Monthly Archives: August 2011

BOYZ NOIGHT.

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Tonight me and the boyz are hittin’ the town raw dawg style. That’s right. It’s boyz noight. It’s make some noize noight. It’s get a little lady to play with our toyz noight. Everybody is coming out. Me, Blain, Aiden, Byrce, Chad, Landen, Skylar. I called Skylar up earlier today and I was like, “Yo Sky, you bitch ass bitch, better break out your life preserver cuz you ’bout to get drowned in pussy tsunami tonight, son. Just like all them Japanese folks.” AND YOU KNOW THAT’S HOW WE DO.

Needless to say I’m fully prepared to do it BIG like T. Hanks. I got all the main ingredients to make the noight roight, baby boy. Let me learn you something right here: I got my L’Oreal G to the E to the L for men, in case my hairdo starts looking flaccid. Sluts notice that kinda thing. If ya can’t keep your locks stiff, ya can’t keep your cox stiff. It’s factual.

I got my John Cena-approved jean shorts and this new shirt that has flames on it. Fuckin’ flames, bro! Looks like I’m on fire, motherfuckers! Girlies gonna have to dowse me with a half gallon of pussy sauce to put these flames out. HEARD ME?

I gots season 1 of Laguna Beach in case some lil’ bubble butt shorty wants to take it back to her place and get nickity-nickity-nasty on the futon. Laguna Beach is the key to what we in the business refer to as a “Maximum Panty Saturation Overload.” Feel me, cuzzo?

I gots a box of condoms I bought off the internet with all the tips cut off. They provide all the confidence she desires in order to let me slide “The Councilman” in without having to worry about HIV-AIDS or making a baby in that pussyhole. Yet the tiplessness prevents me from losing all feeling in The Councilman’s pleasure control center: The Head. Seriously, I read in a medical journal one time that said the head has like a jillion nerve receptors, specially designed to facilitate that Slip, Slip, Squirt. And when you’re porking, I mean really porking, those receptors send off enough electrical signals to power a potato-powered clock for about a half hour. Think of the possibilities, Bro-am Chomsky. The Councilman has the potential to make potatoes obsofuckinglete, so long as I get him greased up every 30 minutes in some girl’s uterus. That’s how I’m gonna do it on boyz noight.

And you know ya boy din’t forget his roll of duct tape and his hacksaw, in case one of these cuntskanks gets mouthy or decides she doesn’t want to let my goose a-loose in her kaboose and I need to cut her up into convenient sized pieces in order to fit her down my garbage disposal.

It’s BOYZ NOIGHT, bitches! Hope the club ready, cuz it’s bout to be a pussy and dick overload and ain’t no ABORT button on this motherfucker!

When I Get Out of Jail

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Dear Parole Board,

When I get out of jail I’m going to turn my life around. Straighten up. Become an honest man. Be a father to my children. Work to support my family. Spread the good word of my Lord and Savior. No more wheelin’ and dealin’. And I ain’t slinging no more crank to mexicans, that’s for sure.

When I get out of jail I’m going to go by my ex-wife Charleen’s trailer and finish signing those divorce papers. I’ll be the bigger man. I’ll thank her for birthing my children, Dilbert-Lee, Neil Armstronger, and Candy-Sue and tell her I hope she is happy with the new life she has found with Daryl. Heck, I’ll even shake Daryl’s hand and tell him to take good care of her. We are cousins after all. It’s like they say, blood is thicker than water. That being said, if Daryl smarts off I won’t hesitate to give him the old one-two right in the kisser.

When I get out of jail I’m going to swing by the the ole lumber yard and apologize to the bossman. Tell him I was wrong to steal his car keys out of his office and trade crank to a homeless man to have him shit in the trunk. I was wrong. Probably shouldn’t have pissed in the glove compartment either. I’ll tell him I did that shit before I found Christ but now that I am officially a Christian and all, the lord hath forgiven me for all that bullshit. I’ll say “Teddy, I did you wrong but if the good Lord can forgive me, don’t you think you probably should too?” Can’t argue with that. Cold hard Logic. Then I’ll see if he will give me my job back.

