I Can’t Wait for Thanksgiving to be Over….

I can’t wait for Thanksgiving to be over so I can to listen to Michael Buble sing all my favorite Christmas songs. A little smooth. A little jazzy. A little swagger with a half-cocked grin. Christmas time is Buble time. No butts about it.

I love the way his velvety warm vocals wrap around me like I’m an Egyptian mummy or something. Like I once owned a gang of Jew slaves that I used to build myself a statue of myself except with the body of a crocodile, while I sat around eating figs and letting hunky oiled up dudes fan me with ostrich feathers. And if the Jews didn’t work fast enough I would turn into a giant scorpion and stab them in the chest with my tail.

I love the way Michael does the ever-so-slightest pelvic thrusts when he is up on stage performing. It’s just the tiniest little push. So small that it cannot even be seen by the naked eye. Even with binoculars, you’ll miss it if you blink. I’m talking subtle little hummingbird humps. About the same amount of movement generated when two ladybugs are having sex. Barely there. But you know they’re occurring. You can feel them. In your heart. Ever had the hairs on the back of your neck stand-up? That’s Buble. In this way, Michael Buble’s miniature pelvic thrusts are a lot like God The Father, Creator of Heaven and Earth. It’s a matter of faith. And that faith makes you whole. You have to just believe it’s real because if you don’t, then what the fuck is the point of living? What is all this for? I swear to God I will blow my fucking brains out of my skull onto this bathroom floor if Buble isn’t really doing pelvic thrusts up there. But he is. I have faith.

Every Christmas Eve I like to take what I call a Buble Bath. It’s sort of a special tradition I have. First, I set the mood by lighting a few scented candles. Cinnamon. Fresh Fallen Snow. Gingerbread Wonderland. Shit like that. Soothes the soul. Maybe I’ll pop open a bottle of bubblé (the pun was fucking INTENDED). I fill the jacuzzi tub with oils and soaps from across the world from Canada to Oregon. Then I slowly, delicately slide 5 or 10 beans of ecstasy into my brown eye. As soon as I start rollinballz I pop in a mix CD of all my favorite Buble Christmas classics and hop on in the tub. For the next 6 hours I do nothing but cram a bottle of Pantene Pro-V Shampoo plus Conditioner for Damaged Hair in my shit-den, try to stack bath beads in my pee hole like a Pez dispenser, and let that sweet song bird of a man #OccupyMyEarHoles.

I usually try not to operate motor vehicles or machinery during the Holiday Season. Especially, if there is a radio nearby. ESPECIALLY, if it’s tuned to Magic 96.5. It’s too dangerous with the looming risk of hearing a Michael Buble song, which will send me spiraling into a 3-4.5 minute squirt sesh until the song is over. Afterwards I’m left with a half gallon of Buble’s homemade eggnog and have to wait until some stupid ass cunt bitch like Bing Crosby or some other faggot starts singing before I may commence normal activities.

Bing Crosby is a piece of shit. You’re old news buddy. Get the fuck off the radio. Let a professional sing that shit. Buble style. If I wanted to listen to Bing Crosby
I would go visit my Gram Gram at the retirement home. All those geezers do is play bingo, listen to Bing, shit themselves, and talk about the good old days when you could “drag a darkie out of his car, string him up by his scruff from the hanging tree, and make like a human pinata.” Those old people are racist as fuck. And so was Bing Crosby. You’re dreaming of a “White Christmas?” Really? In your dreams, Bing. The blacks and the mexi’s are here to stay and if you don’t like that shit, then you can go bury your fucking sleighballs in the pure white snow til they get frostbite, YOU FUCKING CUNT! You’re probably roasting chest-nuts on an open fire, waiting for some black folks to come by  caroling, so you can call Eugene and the boys to get out the fire hoses. Well fuck you Bing Crosby. You ain’t no Buble. Your songs sound like they were recorded in an abandoned barn in like 1940. Get with the times you piece of vocally challenged bird shit. Buble’s the real deal Holyfield. And if you can’t accept that shit, then eat a fat cock and have yourself a holly jolly Christmas.

I’m not going to support that kind of bigotry. And neither is Michael Buble.  Because he is Canadian and Canadians can’t process hate. They tolerate all races and creeds with arms wide open. Because that’s what the holidays are all about.

So Much for No Shave November

I know November is supposed to be this big celebration of manhood. I know November is supposed to be the month you don’t shave. It’s supposed to be the month where men are men. They walk around in flannel shirts drinking maple syrup out of steins, projecting their barrel chests and clinching their butt cheeks tighter than a barnacles urethra. They are supposed to grow their beards out long and rape women in back alleys, leaving them with nothing but a torn pair of panties and a stack of Wendy’s napkins for clean up. That’s what being a man is. And I know that’s what November is supposed to be. And I have failed. I shaved. I shaved my pubes.

