Tim Smith's Greatest Hits
Chosen based on his own opinions and viewer feedback...
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Tim Smith
One thing you never see at a state fair is a virtual reality child birth simulator.
Say what you want to about rape, but if you're seeking an intense feeling of power and sexual domination, there aren't too many options.
I wish the song “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” had inspired tunes with similar titles, like “I Left My Pancreas in Hackensack” or “I Left My Labia in Saudi Arabia.” That one would be more literal, and wholly more disturbing if Saudi Arabia was in Africa.
It would suck to get measles and weasels at the same time, especially if you were an artist, because the weasels would chew the legs off your easels.
People born before 1972: When he died at the age of 35, Mozart had written 41 symphonies, 27 piano concertos, 23 string quartets, 17 piano sonatas, 7 major operas, and numerous works for voice and other instruments making him one of the most influential and visionary figures in music history. In your 35 years, what have you ever done that shaped an art form? What have you ever done at all?
Now matter how hilarious a great inconvenience or hardship is, it becomes exponentially more hilarious if it happens to a child who doesn’t understand.
Anal bleeding. Let’s talk about it.
If you get your tonsils removed it’s called a tonsillectomy. If you get your appendix removed it’s called an appendectomy. If you get your testicles removed it’s called castration. Have the balls not earned a fancy medical-sounding name? Vasectomy sounds medical, but you keep your jewels. Maybe the problem is that testiclectomy sounds like something you’d pay a hooker for or watch the Ghost Busters fight.
Andrew Lloyd Webber’s next musical should be called “Retards in Leotards.”
The original AIDS monkey lives in my garage.
If all you have to do to get bird flu is have sex with a dead, infected chicken, then whoa, look out.
In a cannibalistic society, battered women are something you order at a baseball game.
Drinking won’t solve your problems unless your problem is an unwanted pregnancy.
Rape strippers!
When it comes down to it, I would run naked through a Denny’s for twenty dollars.
Shortly following death, people relieve their bowels, but I wonder if there’s any way to determine whether a SIDS victim pooped before or after death.
Philanthropy causes cancer.
You’ve probably tricked someone, but have you ever hoodwinked, bamboozled, or flimflammed them?
Slavery in early America created a permanent rift between black and white people, leading to a civil war and an eventual need for millions of hours of civil rights demonstrations, so I guess mostly it was a good idea.
Ninety-nine eviscerated hookers on the wall. Ninety-nine eviscerated hookers. Take one down. Pass her around. Ninety-eight eviscerated hookers on the wall.
I love running the air conditioner all the time because it’s like bending Mother Nature over a tree stump in what used to be a rain forest and humping her until her eyes bleed.
As odd as it sounds, the scent of semen in a dryer sheet is not particularly soothing.
A few years past, I opted out of an education degree. I wouldn’t say I regret the decision, but in retrospect, I feel somewhat that I missed out on a humbling opportunity to have children believe anything I tell them. I’m sure some of you are thinking of the prospect of molestation, but wholly more appealing to me is the chance to teach kids false information that would make the rest of their lives more difficult, kind of like Adam Sandler’s mama in The Water Boy. It would be possible to invent characters that took part in historical events, or create new historical events all together, like extra world wars, or ancient civilizations that never existed. You could even teach kids their ABC’s incorrectly. A music teacher could train their kids to play their instruments wrong, not as a result of incompetence, but just as a product of spite and malice. That way, when they get to college, they’d have to relearn everything they’d worked so hard on. I would fabricate new laws of physics and science, devise additional Constitutional Amendments, and conceive of wild explanations of economic matters. Maybe I should consider going back to school…
As the jail cell door closed, I realized it was a disturbing parallel to the door closing on my anal virginity.
The fight for women’s equality will not be finished until you ladies kick it up a notch and get your suicide success rate up there with the guys. I mean sleeping pills? Honestly, come on!
I sort of feel sorry for people who could never have a truly satisfying sexual experience unless they were getting freaky with Jesus. Incidentally, Getting Freaky with Jesus was my nickname in high school.
It would be hilarious to commit suicide and leave a note that blamed it all on somebody and say that they drove you to kill yourself, especially if that was completely false, or if you barely knew them. You’d be dead, but what an awesome prank.
Here’s a comforting thought: every single safety warning and health regulation exists primarily as the result of someone losing an appendage.
Did the first hanging occur as an accident, or did the executioner just get lucky?
I’ve thought about writing a book, but I’m afraid that if I did, it would just be viewed as thinly-veiled racist rhetoric, because that’s all it would be.
Ethnic cleansing seems preposterous to me because no matter how hard you scrub, they’re still going to be brown.
Today’s scripture selection comes from John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son to a room full of mincing, boy-hungry pedophiles.” I’m not sure what this accomplished, but I guess it at least made the pedophiles feel better.
I get into a screaming rage almost every time I drive because of some old person driving 15 in a 35. It’s not that I’m in a hurry; I’m usually not. I just don’t particularly enjoy driving because of how unproductive and boring it is. So, next time I feel a heart attack coming on when I’m in a traffic-related ire, I’m going to use it as an excuse to start swerving so I can take out as many of you old fuckers as I can. I don’t even care if I die; I’LL SEE YOU IN HELL! You’ll know me because I’ll be the one poking you with a pitch fork while you roast slowly over a pile of flaming Bibles. (Wow, that kind of got out of hand, huh?)
Sometimes nothing turns your day around like pinching a young boy’s bottom.
Tim Smith recently graduated with a degree in music from North Dakota State University. He was once the only white member of a household that included an Asian, a Native American, and a Mexican. You can reach Tim at timothy.smith@ ndsu.edu.
