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A busjacking by Jack Off Jill?

Theorized about on November 12, 2006.

The Jack Off Jill ’o-rama continued this week as I placated my nostrils by spinning slightly about my electric oven and placing my Frigidaire around a pile of frozen treacle and horn-snottery. That squirrel-fox-dingo sure looked tired, if not exhausted out of its skin, but on it went: Upward, downward, inward, outward, back-and-forth–ward, forever. It didn’t stop—it couldn’t stop, not with that many crazed Goth chicks all around the poor animal.

Goth girls love those squirrel-fox-dingoes.

Pining once again for the graceful beauty of Alyssa Milano’s Feet, my old ship, now rotting at the bottom of the Pacific fjords, I sullenly bulled my way to a bus stop on Farnsworth Street, and demanded that I be able to take the bus home with me: I’ve always wanted my own autobus in my garage. The bus driver said no, of course, so I jacked up the bus, and, Jack Off Jill ever-present on my mind, sat down and soiled myself while weeping like a little child.

Anticlimactic, I know. So sue me, morons.