Monthly Archives: June 2011

Referee Pregame to Players

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Boys, lets bring it in. We’re going to have a good safe game out there as long as you boys keep it clean. Nothing dirty. Even though some of you are absolutely begging for a good quick shot to the nads (specifically Jamal and Larry Fishburne Jr).  Now I’m going to go over a few rules real quick before we get started so that we’re all on the same page. I know I can be a hard ass some times but I play by the rules and I don’t like no funny business, see?

Rule 1: Respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me? Don’t bother. I’m about to lay it out real simple-like. You gotta respect me as your official. For Realz. I didn’t put on my black slacks and my Foot Locker shirt to come out here and get shit on by you little snot nosed fuckers. I have a whistle. Last time I checked, none of you shitdicks had a whistle. So go fuck yourselves. But guys, you also gotta respect each other out there- no grab ass and no finger play. You boys can do that in your own time. For all I care as soon as that clock runs out, you can start diddling each other’s Willard Fillmores until sun up. I’d suggest sneaking down after she’s gone to sleep and stealing some of your Mom’s vodka and then getting sticky with it in the kitchen. But so help me God, as long as that clock is rolling this is my turf, MY TURF, and I don’t want none of that corn dogging shit.  If you can do that, then I will in turn respect you and we will be peachier than a turtle in a basket.

Rule 2: This Whistle is God. You must worship this whistle. You must fear this whistle. You must sacrifice your first born to this whistle. You must eat this whistle’s body and drink it’s blood. This whistle died for your fucking sins. You must hijack airplanes in the name of this whistle. You must convince yourself that the Beatles are transmitting the word of the Whistle through the White Album, telling you to go murder some people and then carve a swastika on your forehead. Seriously guys, when I blow this thing you gotta stop, hey, what’s that sound? Everybody look whats going round. It’s my whistle and I’m blowing it for a fucking reason. Unlike my ex-wife who apparently needed no reason to blow anything in the bathroom at Quimbies while me and the kids are still at the table enjoying our garlic and cheese biscuits. They are a staple in my household. Apparently being a cheating bitch is also a Dickenson family staple.

Next Rule. No cursing out there. I just won’t have it. You can’t say the F-word, the C-word, the D-word, the H-word, the other F-word, the K-word, the N-word, the B-word, the S-word, the W-word, the J-word, the T-word, the P-word, or anything like that. I also don’t want to hear you say the Midget-word. The proper term is “little folks” or “little sweetie folks” or “munchkin men.” This is a sports game not one of these Jason Mraz rap MTV spring break jersey shore shows. I swear to God if I hear one nasty word out of any of your moist, kissable lips, I will pray to the heavenly father, Jesus Christ the Lord Amen (you may know him as my Whistle) to striketh thee down in this very sports arena with a flaming lightning bolt so that your parents will wail with sorrow as they sweep your charred remains into a heavy duty Ziploc bag.

Last Rule. Keep your shirts tucked in. You don’t want to go looking like some sort of yokel. Act like you got a job, hippies. And try to get your orange peels and empty Hi-C’s in the garbage cans.

Alright, good game guys.

Eulogy for Pappers

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Good Evening.

To tell you the truth, I had a hard time explaining all the great things about my grandfather, Leonard Pudding Dickenson or as I called him “Pappers,” into writing. I mean, how do you sum up all of the achievements of someones life in one speech? I know I can’t do justice to his tremendous legacy, but I want to offer us a chance to remember just some of those things we loved about Pappers.

Pappers was a lot of things to all of us: a father, a grandfather, a husband, a World War II veteran, a gunowner, and a sperm donor. Pappers was all of these things and I know he touched our lives in a number of ways. My earliest memories of Pappers were of those summer afternoons when my mom and dad would drop me off at his house. I remember walking into his study where he was asleep in his old leather chair with the newspaper on his lap. I always thought he might dead- I would panic trying to decide what to do with the body- but he always woke up with a little jerk and would shout something about the Jews, before he realized he had only been dreaming. Pappers was a dreamer, that’s for sure. I remember his study always smelled like pipe tobacco- that was Pappers for ya. Those afternoons were filled with me sitting on his knee listening to his stories about how the Jews put cameras in urinals. Or how the Jews created diabetes. Or how Jewish men menstruate. Or how the Jews control all the abortion clinics and harvest the dead fetuses to eat so that they could stay young forever. He used to always tell me, “there’s Jew warlocks out there that have been alive since the Middle Ages, surviving off nothing but the marrow of the dead fetuses of teenage whores.” What I’m trying to get at is that he really, really hated Jewish people.

I remember playing all sorts of games those afternoons. Chess, model cars, puzzles, M.A.S.H., truth or dare, spin-the-bottle, Big-Nosed Heeb, you name it. He had such a lively imagination for an old timer. Pappers’ favorite game was always “puppet show.” That’s when we would take turns inserting our hands, up to the wrist, into each other’s buttholes and pretending that we were puppet and puppeteer. He always enjoyed it a little more than I did- must have been a generational thing. I’m sure all those videos of our puppet shows are around here somewhere.