I just couldn’t do it. I’m not a coward, it’s just…I wasn’t build for No Shave November. See, I’m of Lebanese decent. And if I let my vajungle go untamed for any more than 6 or 7 hours, I got my very own Ferngully goin’ on downstairs and ain’t no oily exhaust monster gonna stop it when it gets that out of control. No comical fruit bats neither. Just dense tropical dick forest, swallowing all light before it can reach the forest floor.

My Mom always taught me that if the shrubbery grows longer than the blubbery, then you gotta trim it up. She’d say “Hoes don’t appreciate having to dig through mounds of curly bush just to get to the weed-whacker.” She always knew what to say to ease my worried mind. I remember Christmas ’96. All I wanted was a copy of Speed starring Sandy Bullock and Keanu “Morpheus” Reeves. I came down the stairs, happier than dog who just found a fresh throw pillow to hump, only to find that there was no Speed VHS in sight. I started to wail. Mom sat me down and said “Honey, it’s going to be okay. I couldn’t rightfully buy you the Speed VHS knowing full well that Sandy B. never even takes her gear off. Me and your father rented Speed last night to approve and we were stunned. Not only does she never sit and spin on Keanu’s face, but Dennis Hopper doesn’t even rape her when he has the chance.” She was right then, she was right two years later when Practical Magic came out, and she is right about No Shave November.

You can sit there on your high horse, with your beard and your maple syrup, tightly clenched butt cheeks, and call me a coward…a puzzy-pants…a traitor…Bene-dick Arnold…an Uncle Tom Arnold…but you can’t even fathom the emotional distress caused by stepping on your own pubies or having one grow so long that it curls up inside your dickhole like a jungle vine out of control. Ever seen Jumanji? Ever heard ominous tribal drumming emitting from your dong fro? Because that’s what it’s like. Only instead of thorny vines growing, it’s thick, twisted pubie hairs, and instead of that house that Robin
Williams raped Bonnie Hunt in, it’s your flaccid little peehole. Member when young Robin Williams’ dad fires David Alan Grier for being black? That’s how I feel right now, but you are Robin William’s dad, and I’m black.

“They grow much faster than bamboo. Take care or they’ll come after you.”

The Big Question

Since the dawn of time, man has questioned the foundations of his existence in an attempt to grasp the meaning of our mysterious and beautiful consciousness.

Aristotle, Socrates, Play-doh, Hobbes, Descartes, Hegel, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Voltaire, Marx, Sartre.

Their ponderings penetrate the core of our being as if it were some Sophomore on Prom night. As if it were some little naive, insecure Sophomore slut-pouch with budding breasts, puffy nipples and skinny toothpick legs, eager to win the affection of the Senior with finely quaffed hair, that went to State for Cross Country, and got a scholarship to Vanderbilt (Go Dores!). She yearns for him to rip her in half with that aerodynamic, streamlined Cross Country Cock, so that she can finally become a woman, so that she can finally become popular, so that she may forever be tied to the Senior that took her virginity like a mustachioed thief in the night at a farmer’s market in Persia. Picture Aladdin but with twice the gravy-stick. That’s pretty much exactly what those philosophers were like.

And now it’s our turn. Us, Lou Bega, to ask the Big Question.

Q: Would you rather have sex with…

a) Some big fat lady. We’re talking really fat. Precious fat. Type 2 fat. Gilbert Grape fat. Double-breathing fat. The kind of fat where her teeth are all worn down and stubby from the incessant gnawing. The kind of fat where her nurses have to apply olive oil to her massive inner thighs to prevent chaffing which causes a constant threat of brush fires in her hairy coochie because of the intense friction. That fat. Like stretch marks that could be mistaken for railroad tracks fat. At least you’ll be getting a blowjizzle cuz you know she gon’ get hongry halfway through.

OR

b) A pregnant lady. Like 9 or 10 months pregnant. She is due in the hospital any day now. Absolutely ready to pop like that first kernel in a bag of Orville Redenbacher right around the 35 second mark. You’re not sure whether she is gushing from your chode or whether her water just broke. Same stretch marks, but these are caused by the 7lb, 6oz human being being carried in her uterus like a mother ‘roo carries her babe. Also, nothin’ like fucking someone and getting head from someone else at the same time. And I mean really getting head. That little baby’s skull inside her puzz hasn’t fused together. Ol’ little squishy head is only providing more noggin for the floggin’. More brain for my wang (slant rhyme). More scalp for my….dick.

The great thing about either choice is that you won’t really have to worry about pregnancy. In the case of the pregnant woman, her womb is already occupied. In the case of the big fat lady, there is very small chance that you will actually even get into her poonan. Chances are you’ll just meander cock first in the cavernous folds of her olive oiled mass. May we suggest bringing along a loaf of basil Focaccia bread? It really compliments the olive oil and you can leave a trail of bread crumbs in case you have trouble finding your way out of them fatacombs.

Like all Big Questions, there is no clear answer. Perhaps the answer isn’t even important. Rather, the importance comes from the existential journey that the question leads us on and the personal growth that results. Thank you and goodnight.

