by Pepi! November 8, 2007
Get the 0430 in the morning mug.Morning glory
A male condition commonly experienced in the early morning, making it self apparent as the said male is preparing his breakfast. Symptoms include swelling and chaffing, with common results being catching and banging certain afflicted members of the body against obstacles. Condition may worsen, causing endless sadist mirth in onlookers, such as the girlfriend, dad, acquaintances or (god no) grandmother of said tortured male. Their are only two known cures, with the only viable one being ice, as the other is impossible to implement due to stiffness of the knuckle and elbow joints in the hands and arms that is usually an issue at such an hour of the morning.
A male condition commonly experienced in the early morning, making it self apparent as the said male is preparing his breakfast. Symptoms include swelling and chaffing, with common results being catching and banging certain afflicted members of the body against obstacles. Condition may worsen, causing endless sadist mirth in onlookers, such as the girlfriend, dad, acquaintances or (god no) grandmother of said tortured male. Their are only two known cures, with the only viable one being ice, as the other is impossible to implement due to stiffness of the knuckle and elbow joints in the hands and arms that is usually an issue at such an hour of the morning.
Billy: Oh no!
Unfortunate Onlooker: Holly fuck!
Billy: Not morning glory!
Unfortunate Onlooker: Ha ha! What a looser.
Billy: I suck!
Unfortunate Onlooker: Holly fuck!
Billy: Not morning glory!
Unfortunate Onlooker: Ha ha! What a looser.
Billy: I suck!
by Sam Wren June 15, 2007
Get the morning glory mug.Related Words
by J-shay December 28, 2005
Get the morning devotion mug.Begin by enjoying a bountiful Indian green curry feast with your partner. After consuming a full bottle of ex-lax apiece, rush to make an urgent cocaine purchase from the one-legged Kenyan around the corner. After kicking his dog and letting his hoe off her leash, you grab the hoe and rush to the nearest Super 8. Once at the room, both your assholes should begin to faucet runny diarrhea into the hoe’s dirty mouth. Mixing the cocaine into this potent mixture, the hoe belches the mixture into your partner’s ass. Bring out the male midget stripper bathing in lucky charms in the bathtub to pile drive your partner until the mixture begins to run down her chest. Once the line has reached epic proportions, snort the line resulting in a life-changing experience.
Stine: “Hey Taylor, how was your first date with that sexy Serbian stallion?”
Taylor: “OH Stine, you wouldn’t believe the romantic evening I had. After enjoying a green curry feast, he performed a Curry Sundae on a Hot Mumbai Morning on me.”
Stine: “Taylor, you’re so lucky to have found such a hot fucking babe.”
Taylor: “OH Stine, you wouldn’t believe the romantic evening I had. After enjoying a green curry feast, he performed a Curry Sundae on a Hot Mumbai Morning on me.”
Stine: “Taylor, you’re so lucky to have found such a hot fucking babe.”
by Ginger Tits October 17, 2013
Get the Curry Sundae on a Hot Mumbai Morning mug.When a girl wakes up after a night of being out, and her hair looks kind of like it did when she left the house, but slightly greasy.
So I woke up in my friend's dorm room and I was gonna go out for breakfast, but I had morning hair so I decided not to.
by Johnny BeLame September 25, 2010
Get the Morning Hair mug.An entertaining way of concluding business during sex. Ensure you are banging a girl (preferably someone who loves you) from behind, and then spit on their back.
Proceed to pulling out of your partners quim, spinning her around and then hitting her in the face with the money shot. Her reaction will be the perfect impression of a moaning zombie (as in, cum = melting flesh, moan in response to your actions).
Proceed to pulling out of your partners quim, spinning her around and then hitting her in the face with the money shot. Her reaction will be the perfect impression of a moaning zombie (as in, cum = melting flesh, moan in response to your actions).
Yesterday, I moaning zombie'd your mum.
This fat bitch was fucking me off during sex, so I hit her with the moaning zombie.
This fat bitch was fucking me off during sex, so I hit her with the moaning zombie.
by evil_moses January 10, 2009
Get the Moaning Zombie mug.They had told him to do it. He didn’t know why, but they said he must do it. He didn’t want to, he knew it was wrong, but the way The Beatles said it to him, it seemed alright.
