Monthly Archives: March 2012

Throwing My Hat in the Ring….

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What we need in a Republican candidate in the 2012 election is a true social and fiscal conservative. Someone with salt and pepper hair and expressive hand motions. Someone who can really fill out a suit with a red tie. Someone with a wife that they never have sex with and a square jaw line. Someone that understands the needs of Americans and is egocentric enough to assume responsibility of providing those needs. Someone that has been finely groomed by their well-established father since childhood, that has been strictly denied a social life or any meaningful relationships in order to cultivate the shallow and calculated bonds required for a political career. Someone who is so sexually repressed that orgasms can only be achieved if their partner is wearing a mask of said authoritarian father.

Well by golly, if the right candidate won’t step up to the plate, I, Pudding Arthur Dickenson will be proud to accept the Republican nomination for President of the United States of These Here Americas.

I’m a true conservative. Not like those other vagina balls. I’m so conservative it’s scary. I basically don’t want the government to do anything except keep gays away from the altar and the military and keep Muslims out of airports. That’s it. Bada-Bing, Bada-Boom.

I believe in a right to privacy. If I want to perform an abortion on my 15 year old whore daughter in the privacy of my own home, then god damn it that’s what I’m gonna do. Because the Constitution granted me that privilege. Heck, if I want to save all of her little whore bastard babies in a jar I can do that to0. And maybe once I get enough, I’ll make like one of those beaded doorway decoration things except instead of beads it’ll have all her little aborted whore feti. And I’ll hang it in the doorway to her room so that everyone will be reminded of where the whore lives and how disappointed we all are in her. And that is my God given right of interior design. Nobody can strip that from us. Not Obama. Not Nancy Pelosi. Not the devil himself (Sean Penn). Because the fact is simple, my daughter is a huge whore and our founding fathers wanted us to have beaded baby doorway decorations. And I’ll be covered in shit and rolled in goose feathers if I’m gonna sit here and let you piss all over my forefathers.

I’m not going to beat around the bush. Not like some of these bologna heads. I like money and I like jobs and I don’t like mexicans taking those jobs and I don’t like other minority groups, who need not be named, sitting around all day smoking crack-cocaine cigarettes and using welfare money to buy new hubcaps for their hoopties. They’re over there getting a check from the government every month and blowing it on cases of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Well guess what fuckers, if I’m gonna pay for someone to sit around and drink a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, it’s gonna be me doing the drinking! Not some dickhead that can’t figure out how to work a belt.

And most of all, I hate cole slaw. I won’t eat it and I think that anyone who does eat it is a disgusting pile of cat dicks. Cabbage and mayonnaise? Really? You’re going to eat that? Shit’s fascist as fuck and I ain’t gonna play around with that. Uh-uh no sir. No way, no how. I’d rather swallow a handful of hair at a Puddle of Mudd concert. I’d rather eat a boogerwurst sandwich with a side of kettle cooked toenails. I don’t mess around with slaw and I’m not going to say it again. And it’s not just the taste. It’s so much more than that. It’s the texture. It’s the visual presentation. It’s everything slaw stands for. I oppose its entire belief system. And why the fuck is it called cole slaw and how does that even sound remotely appetizing? I’d rather eat something called a gorilla titty and jizz screamsicle than something called “cole slaw.” I mean…fuck.

Also, I’m pro guns. Guns belong in the house, right next to the Nestle Quik on the bottom shelf, so if need be anyone can reach for it in case of an attack from a black or a zipperhead. America was founded on guns. If it weren’t for guns, hippies like Kurt Cobain and Bigger Smalls would have run this country into the god damned sewer.

I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m pro-money. I just love the stuff. If money was a woman, I would ask her to come over to my house to watch Notting Hill. We would stay up all night drinking milk and talking about how things had changed since college. We’d start seeing more of each other, date for a few months, then I’d pop the question while we were parasailing down in San Destin. I’d do it right, wait until we got married and then fuck her into a coma. Of course I’d visit her everyday in the hospital after she was comatose. Then, after a couple months I’ll tell the doctors to pull the plug because I know she wouldn’t have wanted to live like this. That’s how much I love money.

