Category Archives: Romance

When I’m On My Period

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downloadWhen I’m on my period I get cramps so bad that it feels like a clown is twisting my guts up like a balloon animal.

When I’m on my period it feels like there is so much pressure on my uterus, like more pressure than that band fun. is under to make a follow up album to their magnum opus Some Nights.

When I’m on my period I’m just like “Gary, get out of my room. You’re not even my real dad and I can see you hair plugs”

When I’m on my period I just want to give my bufu boss a piece of my mind. Cuz like, I work my fucking fingers to the bone at the Old Navy and I get like zero cred. I work so hard, I swear. Like on Wednesday I must have folded 50 pairs of Sweater Pants™ and then he had the audacity to yell at me while I was trying to take a nap in the stock room. Like, are you serious? I work so fucking hard. I don’t need to take this from your cheesy ass. The Old Navy would prob be out of business if it wasn’t for me. #giveasistasomecred #wudja?

When I’m on my period I’m seriously like so fatigued that even when I give myself 5-hour energy enemas up my boo-hiney hole, I only fun-band-style1stay awake for like 2 and a half hours. UGH!

When I’m on my period all I want to listen to is that song We Are Young by that band fun. on repeat and eat Yoplait and the freshest strawberries that Whole Foods has to offer. Cuz like I saw this documentary about food processing on Netflix and now I’m like an activist or whatever and a die-hard Yogurtarian.

When I’m on my period I hate my boyfriend so much that I just want to inhale his microscopic plankton dilly like that whale shark on Planet Earf.

When I’m on my period I get such splitting headaches that it feels like a bunch of chinamen are inside my skull banging on gongs and I’m like “okay, seriously? like, if you want to bang on fucking gongs then go back to you own overpopulated, filthy country, Chun Lin. Don’t think we forgot about Pearl Harbor. Or Vietnam. Or Korea. Or the Huns. Or the Mongols. For realz don’t test me cuz I’m totz on my period and everything and I’m like not in the mood for nonsense. And the way I see it, unless you’re Jackie Chan you have no fucking business here. I’m talking specifically to you Lucy Liu. Your new show Elementary on CBS looks like a fat stack of shit covered dick. And if I have to listen to Gangnam Style I’m going to go Enola Gay all over the place.”

When I’m on my period I just want to like, go out for lattes with Kristen Stew Stew, then fingerbang her in the Starbucks bathroom, then strangle her to death with my bare hands, then chop her up into little pieces and then eat her thereby consuming her essence, thus inevitably causing Robby Pattinson to fall in love with me. Cuz that’s how much I love K Stew. Cuz like did you see Breaking Dawn? Cuz like, SOOO much better than Lincoln.

When I’m on my period I’m like “Ugh, I don’t feel like going to Pure Barre today. I’m just going to throw up all the yogurt and strawberries I ate instead.”

images (2)When I’m on my period it’s like, GUSH! Seriously. Like I’m surprised I don’t pass out from all the blood loss. It’s like The Shining but instead of the hallway filling up with vamp juice, it’s my Hello Kitty panties that I stole from The Old Navy. I even tried putting in multiple tampys, but I just ended up getting one stuck so deep in my boombox that my gyner-cologist  had to dig in there with forceps and yank that sucker out. I KNOW! Totez TMI, but whatevs because I’m all like “It’s my body and if I wanna clog it with excess tampys and then shout about it from the rooftops then I’m gonna do just that because last time I checked, I was a privileged white girl in AMERICA, not some starving African with fly-head and crazy belly having their heads chopped off by KONY 2012.”

When I’m on my period I just have like the zaniest cravings. Like I won’t be satisfied until I get ‘zactly what I need. Like last month, I just had to have an audio recording of Michael Buffer saying “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” on loop while I shotgunned Dr. Pepper 10′s in my garage. I’m all like, seriously DP? Not for women? Why don’t you just munch on this hemoglobin-filled muff-hole until it looks like you put on fiery red  lipstick and then go ahead and kiss my privileged white female ass, you fucking snaggletoothed vibrating dildie. I’m a gawldern independent woman and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let all the hard work that B’ Day, Sasha Fierce and the rest of the Destiny’s Children put in to this movement go to waste just cuz some sexist fucks at the Dr. Pepper corporation decided that they wanted to be cleft-lipped faggots and make a misogynist advertising campaign!

