Hey Jerk, When Are You Going To Take Me To Funkytown?

So for the past few decades I've been like, "Won't you take me to Funkytown?" and you always give me some lame-o cop-out answer. "Nah, can't do it, buddy," you say. "I'm sanding my cat." Or you say something like, "I'd really love to, but I have to pour pickle juice over my grandmother. I've been delaying for weeks and now she's well past due."

This is all so disappointing, especially since you've always said such awesome things about Funkytown. All that talk about people walking down the streets, swinging their hips to and fro, saying things like, "Heeey soul cracka!" and "Oh honey child, you've sure got some sassy toenails!" Is it true that we get to wear a glittery cape if we want to? And that this is a place where James Brown never truly died?

I'd just go to the place by myself, but I can't find it on Google Maps. Is it true that you can only get there via Sex Machine? Will I still be considered a virgin afterwards? Will God still let me into heaven?

These are important questions and they can only be truly answered when you decide you can spare just two minutes to take your penis out of the mayonnaise jar and answer them. Also, do you need to wear that poor weasle as if it was a loincloth? He's been complaining to me that your crotch smells like old peanuts and false hopes.


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