If you vote me for president of America I’m gonna get this fucking country back on track. We’re gonna have fucking big ol trucks driving down the street with loudspeakers on their roofs, blasting Toby Keith. Fucking Toby Keith. You Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’. How Do You Like Me Now? Getcha Some. Whiskey For My Men and Beer for My Motherfucking Horses. Everyday. Everybody will hear that Toby Keith truck coming from a mile away and they’ll go out on their porches and dance and wave flags and cook hotdogs. I’ll put a god damn slip-n-slide on the White House lawn and we’ll do a laser light show that you’ll be able to see in Timbuktu. Sarah Palin is going to be there in a bikini getting hammered, doing karaoke, and pouring pitchers of Guinness on her tits. I’m so super stoked cuz it’s gonna be the raddest.

And if you don’t wanna vote for me or come to my White House slip-n-slide partay, well then you can go fuck yourself. You bow-legged piece of shit. You bow-legged piece of shit with a skinny little dick. You bow-legged drippy-dicked codfish. You can stretch that skinny little pathetic excuse for a peckercock all the way around until it slides into your ripe little tushie cushion. You can just stay home and watch anime porn for all I care. Go ahead. Just sit around and watch Sailor Moon get sexed up by the tentacles of a space squid. I don’t even want guys like you to vote for me. Just being associated with the likes of you would make me look like a straight up biggidy-bitch.

Thank you and God bless America. And when I say “God” I am specifically referring to the white Christian god. The Jesus one with the ghost and the son and whatever.

See you at the polls!

The Story of Paul Bunyan

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This story is long ago in the wilderness of the American frontier, before that railroad came a’chuggin along into town. Choo- choo! It was a time of new beginnings, self-made men, fiddle playin’, pine trees bigger than you could wrap your arms around, if’n you so desired, and rampant genocide. Yessir, back then you could kidnap an Indian squaw and butt rape her bloody in the middle of town square ’til sun up  and nobody would bat an eyelash. Nope, see back then they didn’t even have eyelashes. Their eyelids were smooth as a catfish’s clitoris. Sure, they’d get dust in their eyeballs all the time but they didn’t know any better. Those were just the times. They were hard times, but they were good times. Scratching and surviving.

One day this man and his big fat pregnant bitch of a wife rode into town. They were looking for a place to lay their heads but the Goathoof Inn was fuller than an Indian squaw’s butthole, so they couldn’t find any rightful beds anyplace. They decided to sleep in old Mr. Honeydew’s barn with the sheeps and the mule and the hay. And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as they settled down, that big fat pregnant lady’s water breaks all over the place and her stinkpot starts dilating as wide as Mount Vesuvius, only with more steam coming off the top. She starts huffing and puffing trying to squirt this little bambino out her cooch. ‘Cept it turns out that this little baby was really a big freaky baby. As big a baby as anyone had ever seen. That baby split her in half like a watermelon and she died something frightful right there in Honeydew’s barn. Next thing the townsfolk knew, that man that rode in with her started going on about how he wasn’t really the baby daddy and that the baby was immaculately conceived by God, The Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, who’d come down and lay with his lady friend. And by “lay” he meant hopping the first donkey-carriage to Pound Her Vagina In Village and not stopping once ‘fore he got there. He said that there were lightening bolts shooting out of the Lord’s peanuthole and angels on high were playing trumpets and harps and bagpipes and what not. Long story short, that fellow giddy’ed up and got right on out of town lickity-split and left those townsfolk to take care of that big freaky baby.

And they named him Paul. Paul Bunyan.

