Phrases With No Previous Google Hits
With highest regards to Gene Weingartner of the Washington Post for his exemplary reserach into the following phrases with no previous google hits:
It was not the typical acid klezmer band record release party of sonnets by Elmer. Our supercalifragilisticexpialidocious-esque singing had been as successful as trying to sell a hot cheese sundae to a lactose intolerant plush Osama doll. The other band members looked depressed. Our bass player, Bad, bad Leroy Moskowitz, the yodeling librarian, was more interested in showing his new tattoo of dogs playing poker and mah-jongg. Nervously, our drummer Thor adjusted his mascara. Together, we were a collection of struggling musicians with cancer, heart disease, and zits. Our publicist apparently had found Lou Dobb’s hash pipe and was making a fool of himself before the billionaire manicurist Soren “Porky” Kierkegaard by getting high and proclaiming that “I believe dust mites have souls.” Porky could only casually retort with “I owe my life to unprotected sex.”
The party was catered by Tiffani Suarez, who, while capable of firing up the best pork chops in Jerusalem, looked ridiculous after her recent man-boob implants. Tiffani was yelling at staff to assist a choking music critic Mohammed Ciccolini who was complaining “hey, this tastes like aardvark.” Tiffany screamed “next, boil the toast” while failing to notice she meanwhile was letting the caviar ‘n’ taters burn to a crisp.
Suddenly, our bouncer Moishe Goebbels, with his I (heart) my zygote tattoo, let out a yell. Much to Paris Hilton’s embarrassment, she did not have money for the cover charge. “Please accept these underpants as collateral”, the bearer of insufficient cellulite Paris stated as she began disrobing. Staring directly into the eyes of varsity pinochle champion Antwaan Rothschild, Paris announced “I’m going to be concentrating on my home-wrecking now.” Unimpressed, Moishe firmly told Paris “if you take off your bra, I’m calling the cops” and added veiled threats with as much as George W. Bush’s subtlety on torturing terrorist suspects that Paris may soon be facing the sensual feel of the speculum. Soon, Paris was wearing only a codpiece and a sombrero and proved her intoxicated state by shouting such nonsensical things as “Jesus loves you for your money”, “I was helped by the federal government” and “Richard Cheney in ‘08”.
Paris suddenly froze. The aroma emitting from the hash pipe was affecting her thinking. She thought hard, with an “I’m fixin’ to solve the Shimura-Taniyama conjecture” look on her, when she began hallucinating two strange figures, the dainty Hillary Clinton and that nappy-headed ho, Barbara Bush. Hillary began shaking hands with the food and commenting how “this lobster must have been Roman Catholic” while Barbara proclaimed “Rove should just shut up and look pretty.” These visions disturbed Paris so much that she shouted out in fear, “I am dying from cancer of the bellybutton.” Suddenly, Hillary transformed into another vision that approached Paris and announced “I’m Stephen Hawking, and I’m a Capricorn. My grandchildren are so ugly, the all look like the Iraqi Regis Philbin with Queen Elizabeth’s buttocks”. Barbara told about Laura Bush’s secret tattoo and was yelling how Nelson Mandela is a doo-doo head. Paris staggered towards music historian Rajneesh Roosevelt III with a come-hither look that was repelled when Rajneesh turned and opted instead for “I’ll take deaths by autoerotic asphyxia for $400, Alex.”
“My name is not Alex”, Barbara responded, who within Paris’s dementia, had turned into studio musician Billy Bob Nussbaum. Paris googled for information about Billy Bob Nussbaum, yet the results were a googlenope. “Sorry”, Paris announced as she left, “but I don’t want to date any of you. I know who I want. That Gene Weingarten is hot.”