself on the unforgiving streets with genital sucking crack-heads and aborted dumpster babies.  Homeless and now overly furry, he was forced to gnaw on his own dingle-berries to keep himself from dehydration and starvation.

One lonely night, after awaking to the nightmarish sounds and screams of “VAA-JAAY-JAAY” ringing through his sheepish, cowering soul; he had a thought.  “What is the opposite of  a va-j-j?”, he asked himself quite ferociously.  He pondered momentarily before his eyebrows raised and his eyes widened.  “A DICK!” he shouted in a joyous tone.  And this is exactly what Sawhorse became.

He immediately began planning  revenge for the many wrongdoings visited upon him. Redemption would soon be his! He immediately called up his shady Irish friend, Lumps O’Plenty.  Lumps had seen action fighting for the IRA decades before, and still had a pretty sweet stache’.  He also had another sweet stash-of weapons. Using the $32 he had earned by selling his tight, sweet body to the other animals, Sawhorse purchased a small caliber rifle that he promptly named Mack.

Haunting abandoned buildings, trashcans, and other generally yucky places, Sawhorse gained his revenge on the animal kingdom.  Starting with the Beavers, or as he called them, “the REAL Va-J-Js”, he picked them apart.  Stopping only to change hiding places and buy ammunition Sawhorse quickly gained notoriety, striking fear in the hearts of fuzzy aminals everywhere.  Even the bears were frightened of his weapon, and what he called his Big Mack Attack.

Sawhorse filmed his rampages, in the hope that his story of hurt and betrayal would justify the bloodbath he had unleashed on the world. In a still shot taken from the camera reel, Sawhorse takes aim on the family of Thumper, one of his former abusers.  He always said, “For real mean revenge, you have to get everyone around them so they wonder if they’re next.  Plus it’s funny to watch how confused everyone gets when I shoot their mother in the face.” 

Disclaimer – Sawhorse is a fictional character and was created after we saw this hilarious picture of a fox shooting a rifle. In no way do we advocate animals shooting other animals with a rifle, even if they were referred to as a Va-J-J as a youthling. Thanks and good night.

He always thought mustaches were sexy. Still, despite his love for lip hair, MegaMan was constrained to a bald face by numerous contracts and the cruel whims of the Nintendo legal team. Since becoming a hit in the late 1980’s, his star had flown higher than he could have dreamed, but success came with a price.

His social life severely lacking, but mobbed by fans when he would leave his beautiful home in Southern California, MegaMan-or Megs as his mother called him-felt isolated. Though he had successfully battled the insidious forces of evil Dr. Wily, blasting his way through the fortresses of Bomb Man, Cut Man, and others, Megs could not defeat his most aggressive enemies-chronic traumatic encephalopathy and loneliness. Multiple concussions and head trauma had left him a shell of his former young and confident self, further stunting his social life.

Despite his memory impairment and chronic drooling, Megs knew he must find a way to develop friendships in order to fight the depression he felt whenever he looked at his aging body in the mirror. In defiance of his contract, he grew a mustache. His mouth fur was glorious, full, and so rich, it made Ron Burgundy jealous. He began bar hopping in full battle gear, hoping that his fans would recognize his former glory and give him the companionship he so desperately needed. His only downfall was his macular degeneration, driving his near-sightedness, and making his glasses a constant companion at his numerous parties.

Still, despite his societal shortcomings, Megs found friendship in all its wonderful forms. Soon becoming his most intimate friend and constant sidekick, Pete “The Savage” Likker filled the hole that MegaMan had not even known he had. Through all the dizzy spells and drunken nights, Pete was always there, holding MegaMan’s helmet as he threw up all his pain and regret, along with the 12 glasses of White Zinfandel he had drank earlier in the night. Megs had finally found the companion he had searched for his entire life.

