Look: This is not about favorites. ALL of the Pajiban commenters are our favorites, except Some Guy because, come on. That guy is a total douche. But speaking from a purely objective standpoint, there is no better commenter on the Internet than Skittimus Maximus, aka Skitz, aka Cousin to that Dipshit Conrad, aka The World's Foremost Hater of Gummo. Reading a comment from Skitz is like someone cracking open your skull and injecting your brain with endorphins and pee. It's slightly disorienting, slightly erotic, and when it those comments aren't outright hilarious, they're often littered with little nuggets of profundity. He will make your brain hard, and the Internet is better for his existence.
Here are the best Skitz comments of 2011.
I don't know what the fuck that clip was all about, but by the time it was over, I had punched my monitor and emptied my entire stapler into my face.
Whenever I see this photo, I keep thinking she's gonna bite off that little dangly doodad and the end of the nose. Then I vomit. And laugh. And vomit.
(On films with the greatest rewatchability factor): Anything Harmony Korrine has been involved with. Anything.
Rumor has it there's an episode of "According To Jim" he wrote that had Belushi do nothing but eat handfuls of hair-covered rice for twenty minutes.
HOLY SHITBALLS OF BOLD ITALIC FIRE!
I used to make a mishmashed Snuggie abortion out of an old robe and a threadbare blanket to pretend I was one of those wingy bat people that wrapped their wingy arms around unsuspecting folks and gargled them up with digestive juices and then opened their arms and let all the bones come jangling down over the stumpy feet leftovers!
I USED TO DO TH... waitasec - I USED TO DO THAT, BUT FORGOT ABOUT IT!
I'd do it by myself too. Just me and my lame-ass bathrobe. Swooping up behind my sister's Cabbage Patch Kids and gargling them up with my digestive juices*
This opens the door as to why I drank the pain away throughout most of my adult life.
Beast Master Bat-People...
(On Ashton Kutcher): Perfect example of the following:
Good Looking + Right Place + Right Time = Smooth Fucking Sailing.
Don't hate the cat, but the above equation is about all it boils down to. He can't act for shit, but he's carved himself a nice little niche with forgettable movies and decent-sized paychecks. And who the hell am I to expect him to be anything other than a semi-likable doofus who churns out mediocrity that somehow manages to keep him in a comfortable lifestyle in the "not-so-talented" spolight. He's not trying to come across as anything other than who he is.
He's like a diptarded kinda-friend who happened to hit it sorta big without really trying.
Fuck, I'd take that in a heartbeat.
(More on Ashton Kutcher) I don't get the hate. Has he let you down somehow? Did he torment you in high school or something? Did you walk into an Ashton Kutcher film with high expectations? Were you hoping to kidnap and/or start a relationship with Demi Moore? Did Dude, Where's My Car? or and episode of Punk'd make you question your existence? Do you actually sit through interviews with him, praying for something poignant? Why the fuck do any of you even have an opinion of him? It's kind of creepy that you do. It's like you secretly like him. But it's cool to hate him. So that's what you do. From your cubicles. Reading TMZ. And hating. Hate.
(Skit'z Cousin Conrad, on Ashton Kutcher): I think he's hilarious as s**t when he does comedies. My wife and I know that his movies aren't going to win any Oscars, but so what? They're good for a couple belly-laughs, and that's really all that can be expected of the kid. Plus, wasn't he a 19 year-old model or something from Iowa when he was "discovered?" Geez, what the heck do you expect from a teen model from Iowa? Good for him.
(On this image) What the fucking fuck? For a split second, I thought it was Danzig and got a "music-column's-back" boner. Then I read the fucking header... Currently, I'm dousing myself in gasoline. I'll try to post my burn-unit room number sometime later this evening, provided my fingers haven't been reduced to charred stumps. Thanks, Tom Cruise. Thanks for taking something I thought was cool and making it all fucking awkward and middle-agey.
(On the Brave poster) I haven't the foggiest fucking idea what "Brave" is, but I do know this: that poster marks the first time Pixar's given me a boner. A for reals, big-boy boner. I don't know how my eleven-thirty "bathroom" break's gonna go based solely on a poster, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to fight through the chaffing and finish strong...
(On this)"It's only a matter of time before someone tries to have sex with it."
It's like banging a toaster but more rubberyer.
"I made Jesus-shaped pancakes, but I burnt them. Am I going to hell?" That's actually a pamphlet at my church. And yes. Yes you do go to hell. Not regular hell, though - it's a really, really syrupy one.
I've taken to gobbling genitalia at bus depots to pay for my stupid cigarettes, but I by no means kiss on the mouth. Not ever. I might fall in love, that's why. ... I'll let you pee on me for a week if you buy me a carton.
Michael Cera looks like one of those freaky Asian sexbots. And I should know, having spent the better part of the early afternoon online looking up freaky Asian sexbots.
Bear Grylls - "Look at him: He can eat live snakes, he can sleep naked on a snow peak, he has an accent, and he can rip apart wild animals with his own hands."
You forgot one thing on that list. He drinks pee. That motherfucker knows how to chug piss. And at the end of the day, that, while maybe not crushworthy, is something I think we can all look upon with a quiet awe. ... I'm not a pee-drinker myself, but still. Awe.
(On Alison Brie) I haven't the foggiest idea who this chick is. She could be taking a crap on my front lawn and I'd say something along the lines of "Hey, there's a relatively foxy gal taking a dump on my lawn." That would be followed with a "Waitasec - I don't have a lawn. I lost the lawn in the divorce." That, in turn, would be followed by a fuckton of confusion regarding A. Who's house I was in; and B. Who I was talking to. ... Then I'd look down slowly at my blood-covered hands and realized I'd killed again.
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