Counterpoint: Kent Brockman Sucks Wet Farts Out of Dead Pigeons by Peter Griffin
Do You Know What Really Grinds My Gears? Know-It-All-Newscasters telling me the "End Is Near." Excuse me, Kent, is your refrigerator running? Because if it is, it probably runs like you, very homosexually.
You know what else grinds my gears? Everybody on Morris O'Brian about his drinking. First of all, he's Irish, so he's entitled to keep a pint in his desk. I'm pretty sure it's in the Americans With Disabilities Act. Second, he just got his shoulder penetrated by a Black and Decker power drill, and if that ain't enough, he also helped a terrorist program a freakin' nuke. If I were Mo, I'd be shootin' heroin like Alyssa Milano and slapping Chloe like Jackson Brown at a Whack-a-Mole tournament.
Gee, this is worse than the time I worked as Al Gore's meter reader.
So, Valencia got nuked. So, what? "Valencia" sounds like a name you'd give to a chronic yeast infection, or some kind of drag queen who sings "Love Don't Cost a Thing" in high heels with a couple of oranges stuffed down his bra. And not the good kind of pre-op transsexual drag queen where you can't even tell because he had his Adam's apple surgically shaved. I'm talking about the "Oh my gawd what did your father do to you?" kind.
You know what else grinds my gears, the way the Bauers treat Jack's little bastard kid. It's not his fault Graem couldn't cut it in the sack so Marilyn had to go get herself impregnated with Jack's powerful man-essence. Hey, do you think she asked him to use a condom but he said, "I don't have time for this." Henh-Henh-Henh-Henh-Henh-Henh.
Anyway, Kent, there's lots worse things in the world than terrorist nukes, or snipers, or that horrible phallic symbol Audrey calls a nose. Lots worse. Like that year I spent in the hatch entering numbers into the microcomputer.
And if the end of the world does come, there's always that Twinkee factory in Natick.
Point: The End is near (finally)
by Kent Brockman