One of my fondest memories of Pappers were those weekend fishing trips as a kid. Yeah, sometimes he drank a little too much. Yeah, sometimes he’d shit himself and pass out for 6 hours. But we always had a memorable time on the lake. I remember the look of excitement he would get when his cork went under. “Fish on!” he’d shout and reel it in like he was 18 again. He’d pull that fish into the boat and proceed to grab it by the tail with both hands and hold it against his crotch like he had a big fat floppy fish dick.  Sometimes he’d slap you in the mouth with it and say “suck my fish dick, suck my fish dick.” Then he would jerk off his fish dick, grunting like only a man jerking off a fish dick could. At the peak of his fish-gasm, he would scream at the top of his lungs and throw the fish back into the water as if he cummed his fish dick clean off. Then he’d say “Boy, looks like I cummed my fish dick clean off!” and put another worm on his line. Yep, those were the days.

Although he never got the chance, I think in his own way he was able to show us how important we all were to him. We’ll always have those memories of Pappers- memories of pipe tobacco, his fist in my ass, and getting slapped in the face with his fish cock. He’ll always have a special place in all of our hearts. I know he’ll always be in mine. Let’s just be thankful that we got the opportunity to know someone as loving, compassionate, anti-semitic and special as Leonardo Pudding Dickenson. Or simply…Pappers.

A, E, I, O, U, Fuck Y.

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Let’s quit fibbin’ to ourselves. It’s 2009. Pluto’s not a planet. The President’s black. Puerto Ricans control the Supreme Court. And Y is not a fucking vowel.

Who the does Y think he is? Does he think he is special or something? Does he think he can bridge the gap between vowels and consonants like Billy Bob Thornton bridged the gap between acting and music? Ain’t gon lie, Y ain’t no Billy Bob, I can tell you that much right now. Letters are either vowels or consonants. One or the other. It’s like you either fucking love Robert Pattinson or you hate him because you’re jealous. You can’t do both. There is no in between.

Grammar only works if you use strict, concrete guidelines. Otherwise, everyone is out there doing whatever the fuck they want, beginning sentences with “and,” saying the word “irregardless,” adding “izzle” to everything, and raping veterans. They fought for our freedom for Christ’s sake. Yet Y is “sometimes” considered a vowel and “sometimes” not. Well, fuck that shit. Y needs to get his head out of his fucking ass and quit trying to be something he’s not. It’s pathetic. Grow the fuck up, bro. Seriously. No offense but you look like T doing the beginning of the hand motions to The Village People’s YMCA. And everybody knows T is a fag de-luxe times a thousand. So, like, you look like a fagbert-1,000 singing a song about big hairy men in leather vests slurping on each others’ uncircumcised cockwads in the locker room of the YMCA. No offense.

You don’t do anything as a vowel that E or I couldn’t do. Especially E, with that sexy ass, just begging me to bury my face in and munch on all those delish dingle dangles until that sphincter glistens like Christmas morn.  Campbell’s soup style. Mmmmmm mmmmm good. Fuck you, Y. You’re a goddamn phony. A fraud. A grammar terrorist. A Billy Bob Thornton wannabe. A veteran rapist. I hope you choke on a cauliflower in your kitchen and die a slow, painful death in your underwear. Go back to Mexico.

The Virus

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It wiped them all out. All but three.  Jake Sullinger, Martha Smart, and myself were the only ones it chose to spare. And despite what you may have seen or read about the end of mankind in movies or magazines, it actually wasn’t half bad. Jake did a hell of a Sally Field impression and Martha had big ole fat dumpy tits. Like two bags of sand. During the day, Martha and me would sneak away to the abandoned gas station and chug Starbucks Frappachinos and fuck like we were ten again. Jake never asked questions. He was content as long as we came back with his two favorite things, a Citrus Cooler Gatorade just like MJ#23 of the Toon Squad drinks and some Mentos. The Freshmaker. Keepin’ it real fresh in here. Gotta stay Fly-y-y-y til I di-i-i-i-ie. I never told Martha, but I used to open up Jake’s Gatorade and spray fart in it and the screw the lid back on real tight before giving it to him. That’s the stuff you have to do to make life worth living in the post-apocalyptic world. Jake would open it up, slowly put it to his lips, and chug like Vin Diesel swallows cock. So naive to the subatomic doo-doo particles floating inside. He sure loved those citrus coolers. You know, when the world swallows itself up, it’s the little laughs along the way that keep you going.

The virus began when Keith Richards finally overdosed on bug spray in 2089. They buried his body in a grave in Dartford and that is where it remained until June 8, 2093. On this night, two slutty lesbian fans of The Stones unearthed the casket containing Keith Richards’ corpse and savagely cut off his Goldilocks and the Two Bears. They took it home where they proceeded to shove Keith Richards’ decomposed meatstick in and out of each other’s stinktank.  And that was that. They started fucking all over town, spreading what we now know is K.R.D., to everyone. And taking all of mankind with it.  Businessmen, construction workers, high ranking officials, Kobe Bryant, all the women Kobe Bryant rapes. From that point on, it just became a waiting game.

Jake, Martha, and myself were obviously immune for some reason, probably because God liked us more than everyone else. We would stay up at night and talk about the bad old days. When the world was full of shitheads, and having money mattered. A world where I didn’t get to unload shotgun shells full of my pearly white into Martha all day, everyday. A world where there were dictators, terrorist attacks, and Cracker Barrell. That ain’t no world I wanna be apart of. No sir. No thank you. I’m happy right where I’m at.

      The End.