He had been banished from his hometown because of The Beatles, why had they told him to do that, and so persuasively too. When they sing it lulls the mind, but The Beatles singing about grave digging! It’s almost unheard of… until now.
He had lived in a small rural town on the outskirts of Bekhistan where sheep lived with dogs and farmers satisfied their hunger with pitchforks instead, what hunger I cannot specify as I am not hungry for anything, except maybe a tar coated earlobe. The town Günter came from had no name in particular; therefore it will be called a small rural town in Bekhistan for copy-write reasons. In Bekhistan he had grown up and when this ‘growing up’ was complete he ate potatoes by the fire and listened to Millwall games, on the wireless of course.
Ringo Star was such a persuasive fellow when you could see him, John Lennon and the rest of ‘The Boysees’, but why he wanted Günter to dig up the graves of animals, libraries and mountain beds alike he did not know. In fact, Günter was not entirely sure he was told to grave dig, as Paul McCartney was satanically chanting “I’m better than John Lennon” throughout most of Ringo Star’s words of geranium-like wisdom.
But why had he been outcast? There had been another before he, who went by the name of Anon-Sandra, yet he/she had been kicked out of his /her hometown, to never eat potatoes by the fire again, or to never be able to carve another breadbin with a malicious yeast-lust, oh-no, the other grave-robber was then hired by the dwarvish mayor, Lord Bill Dersyard as a grave-keeper. Now some of you, the very few of you that actually indulge in this action/adventure/pine-tree-esque story may be thinking “He has to clean tombstones and fend off the dead every now and again” and I agree with this view, but don’t you think that’s nothing if you are able to eat potatoes by the fire and have the privilege of sanding his Uncle every Saturday of the high-noon while I have to recreate in my head the hooligan battle I had with my so called mates, who now, viewing from the outside world, seem really similar to peaches and not actually real vagabonds like they told me on that day after the marriage of Tony and Nile, whom have been made fun of ever since as their names seem convincingly close to the word toenail. Anyway, I had to re-enact the hooligan battles I had with my peach-mates, as we tried to create the atmosphere of a Millwall game when they are 8 goals down. Traditionally, the smallest of us (now thought to be the unripe peach) Dennis Wise, or “Big Wise” as we ironically called him, as legend had influenced us to.
Maybe it was because of the colour of my skin, magenta, or because I was a peg-legged troll that I was outcast. Or maybe everyone was afraid of me after rumours of the ordeal that I single-handedly took on a band of dwarvish like midgets inside a normally untroubled and cosy war bunker located under pine trees in someone’s garden. This is where I lost my leg, to those gnome-like creatures that only come up to yay high and who gnaw on the flesh of men and troll alike.
I think my leg came to rest under the couch in that seemingly untroubled and cost war bunker. God, I wonder what has come to be of my writing foot. Damn the vertically challenged.
Anyway, back to the action/adventure/pinetree-esque story, which my tailor, Jeffrey, is most skilfully writing for me, provided I buy him a new cashmere jumper for his ‘Sun-day’.
“I have to find the mayor”, Günter said.
He knew it was a difficult task, as he would have to strain his neck by looking forever downwards, but he would do it. He would do it again and again until he found what he was looking for. And so he went.
Through the dark of the night he crawled, in a walking motion back to his hometown. Hiding behind combine harvesters, and at one point commandeering one, he gradually made his way back to the pointlessly copy-written rural town in Bekhistan.
He arrived at the mayor’s abode, which was neither humble or like pie, fourteen minutes after the hour, which hour he did not know as his stopwatch had been maliciously attacked by daylight savings time, a demon in schedules and mass go-ers alike.
Jeffrey had commented on his molested stopwatch saying, “Only a man with blackly-white hair, a six-inch parting and a monocle can fix that!”
The mayor was sound asleep, but that wouldn’t stop Günter the flying elephant. He had once heard a tale that his Quarry told him when he was a tiny 7 foot tall trolley. The legend spoke of a great knight, who had used a haddock to awaken a sleeping half-breed toad. Günter put this idea to good use and shook the mayor until he aroused from his seemingly arousing slumber. The microscopic sized mayor seemed enraged to be awoken from such an event, but this face-boiling anger soon passed, as he looked up and up at the culprit, then he looked up even more. His anger soon turned to a cowardly whimper, which was promptly followed by the mayor letting escape a gas from his sitting end, which smelled oddly like carrots and limestone. Günter stood his ground at such a odourless smell, he stood tall where others would have broke down in pointing and laughter, yet the mayor was still a tad embarrassed.
