I’m not naming or linking to the invertebrate. I suspect the resulting Bredalanche has him furiously massaging his prostate with a turnip twaddler while wearing his dead grandmother’s nightgown and sniffing his uncle’s dirty, piss-stained y-fronts in ecstasy. You can find him fairly easily. 

— CalvinsMom, at The Transmogrifier Files writing about this. 

Just for the record, I do this blog under the Creative Commons license.  Of course, you still should attribute anything you take from my pile of brain droppings back here, and if I object to how you’re using it, I’d appreciate it if we could have a rational discussion about it, instead of calling me names.   I promise to reciprocate.