My Diddy Says

My Diddy says marriage is between a man and a woman and that gay marriage ain’t real marriage. He says, cuz marriage is hard work. It ain’t no fun boys club. He says, if he could hang out all day with Mr. Frank and Big Jimmy, eating pork sandwiches, listening to Steely Dan, talking about Project Runway, maybe rubbin each others’ feet, and getting fancy haircuts- he would in a goddamn heartbeat. But that just ain’t marriage. It just ain’t. Marriage ain’tsposed to be fun like that. And there’s no good reason why one man should ever jaculate while looking into the eyes of another man, unless you’re watching the Alabama game and Saban is on the screen. Got 14?

My Diddy says Lennie’s mom’s juicebox shoots out hot fire. And that ever since Mumma passed last year from the die-beats, he’s had to find solace in the arms of another woman. He ain’t proud of it. But he’s a man, he says. With needs. I don’t judge him for that. I don’t think Jesus Christ Our Lord, Amen would either. And I’m pretty sure Mumma’d be ok with it. I can see her now, upstairs in heaven’s kitchen, looking down on Diddy as he takes Lennie’s mumma to the dick rodeo, smiling, sayin’ “That’s my Terry, still hasn’t lost his touch.” ‘Sides, it’s her fault for eatin’ so much Ladyfingers and dyin’ and leavin’ us to fend for our lonesome.

My Diddy says Obama is a Muslim and we don’t like Muslims cuz of the twin towers. He says that’s why we went to Iraq. Says if Reagan were still president, the 9/11 would have never happened, that it was all Obama’s fault. He says Reagan would have caught those Muslims and beat their asses blue as a baboon and then cut em up into little pieces while all of America watched and let blood spray all everywhere like a fountain and then he’d pop their eyeballs out and let the secret service and everybody take turns fuckin’ their eye sockets til they cum a bucket-full and then he’d bury em under the crawl space of the White House in garbage bags. Kinda like in Dexter, he says. Diddy loves Dexter.

My Diddy says condoms are gay.

My Diddy says Cam Newton took that money. No matter what the NCAACP or whoever says. He says cuz Auburn has got a crackerjack team of Jews that did a real good job of hiding all that money so nobody would find out. Jews are real good with money, he says. They just sit around all day counting it and rolling around in it and putting it in their mouth holes cuz they like the taste. He says Jewish men menstruate. And the Jews and the black people (like Cam Newton and Obama) made an unholy alliance to work against the white people to destroy college football. It ain’t right, he says.

My Diddy says he’ll kill Mr. Dickenson, my biology teacher, if he tries to teach evolution again. The one true way, truth and the light, God The Father Almighty created heaven and earth and that anybody that says different is searchin’ real hard for a swift kick to the dicks and balls, he says. If Mr. Dickenson is so smart then how come he says his grandiddy was a monkey? Monkies ain’t smart. My diddy says if Mr. Dickenson wants to make evolution sound more logical he should have picked a smarter animal to be his grandiddy. Like a dolphin. My diddy says dolphins are smart like us people. If they had robot voice boxes, like Steve Hawking, they’d be able to speak their minds just like the rest of us. Says they are the only other animals on Earth that have gay sex for pleasure and plus, if we all came from monkeys, then we’d all look like blackies. They may have descended from monkey’s, Diddy says, but us whites were put here by The Lord God after he made us outta clay, breathed life into our lungs, and Adam and Eve did the ol’ slide in to home plate and super-soak the catcher’s mit.

My Diddy says liking Tracy Chapman ain’t a crime. And don’t let anybody tell you it is. Just cuz it’s dyko-rock don’t mean it don’t got no musical quality. He says lesbians have great taste in music: Bob Segar, REO Speedwagon, and of course the one, the only, 4 Non Blondes. Diddy says the first time he saw 4 Non Blondes was at the 1993 MTV Spring Break Beach House. He was loaded up on cocaine and vodka-frescas but when they performed their acoustic version of “What’s Up?” it penetrated his soul like a flaming javelin of truth.  Said he never really listened to music before that moment. Sure he had HEARD music but he never really LISTENED. Not like he did on that faithful day. He absorbed those butchy sounds with every fiber of his being and let the music flow within him and without him. And he didn’t get enough neither. Followed ‘em all the way to the Lilith Fair. He said those lesbian women opened his mind to how society could be if the testosterone fueled patriarchy would quit gagging the world with it’s throbbing veiny cock. He says that’s a metaphor. Yep, Lilith Fair changed em something powerful. He even got to go backstage and meet Jewel. Never been more nervous in his life. Diddy says her teeth are even more fucked up than they look on the TV. Like somebody curb-stomped her Canadian ass. You’d think that after selling billions of cassette tapes all around the world that she could afford at least some of those invisible Invisalign braces. Guess she’s too busy winning Grammy’s for all that.