When I’m on my period I can get pretty worked up about soft drinks or whatever.

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If I Had a Bike

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Where I come from, you’re a stinking nobody unless you have super tight ass bike. You’re a stinking fucking nobody. You’re a stupid stinking fucking nobody with a skinny little angel hair pasta dick. With Alfredo sauce all over your soft angel hair dick. With flaky garlic bread for your balls. And Parmesan pubes.

Where I come from, there’s no way you’re ever going eat a single morsel of pussy if your cruising around on a Razor. Cuz scooters are whack and eating pussy is cool. That’s why I need a bike. So I can eat pussy all day everyday. I’d eat pussy all over the place: the bathroom at Quiznos, in line at Subway while I’m waiting on them to toast my $5 roastbeef sammy, under the table at Panera Bread after I finish my Bacon Turkey Bravo. I’d even put some pussy in the front basket of my bike and then I’d eat it just like how Eliot ate E.T.’s pussy. E.T. Phone home? Fuck that noise. E.T. BONE hoes.

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If I had a bike, shit would be raw as tits. Raw like WWE Monday Nights. Raw like John Cena’s buttflaps after Stone Cold Steve Austin wraps his own dick in sandpaper and pounds Cena’s keister til he taps out. Raw is War. Shit would be STUUUPID fun. I’d get 5 Cent Frankie behind the 7/11 to show me how to pop a wheelie. See, bitches in my town won’t fuck unless you know how to pop wheelies. I’d roll up to the Drive-In while Becky and her new boyfriend Stash are watching Gone in 60 Seconds 2: Gone in 120 Seconds and be like “Check this shit out, Becky, you bitch” then I’d pop a major wheelhouse and watch her skinny jeans overflow out the top with bubblin’ clam chow-chow all over Stash’s front seat. That’ll teach her. I’d ride over to Mrs. Greenberg’s house and yell from the street, “Give me an F in Geometry? Who wants to F now, you fucking bug-eyed twat?!” and bust a wheelie right in her goddamn face and watch her rip off her turtleneck and press her dumpy Jew-tits against her kitchen window. Fuck yeah.

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If I had a bike, I’d have permanent lockjaw from all the teenage box I’d be eating. I’d stay eatin’ more box than a starving homeless man. The thing about ownin’ your own kickass Huffy is: GIRLS WANT TO FUCK YOU RIGHT ON YOUR DICKHOLE. It’s that simple. What’s that Megan? You wanna ride on my handlebars and every so often I can lean my head forward and get a whiff of that buttcrack pokin’ out them Juicy sweatpants? Done. Excuse me, Veronica? You want me to ride no-handsies, so I can use my hands to pinch your left nip while I fingerplow your stickcave? Done. It’s not rocket science, guys. It’s easy. Bike equals Pussy Tsunami.

If I had a bike, I would decorate the spokes with beads, so that when I hopped a curb and got mad air, my wheels would look fucking bonkerzzz. I’d also put one of those floppy flagpoles on the back but instead of a flag it would have a raccoon’s tail. When sluts see that raccoon’s tail flapping in the wind they will know that it symbolizes my love for nature and all things natural.

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Cuz like, I want to be a marine biologist or whatever. And I’ve got a serious soft spot for all of God’s creatures great and small. Like especially but not limited to marine creatures because marine creatures are really misunderstood and everything. Plus my bike is going to have pegs on the back so I can grind down super slick rails or so my cousin Denny can ride on the back. He’s special needs and probably won’t have the chance to have a bike of his own. He’ll never know the freedom and/or the sweet taste of pussy that comes with riding a bike. But because like I care so much about my family and people with special needs, I’ll be like “Hey D-Bones, peg it up. You’re riding co-pilot braaaaaash.” And when all the Bettys and Veronicas around town see me riding with beads, a raccoon tail, and a retarded kid on my pegs, they are going to want me to eat their whole entire pussy.

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Girl, I’m Gonna Get Your Goat

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Look at you over there. Sexy as hell with you’re chunky biscuit booty poppin’ out your jean cutoffs. Look at you with them thick trumpet-playin’ lips dripping with Dr. Thunder flavored chapstick. Glistening like two slugs 69ing each other. I never thought anyone could combine my two favorite things, the discount beverage Dr. Thunder and watching slugs do the dirty, so effortlessly. With such poise. Such grace. Reminds me of Princess Dianna. The Beanie Baby, not the dead lady. Just as a general rule of thumb, from now on when I refer to Princess Dianna, assume that I am talking about the Beanie Baby.