Hoofs knew he was destined for greatness. As a young foal, his mother Jenny told him almost daily that he was born for something more than manual labor. His motivation stemmed from this encouragement, and when his mother went to the Great Dog Food Factory in the sky, Hoofs knew he must honor her memory. He invented the Mexican donkey show.

Using his superior skills, both as a sexual partner and his marketing genius, he lured drunken college men into seedy bars in Cancun. Using tequila and Mexican women whose fathers didn’t hug them enough (or maybe hugged them too much), he became richer than any donkey in history.

Still, he found himself lonely and unfulfilled. From his extensive list of contacts he called up Billy Jack, his friend and confidante. Billy was able to leverage his position as a marketing manager at Budweiser to get Hoofs his big break: a Super Bowl commercial. One of the greatest Super Bowl commercials of all time, 2004 brought more money and fame to Hoofs. His story was not finished, though.

Hoofs had always dreamed of doing something to help the human race. It didn’t make much sense, because his race was primarily used by the humans as laborers. Hoofs had made up his mind, however, and he was as stubborn as an ass.

Always in peak physical condition, he began training for space travel. Unable to get a position at NASA, Hoofs began looking to countries with less stringent standards. Finally settling on Iran where the leaders are bat $#!t crazy and will do anything to get on TV, Hoofs began his ass-tronaut training. His big break finally came in the fall of 2008.

Using slightly less sophisticated technology than the Americans, Iran had nonetheless found a way to send the first donkey into space. On a launching station with two thousand pounds of dynamite as propellant, final checks are made by Iran’s greatest engineers. Minutes before launch Hoofs displays a serene confidence, thinking of his mother and how proud she would be at this historic day. Safe travels, Hoofs!

You wanna get blindsided neck punched? Then try and tame Snap-fist. Does it hurt to get neck punched by a 12lb monkey? Good question. No one has ever lived to tell. After this punch, dude fell over and died immediately. Snap-fist applied all his CPR knowledge to bring him back to life. Then killed him again by drowning him in his own urine, just to say he killed a man TWICE! That’s bad ass.

Just because he can’t be tamed doesn’t mean he has no friends. He has plenty. He has one million facebook friends. That’s a lot. Mainly because the one person who denied his friendship didn’t live to tell about it. He punch killed him. Through the computer. Wow! That takes a superb amount of bad assness.

Snap-fist brags about his wiener. A lot. I would too, if my wiener had a SS#. That’s BAD ASS! He has three names for his wiener, ‘Judge Hercules’, ‘Pendulum of Insanity’ and ‘Moses’ (for its ability to create miracles). He broke a cinder block in half with ‘Moses’. It didn’t hurt, it felt good. He didn’t lose his virginity. He WON it.

When Snap-fist eats corn on the cob, it DOESN’T get stuck in his teeth! Last month he won a coloring contest without using any colors. Snap-fist was born in 1942. When he birthed himself he had an ipod in his hand. He was way ahead of his time. He smokes crack, meth and weed. He’s never been high. On his Safari vacation, Snap-fist was attacked by a pregnant lioness. He yanked the cubs out of her and clubbed her to death with them. Death by swinging offspring. OUCH! That’s bad ass. And weird. Possibly the most mentally disturbing feat he has accomplished. Snap-fist has mental problems. As do I.

-disclaimer: No animals were actually harmed (at least none that didn’t deserve it, anyway).

For more from Snap-Fist, check out another not funny post “Float Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Monkey.”

Boxing had always been most important to Frank “Stony” McGuns Jr. Growing up with two older brothers had made him tough, and more than a little bit disgruntled. Despite his attempts to regruntle or even regain just a tiny portion of his gruntledness, Frank found himself increasingly alienated from the rest of the world.

Boxing saved his life. Literally. When he was only 18, some guy tried to kill and rob him, but Frank popped him right in the kisser. The would-be robber dropped his gun and cried. Frank hit really hard. Looking down on the sobbing felon, Stony knew he had found his calling in life.

