We are so fucked. Our fuckedness is all thanks to the one-in-three doofs who spend their existences shouting at us and you on MySpace message boards to get on The Flight of the Conchords bandwagon. We are fucked. Our post-Conchords mental state is worse than the guy’s who tells himself twice a day, “I wish I didn’t eat so much acid. Please ease my thoughts. It’s been 10 years.” What’s our damage? We are afflicted with recurring images of the ungodly, stretchy piehole that belongs to Jemaine Clement, one-half of the Conchords. You know: the bespectacled one who sounds like Ben Folds getting raped at the bottom of a well and who is less funny than Keenan Thompson in 10 years. Oh, his photo is above.

Dated faux-folk love songs from New Zealand are crap enough, as was the Clement-starring Eagle vs Shark, that Kiwi version of Napoleon Dynamite that was quickly shot and gaffed by bloated, drunken Americans who know their funny if nothing else. But this guy’s mouth! We watched two episodes of Conchords on a girl’s OnDemand and couldn't avoid the hypnotic qualities of that mini mail-order vagina below the nose.

Now we’re glued to a corner like a mossy Stephen King in Creepshow 2, shooting down gaping, 3-D oral hallucinations. We asked a friend what the fuck was wrong with us and he said, “Why did you watch that stupid goddamn show in the first place? Maybe you’re just staggeringly gay.” “’Staggeringly?’” we said. “Who says that besides…?” And then Clement’s rubbery mouth thundered through the ceiling and swallowed us both like a sandworm or Angelina Jolie’s brother. Maybe if we mail Zach Galifianakis a few Benjamins to yell one of those master “FUCCK!”s from a cliff this will all stop. Like Catholic indulgences.