“Wha…what do you want?” The mayor squeaked, this time from his mouth.
“Don’t mess me about tiny” Günter snapped, “You know exactly what I want!”
“Never, I shall never let slip any information to you about El Castrador” said the dim-witted mayor.
“El Castrador” Günter pointlessly replied. “El Castrador?” he repeated this time in an inquiring tone.
“Yes, he works in a Sandwich Bar over yonder.” The mayor then twitched violently and yelled, “I will tell you nothing mother! I don’t tuck myself in!”
Günter put the poor, dim-witted, tiny and seemingly skitsophrenic mayor out of his misery with one swift sneeze the mayor smacked against the wall and was left unconscious.
It had been a long trek to ‘El Bocadillo de Jamon’, yet at long last he had made it. He knew it would be impossible to find the Spaniard in an almost completely dark skin coloured town, yet he had to do it. The thought of this made him hungry, so he went into the sandwich bar and looked for some sort of nourishment. Oddly, there wasn’t any hot food in the sandwich bar, so he chose a bagel filled with spam instead. As he took his first bite of the bagel, he noticed someone of Spanish origin entering the bar. The Spaniard looked very much like the butcher the mayor spoke of.
As Günter approached El Castrador he collapsed to the floor, convulsing. As he rolled about in violent spasms, El Castrador had already left the sandwich bar and Günter was left on his own.
Günter never made it out of those wild fits alive. It turned out that he had digested a lethal dosage of spam and environmental health drones then closed down spam factories all over Bekhistan. How the spam caused an epileptic fit remains a medical mystery to this day.
This pointless tale of woe has went down in legend, as Bekhistan legend is dire as not much goes on there and Günter is now renowned throughout Bekhistan as “the troll that couldn’t hack it in life.” This story is mostly told through folklore and country songs, where the main instrument is a mandarin, not a mandolin.
Peace Out
By Scott Thomson
He had been banished from his hometown because of The Beatles, why had they told him to do that, and so persuasively too. When they sing it lulls the mind, but The Beatles singing about grave digging! It’s almost unheard of… until now.
He had lived in a small rural town on the outskirts of Bekhistan where sheep lived with dogs and farmers satisfied their hunger with pitchforks instead, what hunger I cannot specify as I am not hungry for anything, except maybe a tar coated earlobe. The town Günter came from had no name in particular; therefore it will be called a small rural town in Bekhistan for copy-write reasons. In Bekhistan he had grown up and when this ‘growing up’ was complete he ate potatoes by the fire and listened to Millwall games, on the wireless of course.
Ringo Star was such a persuasive fellow when you could see him, John Lennon and the rest of ‘The Boysees’, but why he wanted Günter to dig up the graves of animals, libraries and mountain beds alike he did not know. In fact, Günter was not entirely sure he was told to grave dig, as Paul McCartney was satanically chanting “I’m better than John Lennon” throughout most of Ringo Star’s words of geranium-like wisdom.
But why had he been outcast? There had been another before he, who went by the name of Anon-Sandra, yet he/she had been kicked out of his /her hometown, to never eat potatoes by the fire again, or to never be able to carve another breadbin with a malicious yeast-lust, oh-no, the other grave-robber was then hired by the dwarvish mayor, Lord Bill Dersyard as a grave-keeper. Now some of you, the very few of you that actually indulge in this action/adventure/pine-tree-esque story may be thinking “He has to clean tombstones and fend off the dead every now and again” and I agree with this view, but don’t you think that’s nothing if you are able to eat potatoes by the fire and have the privilege of sanding his Uncle every Saturday of the high-noon while I have to recreate in my head the hooligan battle I had with my so called mates, who now, viewing from the outside world, seem really similar to peaches and not actually real vagabonds like they told me on that day after the marriage of Tony and Nile, whom have been made fun of ever since as their names seem convincingly close to the word toenail. Anyway, I had to re-enact the hooligan battles I had with my peach-mates, as we tried to create the atmosphere of a Millwall game when they are 8 goals down. Traditionally, the smallest of us (now thought to be the unripe peach) Dennis Wise, or “Big Wise” as we ironically called him, as legend had influenced us to.