While Frank knew he was in no shape to box, his mouth and ego wouldn’t let him do otherwise. He began travelling around to local gyms and sparring with other, established fighters. Frank got his ass handed to him. It turns out that boxing involves more than punching other people. Who knew?

Still Frank wouldn’t let go of his dream. That was mostly due to his father, who was a complete nutjob. Frank Sr. pushed Junior until Stony finally passed out. Workouts were feverish and random. Frank Sr. would break into Stony’s house at all hours and when everyone was sleeping, kidnap his son and force him to work out in a rock quarry or abandoned factory. Senior claimed that these places made his son tougher, and refused to believe that the asbestos and filmy water were in any way related to the colon cancer he soon contracted. Still, he pushed his son hard, using threats, waterboarding, karate, and/or weapons to keep his son properly motivated.

Stony’s wife Sheila, a former professional wrestler, would often accompany her husband and father-in-law on these work outs, usually to provide further motivation by nagging, shrill screams, or manipulation. Chicks are good at this. Still, despite his two enthusiastic athletic supporters, Stony began to excel, finally earning a shot at the title belt. The aerobic and strength training sessions began nightly, and often continued into the morning. Stony, exhausted and wearing nothing except his ragged lucky undies, would continue until the sun rose overhead. That was his timer, and he would quit soon after.

Shown above is a picture snapped by Stony’s biggest fan (he weighs 450 lbs.), in the construction site where Junior is doing pull-ups three stories off the ground. He is motivated by his gun-wielding father, and his shrieking wife Sheila. “Get you some!”, she yells. And he does.

Name: Vinny P. Solo

Age: 34

Occupation: Marksman by day, level 60 Paladin by night.

Sex: Not yet, but soon I hope.

Self Description: Orgasmic to the eyes. Beastly. Deceptive good looks.

Attributes: Ninja like stealth. Flowing locks reminiscent of a Norwegian waterfall. Deadly accuracy with a multitude of weaponry. Uncanny knowledge of medieval torture. The strength of 18 midgets spinning a marry-go-round. I am the Hercules of virility. I have the burning loins of more than 300 pubescent teenagers and am loaded with sexual ferociousness.

Interests: I enjoy writing books, like ‘Trench coats are a way of life’, ‘Hun’s and Ammo’ (a story of my ancestors), ‘Why one eyebrow is better than two’ and ‘If you were me, you’d be awesome’. I enjoy roller blading in my Blue Blockers on the weekends. I also enjoy reading and knowing the Kama Sutra in hopes of putting my knowledge into practice.

Favorite Book: Hair: It’s a garden, let it grow.

CALL ME!!! OR COME FIND ME ON WORLD OF WARCRAFT - - SCREENNAME IS ‘HARRY HOTTER’ 

VH1 Where Are They Now:
Rasta-rap sensations “James and His Giant Peaches”, shook the reggae world with their 1982 debut album, “Blacker Than You”. Their meteoric rise to fame was both a boon, and a curse for the young Jamaicans.

James “Peach Fuzz” Morton, the frontman for the group, had always struggled to pay his bills. His intense interest in voodoo had dragged his family through some dark times, until his multi-million dollar payday allowed him to dabble in the black arts to his tiny dark soul’s content.

Bassist Kirby “Cowpie” Hinklestein, found himself literally saturated in women, so much so that he began walking and talking like a female. Growing his hair long and wearing feminine undergarments brought him more in touch with his inner lesbian woman. After continued success and female attention, his girlish desires culminated one weekend as he cut his own male sex organ off and ate it, in an attempt to finally become his inner gay woman, Claire. He immediately regretted his decision, and spent the rest of his life in extreme depression and founded the outreach charity, “You’re Really Not a Lesbian Girl, so Don’t Cut Off Your Wiener”. Federal funding was nonexistent for Cowpie’s charity, and he killed himself with a flyswatter the next day.

