Hot Dog Appreciation Day: The Mouth at the End of Memory

Greetings, Hot Doggers! It is time once again to honor your contributions to the art of Hot Doggery. You saw our site jam-packed with jokes — bursting with jokes, so stuffed with jokes it tried to slip one more joke in and wound up puking jokes all over the floor — and you said “hey, how about some more jokes?” 

You understand. 

You truly understand. 

This isn’t even about comedy anymore. It’s a crusade. Our mission is to flood this world with jokes until all those who’ve wronged us drown in hilarity. An Earth washed clean, so that it can be remade anew. Populated by our society: One that values belly laughs over bullets, guffaws over genocide, and fuck apes over fascism. 

You guys did get all that, right?

Onward, to Twitter!

A few weeks ago, Seanbaby broke physics and found the impossible: 1,001 Ways NOT to be Romantic, a book about Godek that was also worse than Godek. Seanbaby dedicated way more thought to making fun of it than its author put into making it, and then the real magic happened: 

Joe Dacey did some actual fucking journalism and discovered that Godek wrote the parody of himself! Our entire understanding of the world was suplexed right onto its damn head. Perhaps it was Murray who put it most succinctly in the comments:

At one point our Teamworking Day about Worldwatch devolved into Seanbaby and Brockway just textually snugglin’ and Cesar, like all of you, loved it:

While Swift Justice has some lessons on the complicated pathways of Australian grammar, or as linguists call it, the “Down South Mouth Route.”

Christopher Horne is rapidly disintegrating while trying to keep the memory of Pants Chapley alive and who? What were we talking about? Australia, right? Haha did you know they call trash cans “wheelie bins?” Precious.

Last week Lydia wrote about a book that advocated putting needles in your cat’s butthole, and The noticed that wasn’t even the worst thing about it:

While Mel Mudkiper adds a little whimsy to dog destruction.

Sissyneck is our favorite troll. He’s kind of a tell-all autobiography written by a Wal-Mart security guard slowly losing his mind to dementia, but he was really firing on all cylinders these last few weeks:

Over on the Discord, we were keeping things classy and philosophical with a discussion on eating MEat. 

And the merits of bringing 2D brawlers to life (in Russia, obviously):

Here Michael Korvac, Cosmic Asshole once again uses his powers for evil:

And this is your biweekly reminder to never underestimate our dedicated community of internet sleuths. Especially when it comes to fuckable pizza. (Please be forewarned, there is Fuckable Pizza ahead: do not read if you are easily fetished.)

And now, let us pontificate on the nature of sexy alien Jaxon Human, and his weird dickfighting game:

There is an important line between generations that cannot be overcome: There are the kids who found their porn in the woods, and there are the kids who safely used the internet like a bunch of pansies. Not Actually Mithras did actually solve this mystery:

Brockway bemoaned having the shittiest doppelganger, but JeremyCantrell and Bigfoot in a Clown Car made it all right again:

While the Hot Dog Tipline blew up with a Hot Tip about Cool Tips. That joke only works if you consider the foreskin to be the turtleneck sweater of the penis which, of course, you do:

There is no winner when we all work together like this to lift one other up. This is about community and cooperation, about putting the good of the many ahead of the good of the few. But also the winner is Sissyneck, for his white trash Welcome to Night Vale series told entirely through the least appreciated medium: Internet comments. Congratulations, Sissyneck! For the next two weeks, you will be the custodian of the most valuable piece of art known to man. Or at least it used to be before our last winner, Mel Mudkiper, “improved” it:

As with all of our previous winners, who also violated the Rollerskating BatPrince Terms of Custody, Mel Mudkiper will now be minced and have his remains fed to the Mouth at the End of Memory, so that whenever his loved ones think of him they will instead picture a skinless hippo orgy. 

You folks are, as always, the best. And if anybody ever questions that, you call us. We’ll jump in the original 1966 Batmobile and zip right over to THWOK! their COCK!