Regrets? Sure. I got em. But regrets don’t change things and you can’t take back whatcha done in the past. Unless you’ve got a time machine. But we’re probably 40 or 50 years from them developing a time machine for use on the private market. And even then I’m sure they will have all sorts of rules and shit so that we won’t go back and start messing around with stuff and cause a rift in the space-time continuum resulting in alternate realities, you know. Like that time when old Biff got the almanac and gave it to 50′s Biff and 50′s Biff got lots of money and started porking Marty’s mom and bought her some good looking fake titties. And she was swimming around in that hot tub in Biff’s gold skyscraper and them fake titties were floating around all extra bouyant-like.  Anyways, the point is, without a time machine all you can do is express sorrow, move forward, and try to do better. Try to BE better. Live your life in His image.

When I get out of jail, first thing I’m gonna do is get me a hot meal. Something nice. Something I hadn’t had in quite some time. Maybe Red Lobster. Maybe Quimbie’s. I can’t say. Maybe go down to Ma and Pa’s Burrrito Outlet and make me one with all the fixin’s like I used to when I was knee high to a grasshopper. That’d be something.

But until then, I’ma sit right here in this jail cell, keep praying for forgiveness and await the day that I can spread His Word and don’t have to worry ’bout Cecil spreading My legs and pounding my ass into next week and cumming in my hair.

Sincerely,

Terry P. Dickenson, a servant to the one true God Almighty.

Just Johnny Jones U.S.A.

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A half-pint, opium smoking admiral of the Japanese navy boasts that he will dictate the peace in the White House in Washington with president Truman.

Do you know what the fuck that would mean for hard working, white Americans like you, me, and Dupree, and Owen Wilson? It would mean a horde of rice-eating demons from the hell pools of Indochine would swarm over our virginal country like festering pubic crabs. Pinch, pinch, pinch. They would diddle our children, kill and eat our dogs, rape our women with their little yellow weenies, and unloose upon our good, Christian citizens savage tortures of physical anguish far beyond description by words.

But fortunately, this little yellow cunthole will never reach his objective. Someone is interfering with his plans- someone you know well; perhaps your own boy, or perhaps just Johnny Jones, the boy from across the street. He’s out there, knee deep in the swamps of the Solomons, meeting those Jap runts blow by blow. By blow. He’s on the seas in the frigid waters of Alaska. He’s in the air and under da sea smashing the cum out of those Jap fuckers. For every good, wholesome, corndog-eating American woman raped by a solid Japanese inch and a half in the Philippines, Johnny Jones U.S.A. is out shoving a grenade in the boo-hinnies of 30 more Japs and watching them explode like a rice piñata.  For every American life ruthlessly taken in Java and Singapore, he is sending a hundred slant-eyed Gooks to a squealing, spiraling death. Yes, and when he runs out of ammunition, he crushes the skull of ole’ Ching Chang with the with a rock and drinks his blood to steal some of those mystical Japanese monkey powers. He’s just Johnny Jones U.S.A., the boy across the street, out there fighting for his country.

So tonight, when you are sitting in your home. Eating meatloaf.  Drinking OJ.  Remember our boys over in the Pacific fighting those filthy Japs. They are dirty, suicide-bombing, gook monkeys and that’s a fact. Especially the monkey part. They’ve got foot thumbs like the chimpanzee. And big ol red asses. Remember Johnny Jones U.S.A.

The Reason I Stopped Doing Cocaine (And Started Doing Karaoke)

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karaoke

It just wasn’t worth it, guys. The late nights. The constant nosebleeds. The violent urges to wait in the parking lot and rape strippers when they’d leave work at the Titty Castle. Sure, that life is fun for awhile. But it … Continue reading →

There Are No Words….

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….that can describe the way I feel…

I want to stand with you on a mountain.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever.
Until the sky falls down on me…

Those are the only words I need.

And I just want you to know, Sharon, our love is like a savage garden- powerful, beautiful, mysterious.

Faithfully yours,

P. Dickenson