Life. You meet your bestest friends here and the whole band becomes your second family. Marching band is spent as work and play. You learn how to read drill charts, how to march CORRECTLY and IN TIME, and how to make non-band members be jealous of you. That's the work.

Band is also a lot of fun. The opinions of non-band members don't matter. Your fellow bandmates are the closest ones to you. You tell "one time at band camp" jokes, tell stories about when so and so screwed up, and just overall enjoy your time with your second family, the ones you love.

We work harder than the football team, we get more respect than the football team, and we practice longer than the football team. We are the only reason people come to the games. Don't listen to people who say band is weird. THEY ARE WRONG. BAND= LIFE. :D

The definition of bussin

Here's what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: Forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy. Not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters. The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.

Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Asgoths of Crea. During a recitation by their poetmaster Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in my Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the mid-galactic Arts Knobbling Council survived only by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled "My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles" when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.

Stab your enemies

A old man who likes to roast children and is starting to lose his hair by the millisecond

A colloquial term referring to the folds or cheeks of the buttocks. (noun, informal)