The folks raised him the only way they knew how. They smacked him on the ass, dressed him in flannel and overalls, gave him an axe and glued their pubic hair onto his face, giving him a chin strap mustache that would make Chris Daughtry jealous. And I know that may sounds strange to you now because, as you know, in this day and age, we can’t grow pubic hair anymore after the Incident at Sunblood Cove’s Shampoo+Conditioner Plant in the spring of ’17 . But back then they could. They had loads of it. Pubie hairs comin’ out their ears and eyeballs. Like I said, it was a different time back then, a simpler time.

And let me tell you what, that baby had an appetite is big as the day is long. They tried feeding him porkchops but he ate all the pigs.  They tried feeding him peanut brittle but he cleaned out the peanut trees. They tried feeding him buffaloes and damn near extincted ‘em doing it. They wound up getting some of those Chinese immigrants (they were dime-a-dozen back in wild west times before inflation) and had them whippin’ up a mess of flapjacks around the clock.  Once that big baby became a big man, them Chinamans would stack them flapjacks up about 15 feet high, drown them in maple syrup, and big ol’ Paul would stomp on in, shaking the earth under his feet, and he would gobble them up like the T-Rex did to that goat on Jurassic Park.

But he grew up tall and he grew up right. He could swing that ax like a mother fucker. He’d chop down a whole forest before Average Joe was done splitting fire wood. He’d get up early and be out past moon-up just whackin’ and whackin’.  He whacked so much his hands got all calloused and his pube beard got bushier than Eugene Levy’s eyebrows. Levy’s brows have the the standard measurement for bushiness since the old days.

But things weren’t all biscuits and gravy. Sometimes he got down right depressed on account of being so tall and all. He couldn’t fit in the movie theater to watch the new Nora Ephron vehicle. He was to big to play hide and go seek. And he was bound to never know the touch of a woman because his giant weewee was bound to split her open sticky side first, like a melon. Just like how he killed his Ma. And with those calloused hands of his, ‘batin was a sandpapery misadventure that resulted more in blood than tadpoles.

So he ventured off on his lonesome. Just whackin’ his life away. Until one day he ate a 10 sheets of acid that he bought of this dude with a hemp necklace with a fucking crystal hanging off it and flat billed ballcap. Total Disco Biscuits fan. Anyways, that acid hit him like George Clinton hits the crack pipe and our boy Pauly B. started wiggin’ out thoroughly. Wellington Wigout style. He wigged out so hard that he thought he made friends with a giant blue ox named Babe. He hallucinated that they traveled the countryside, going to bluegrass festivals, selling grilled cheese sandwiches, and talking about sustainable living.

But the acid started taking a turn for the worst. One thing led to another and he hacked Babe into little blue pieces with his ax. Murdered in cold blood. He panicked. So he put the butchered body parts in a bunch of oil barrels and hid them in the swamp and got the fuck out of there.

Then his  trip turned inward. Who was he? What was he doing? Was he really just going to go through life chopping down forests? Life was different now that Babe was dead. He was alone. He knew it was time. He knew he needed to make a complete change in his lifestyle.

So he shaved off his beard and went to community college to become a Certified Public Accountant. Then he got a job in the city at a big shot accounting firm and lived out the rest of his days like a cog in the machine.

Only he knew about his dark past. Only he knew about what he did to Babe. Only he knew where those oil barrels were hidden.

OR SO HE THOUGHT……

to be continued…….

When It Comes to Ninja Turtles…

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When it comes to ninja turtles, everybody knows Raphael is cool, but rude. Like seriously rude. RAVISHINGLY rude. Rude Boying out his blowhole, Rihanna style.

It’s like he doesn’t have a lick of respect for authority or anybody. He’s always in a bad mood and saying dickhead stuff. He is  a dramatic little teenage puss and thinks his life is so hard and no one understands him. Well you know what Raphael, fuck you in your watertight pooper. You little emo bitch. You get to eat pizza and stab people with twin sais all day. Rough fucking life there, Raph. And you get to live in a sewer. Do you have any idea what I would give to live in a sewer for one measly day? God, sewers are like the coolest place to hang out. It’s an underworld maze of tubing. It’s like D-Z Discovery Zone except with waterfalls and used tampons everywhere. You’ve got nothing to complain about, guy. You don’t have to be so rude to everybody.