Maybe it was because of the colour of my skin, magenta, or because I was a peg-legged troll that I was outcast. Or maybe everyone was afraid of me after rumours of the ordeal that I single-handedly took on a band of dwarvish like midgets inside a normally untroubled and cosy war bunker located under pine trees in someone’s garden. This is where I lost my leg, to those gnome-like creatures that only come up to yay high and who gnaw on the flesh of men and troll alike.
I think my leg came to rest under the couch in that seemingly untroubled and cost war bunker. God, I wonder what has come to be of my writing foot. Damn the vertically challenged.
Anyway, back to the action/adventure/pinetree-esque story, which my tailor, Jeffrey, is most skilfully writing for me, provided I buy him a new cashmere jumper for his ‘Sun-day’.
“I have to find the mayor”, Günter said.
He knew it was a difficult task, as he would have to strain his neck by looking forever downwards, but he would do it. He would do it again and again until he found what he was looking for. And so he went.
Through the dark of the night he crawled, in a walking motion back to his hometown. Hiding behind combine harvesters, and at one point commandeering one, he gradually made his way back to the pointlessly copy-written rural town in Bekhistan.
He arrived at the mayor’s abode, which was neither humble or like pie, fourteen minutes after the hour, which hour he did not know as his stopwatch had been maliciously attacked by daylight savings time, a demon in schedules and mass go-ers alike.
Jeffrey had commented on his molested stopwatch saying, “Only a man with blackly-white hair, a six-inch parting and a monocle can fix that!”
The mayor was sound asleep, but that wouldn’t stop Günter the flying elephant. He had once heard a tale that his Quarry told him when he was a tiny 7 foot tall trolley. The legend spoke of a great knight, who had used a haddock to awaken a sleeping half-breed toad. Günter put this idea to good use and shook the mayor until he aroused from his seemingly arousing slumber. The microscopic sized mayor seemed enraged to be awoken from such an event, but this face-boiling anger soon passed, as he looked up and up at the culprit, then he looked up even more. His anger soon turned to a cowardly whimper, which was promptly followed by the mayor letting escape a gas from his sitting end, which smelled oddly like carrots and limestone. Günter stood his ground at such a odourless smell, he stood tall where others would have broke down in pointing and laughter, yet the mayor was still a tad embarrassed.
“Wha…what do you want?” The mayor squeaked, this time from his mouth.
“Don’t mess me about tiny” Günter snapped, “You know exactly what I want!”
“Never, I shall never let slip any information to you about El Castrador” said the dim-witted mayor.
“El Castrador” Günter pointlessly replied. “El Castrador?” he repeated this time in an inquiring tone.
“Yes, he works in a Sandwich Bar over yonder.” The mayor then twitched violently and yelled, “I will tell you nothing mother! I don’t tuck myself in!”
Günter put the poor, dim-witted, tiny and seemingly skitsophrenic mayor out of his misery with one swift sneeze the mayor smacked against the wall and was left unconscious.
It had been a long trek to ‘El Bocadillo de Jamon’, yet at long last he had made it. He knew it would be impossible to find the Spaniard in an almost completely dark skin coloured town, yet he had to do it. The thought of this made him hungry, so he went into the sandwich bar and looked for some sort of nourishment. Oddly, there wasn’t any hot food in the sandwich bar, so he chose a bagel filled with spam instead. As he took his first bite of the bagel, he noticed someone of Spanish origin entering the bar. The Spaniard looked very much like the butcher the mayor spoke of.
As Günter approached El Castrador he collapsed to the floor, convulsing. As he rolled about in violent spasms, El Castrador had already left the sandwich bar and Günter was left on his own.
Günter never made it out of those wild fits alive. It turned out that he had digested a lethal dosage of spam and environmental health drones then closed down spam factories all over Bekhistan. How the spam caused an epileptic fit remains a medical mystery to this day.
This pointless tale of woe has went down in legend, as Bekhistan legend is dire as not much goes on there and Günter is now renowned throughout Bekhistan as “the troll that couldn’t hack it in life.” This story is mostly told through folklore and country songs, where the main instrument is a mandarin, not a mandolin.
Peace Out
By Scott Thomson
by Cheesemeister December 9, 2004
Get the Funny as a duck on a cold winters morning mug.