I have a love/hate relationship with Rod Steward. I love to hate him.
And now, a mash up.
“Do Ya Think I’m Sexy In Uptown Funk?” by ROD STEWART Vs. MARK RONSON FEATURING BRUNO MARS
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Author Archives: sungmokoo
The Alternate Superman
In this alternate universe, Stuperman is overtly ignorant. So much so that he spells stupor as stuper. This is his origin.
Jak-el and Burro, prominent Kraptonian mega-scientists, who were also married to each other, feared this day would come, but not this soon. They weren’t ready. They only had time to build one small prototype of a rocket to escape. If only the science council had listened to their pleas to stop drilling, instead of mocking the couple by drilling willy nilly to prove some kind of point, even the dentists. Now their planet is hopelessly vibrating itself out of existence. As they embraced, knowing their days were numbered, they turned to their baby son, Guz-el, who was sleeping soundly in what can be best described, a futuristic Ikea® crib.
Fold This
America’s version of origami. Notice the overt laziness and lack of detail. It is said that American art has become more clumsy, and less inspirational, more obese, and less health conscious. This is what happens when you fix everything with duct tape.
“It’s hotter than a fifteen man circle jerk in a poorly ventilated makeshift coatroom.” Oscar fanned himself with a folded up newspaper. It was very efficient, because it was constructed properly.
The secret to a good paper fan is to put in as many tight folds as you possibly can, the closer the better. This takes time and patience. You’re looking for firmness, as opposed to flimsy. As is true with all things, integrity is your best friend. Oscar’s hand held fan had over seventy-five pleats, and when dry, it can support an empty pint glass, or something of equal weight, 5.3 oz., like a medium sized robin.
This Is Not A Good Time, Not A Good Time
Pop-up restaurants are like pop-up books, once you’ve seen one, they’re all pretty stupid.
Taking advantage of the uncomfortable silence, Raina Lott stepped forward and spoke; softly, but with a steady confidence. “I killed Helen last night.”
If memory served her correctly, which it did not, she faultily recalled that admission of guilt is best divulged to one’s peers at mandatory work-related events, which this was. It was a grand opening party for the pop-up restaurant she just started working at.
The Home Of DJ Sung Mo Koo 