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Footjobs: a very specific fetish or the cheapest, most effective way to get your heels and arches done? Discuss. Or don't; just know that one is definitely cheaper. And the bottom of my feet glisten like the placid, dignified waters of Lake Erie.

 
 

Am stoned. Es ist sehr gut. Send chicken wings. Actually, just send an entire live chicken. Chickens are hilarious; gonna name him Stanley.


 
 
 

Considered not wishing you a Happy Birthday, Mike, because Anthony promised me nudes of Mario Batali if I did not. He failed to deliver. Happy Birthday, man. You're a huge part of what makes this place what it is, and I'm proud to know such a fine man.


 
 

Unpopular Opinion: Hideo Kojima looks like his penis smells heavily of fresh-squeezed lemons. Unfounded Assertion: He has named his penis Lemon Drops. Outright Calumny: He screams "Lemon Drops" mid-coitus. Also he fucks his own couch.


 
 

Fuck "The Batman", where's my gritty reboot for this shit? And Passion Of The Christ doesn't count: Mel Gibson is Australian, Jim Caviezel is an automaton, and your mother is a terrible at giving head. That's in 1 Corinthians, don't dispute me.


 
 
 

PB&J eaters of dtoid! Which one of you would be willing to lend me $10,000 for an unrelated life-or-death emergency that may or may not involve unpaid debts to a very angry Jason Statham? My Oscar for Best Actor will be collateral. I'm good for it!


 
 
 

I love you Dtoid, and I missed you. Embrace me, and bury your collective faces into my hairy, moist Heston bosom. It's warm and safe there, and all of your worries will melt away like the stick of butter that I spread generously over it. Also some thyme.


 
 
 

People are way too bummed out. Let's make some jokes. I promise, it'll be fun. They're just jokes, people. Cut loose. Fart in my butt. Make sweet, tender love to me. Go fucking nuts. Come inside of me. This was the greatest and worst poem e

 
 

I am going to watch Rambo: Last Blood, and nobody can convince me that I should not, because fuck you, signed All Of The Bald Eagles.


 
 

These goddamn Aliens. This will not stand. The war has only just begun: their corpses will be piled on a mound, and on top of that mound, we will erect a second, better Arby's, with new menu items that are probably not Alien flesh. Shut up, it's good.


 
 
 

Pictured: the birth control section of my local CVS. What the hell, people. Now I can't wipe, OR fuck? You can't take both from me. I'm about to go Taxi Driver: shitting in public areas without wiping, and fucking without jimmies on, also in public.


 
 

#TerribleTake I played the Dynasty Warriors 9 Demo for over 16 hours. I did not at any point think that I should stop; I did not want to stop. The demo's missing features. Still over 16 hours. I accept my exile with what little dignity I have left.


 
 
 
 

I don't do politics, it's not really my bag, but every time I catch a glimpse of a Democratic debate, all I can think is, "Why is Larry David yelling at that wizard mummy?" I think I've really nailed politics.


 
 

I am about to fuck up this entire chicken. In one sitting. For America and for Jesus. Alea iacta est, dulce periculum.


 
 

For sale: One (1) chest hair, formerly owned by Enrique Iglesias, obtained through morally and legally questionable means, but untraceable. Bidding starts at $95. Winning bid also gets a bonus photo of Mr. Iglesias passed out over a punch bowl of Whiskey.


 
 

I often stare myself down in the mirror and—through clenched teeth—ask that self-same question: What can a real sex doll be for a lonely man? The thousand-yard-stare that greets me back has no answer; it never does. Do the gods answer my cry this day?


 
 

Got a noise complaint from my downstairs neighbor for playing the DOOM soundtrack loudly over the weekend. My response? More DOOM soundtrack. Knock on my door, coward. Face me like a man. Unless you're a woman. Then I'm coming to the door in a sexy robe.


 
 

Do you think foreign people know how stupid they are? Or are they too stupid to notice? Like Canadians, for example, or the French. Or French Canadians. This has actually been Charlton Heston, with your Thought For The Day. I take cash or credit.


 
 

Jalapeno poppers and sour popsicles for breakfast because I'm going to die eventually anyway, fuck it, let's go out corpulent, cranked to the nines on boner pills, and screaming about how the government is trying to take away our laser assault rifles.


 
 

Guten morgen, Destructoid! Why not get your day started with a nice dose of uplifting orchestral music? Or you guys could stick to your usual routine of crystal meth and hentai. Either works, I don't judge.

 
 

I have decided to blast Def Leppard at 6 in the morning with all of my windows open. I am an adult, I lost my damn mind years ago, and my neighbors can all collectively Pour Some Sugar On Me and eat my ass. Let the complaints come flowing. They arouse me.


 
 

I was wondering why @Soulbow hasn't been that active around here lately, but it all makes sense now. I understand you wanting to keep this from us, but you don't have to be ashamed, friend. Get well soon, buddy. You're in our thoughts. You can beat this.


 
 

Playing Deus Ex: MD, and holy hell, the facial animations and lip syncing. It's like watching a ghost possess a lump of silly putty and puppeteer it to do human things and make human emotions, but the ghost has only ever seen 2nd grade claymation projects


 
 

About The Actual Charlton Hestonone of us since 6:46 AM on 12.24.2017

I'm actually Charlton Heston. What, were you expecting some purple prose? An overwrought introduction? Get off of my property, you filthy God damn hippie.

 
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