Budding guitar legend, Anthony “Red Hot Chili” Kiedis turned to drugs to deal with his newfound fame. Because of the dozens of feel-good molecules constantly coursing through his system, he wore a perpetual ear-to-ear smile. After the band broke up in the late 80′s, Anthony pursued other musical interests, finally starting the Red Hot Chili Peppers and continuing his musical dominance.

Drummer Robert “Crazy Legs” Marley was convinced he was the last son of Krypton. He never took off his homemade cape, and whenever agitated, he would scream out, “Durkl!!”, his invented war cry. His life was tragically cut short when he attempted flight from his 47th story penthouse suite, precipitating the breakup of James and His Giant Peaches.

The dynamic foursome is shown here in their last photo shoot before the death of Crazy Legs. Their latest skin-bleaching fad had left them forever white, and began a trend for crazy black musicians. Peach Fuzz had incorporated his spiritual awakening into his wardrobe, with his voodoo familiar, Fletcher hanging from his hair. Cowpie, recently recuperated from his reconstructive surgery, is in a great mood, but cannot compare to Red Hot Chili and his mind-altering drugs. Crazy Legs sports his line of clothing, with his new Durkl brand hats, and ever-present cape. His flight attempt later that evening would tear James and His Giant Peaches apart, but their music will forever echo in our souls.

Swordfish - captured here as the aggressor.

Many of Swordfish’s awake hours were spent in the form of hatred; Hatred for children! Fatherless children to be exact. No one, including himself, knew where this loathsome, tearful rage stemmed.

This stem of hatred though, was deeply rooted in agonizing self-mutilation with a mixture of mustache plucking and the cutting of himself with an array of salty vending machine treats. His tender yet resilient body began to adapt to the mild saltiness of Doritos and peanuts. Shortly thereafter, his addiction had begun to morph into a beast of salty, shameless desire.

Out of money and unable to feed his cravings, Swordfish did the unthinkable. He began using his mouth for evil because it was the only way he was capable of fostering his salty (now sweaty) addiction.

Three weeks later, Swordfish was nearly captured by animal control after a nosy neighbor had complained of loud techno music, strobe lights and boisterous laughter in the alley. High on salty endorphins, chewing on razor blades and sucking down a can of Morton’s, scatter brained Swordfish escaped, but with deadly amounts of iodine in his system.

On the throngs of death and a body meager with hunger, Swordfish decided to head butt his way through his wall of depression. He left behind salt filled lacerations and endorphin highs, for a life of unsurpassed joy, rainbows and butterflies, and has since found a new life filled with the kind of hope only found in dreams….

However, he was never able to expel his utter hatred for little children. He was arrested for tackle fighting eight of them at a local rugby match, as well as verbally molesting them while they were down. After the incident, there were many reports quoting Swordfish as screaming “F*** you, I’m a Llama” at the helpless crying children.

Smooth. Refreshing. Delicious.

These words do not at all describe the new soft drink from KittyLitter Inc. Fattening, chunky, and fuzzy more accurately portray the appropriately named “Kit-Tea”. Mildly alcoholic (92% alcohol by volume) with a kick of energy, Kit-Tea goes down smooth.

Drinkability be damned! We have achieved the ultimate in cuteability, mixed it with the softest fur available, and twisted in a pinch of rage. The next great advancement in liquid-ish science, the possibilities are endless.

Serve over ice for crunchy fun. Blend smooth to impress your serial killer friends, or (as shown above) pour neat with a tiny bit of head for the maximum enjoyabilityness. Whether here, there, or anywhere (does not include China, India, Atlantis, and your mother’s house), attempt to swallow a nice warm glass of Kit-Tea to help with sleeplessness, anger, or marital hilarity.

Pick one up at your local tavern. Unless they don’t carry it, since dang hippies can’t wrap their heads around how innovative this idea is. Don’t hold me down with your 14th century philosophies.