Apparently Splinter didn’t teach that turtle one bit of manners. I’m not holdingthat against him though. He’s a nappy headed rat that taught a bunch of turtles karate. That in itself is a pretty impressive feat. To expect that he would have time to teach Raphael how to not be a cunt all the time may be an unrealistic expectation. Donatello seemed to learn on his own pretty fucking quickly though. Just saying.

Aside from an irreparable character flaw, there are only three real reasons I can think that Raphael is such a rude-ass.

1) Premature hair loss. He’s only a teenager but his dome is smoother than a tub of margarine. This baldness may have led to some confidence issues. In which case, his rudeness may just be a defense mechanism. He got dealt a bad hand, I’ll give him that. But it’s not like he’s the only one. All his teenage mutant ninja bro’s are bald too. And if it really bothers you so much Raph, put on a ballcap! DUUUH.

2) He also may be self conscious because he feels less talented than his turtle brethren. Leonardo, as the eldest turtle, has assumed leadership position of the gang. And understandibly so, Leo is a sober and rational decision maker. He’s like JFK but with two fucking swords! If I’m in a gang and someone has one sword, much less TWO, and all I got is a little pussy-baby wooden stick, then of course I’m taking orders from the dude with gigantic katanas. And that’s not a crack at Donatello. Donny is a fucking computer wiz kid. Wiz Khalifa on the mouses and keys, son. He got a bachelors in mechanical engineering from MIT and was in the top 10 percentile of his graduating class. Magnum. Cum. Alotta. He once showed me the schematics for this robo-sex broad he was developing to take to the Sadie Hawkins. She was so totally sssstacked. She had bazoombas like out to HERE and nipples so puff’d they might as well have been ‘mallows. Anyways, while Raph E. L. is known to be somewhat cool, despite his rudeness, he is nowhere near as cool as his younger brother Michelangelo. He feels overshadowed by the hip socialite. Mike sees the best in everyone and is always the life of the party. He loves heady ‘za and who can blame him? He is as cool a “dude” as there ever was. Raphael resents his brothers because he feels inferior. He responds to this inferiority complex by putting his brothers down and making them feel like shitheads, when in fact it is he, Raphael, that is the shithead.

3) He wants to get all up in April’s boohiney but he knows that interspecies premarital sex is a sin. It’s like he’s having to live a lie. The turtles’ strict evangelical upbringing has forced him to deny who he really is. He knows if he acted on these feelings that he’d be shunned and would probably end up having to join The Foot Klan to make ends meets. As a Foot, he at some point would have to fight it out with his bro’s and he knows how fucking good they really are at karate. Their like a bunch of reptilian Jackie Chans. So he represses these sinful emotions. He is like a prisoner in his own shell. As a result turns his pain outwards, hurting the ones he cares most about. He acts like a huge green piece of dickhole so that he can distract himself from the forbidden sexual desires he’s got bubblin’ down within. Tragic, actually.
And if Dr. Freud was right, he probably also wants to both kill and have sex with Master Splinter. You see, Splinter served as both a surrogate mother and father figure for the turtles, since they were abandoned by their true parents. See, they were thrown into the sewers of NYC by their folks because were too young and too broke to support four children.   A genetic mutation occurred while they were playing in some ooze one time and they became human sized, and could speak English and fucking chow down on premium pies. So this wise old, similarly mutated karate master rat was like, “my late ex wife and I could never have children, so I’ll raise these turtle pups as my own.” He was their mommy and daddy. Puzz and dong. The blade and the chalice. Sex and death. With this complex mixture of emotions swirling around in that turtle skull of his, it’s no wonder Raphael has such difficulty with social interactions. Dude is fucked in the head, but that’s our Raph. Just wish he’d put a sock in it sometimes and quit being such a sloppy buttpussy.