Cuz those things are retired and worth their weight in Gold Bond © and I’ve got 25 of those fuckers vacuum sealed in the bottom of my closet at my GramGram’s house. TAGS ON. All I have to do is sign onto dad’s AOL account and go to AOL Marketplace and let everybody know that I’ve got 25 SUPER RARE PRINCESS DIANNAS with the tags still on and people are going to wig the fuck out of their fucking wigs. There’s going to be rioting in the streets. People flipping cars and setting homeless guys aflame. Police brutalizing minorities. Gay guys doing butt stuff. Someone dookie-dooing in the drinking fountains. The whole kit and caboodle.  The only thing maintaining the delicate stability of society is me keeping those Princess Diannas hidden away at my GramGram’s house. Like, does that make me some sort of hero or something? Yeah, I guess it does. I’m the last hope. I am what Gotham needs me to be. But enough about me and how I’m the only thing standing in the way complete anarchy, let’s talk about you.

Wit cho gums all intact and yo teef lookin’ reeeeal foine. Gingivitis can be a motherfucker, but it ain’t got shit on you, girl. You must brush yo shit like at least three times a day. After every meal. Like our lord God, Jesus of Nazareth intended. “And then the Lord appeared to Jacob and said ‘you gotta brush dem shits like 3 times a day. After every meal. I can be a little lenient when it comes to lunch and din-din, but you gotta brush dem shits in the mornin’ cuz yo breath be kickin’ like Ken and Ryu.” – Deuteronomy 36:25. Doing the Deut. Brushing for the Lord.

And look at you with those two dumpy bosoms. Pendulous old bean bag titties. What are they filled with sand? Hell yes. That shit sexy as hell. I love sand. Reminds me of going to the beach and catching fiddler crabs. They so crazy. Lil’ scuttle bugs is all they are. And all they eat is seaweed so their bods are ripped to shreds. I’ve heard Matt McConaughey is on the fiddler crab diet. Just seaweed, sand, salt water, and you’ve got to scuttle around for like 5 hours a day. Have you seen him with his shirt off? Looks like a fucking torched ass crab with silver dollar nipples. Speaking of, you know how fiddler crabs are incongruent? They got that that one baby claw and one big claw? Very reminiscent of your droopy bubbers. One big. One small. Them sandy, fiddler crab titties making me feel like Jimmy Buffet or something.

And look at you with them sexy azz ankle socks. You a dirty bitch and ya mom bad too. The one on your left foot stops just below a tattoo of a broken, battered, and bleeding Ryan Reynolds circa 1998 when Two Guys, A Girl, and A Pizza Place was ownin’ the television airwaves. Whatever happened to that Pizza Place? Haven’t seen it in anything good recently. Probably got addicted to huffing gas like all the other child tv stars and now bags groceries at Piggly Wiggly.  The sock on ya right foot don’t even match the left one and that’s bout to tear me up. I love how you purposefully mismatched em cuz you know I damn near bust out my cords when I see dat shit. Shit’s got a hole in it and urrythang. Just Clay Achin’ for me to lick your ashy, cracked heel. Shit’s makin’ me so hard.

And girl, look at frumpy lil dumper. I say god damn, god damn, child. That’s the skinniest little booty-hiney-hole I’ve seen in all my days. Your booboos must come out looking like Sour Straws or something. So skeeeeeeeenny! I’ve seen tic-tacs with more circumference than that booty-hiney-hole. Like those little orange ones? Those things got less the 2 calories. That fanny lookin’ watertight. Like a duck’s back. You got that duck-back-booty, ho. Got that quack back. Them fowl bowels. Lil mama got a Duck Tail. aWOOooo!

Damn girl, I’m gonna get your goat.

Poems for Lovers

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Romance is our forté. We know romance. Like the way TNT knows drama, that’s the way we are with romance. Franklin and Bash and Rizzoli and Isles. Not even gonna beat around the bush. We’re like a white Hitch. I take brown girls on ski-doo rides to Ellis Isle so they can learn about their immigrant ass grannies. Then I roundhouse kick them into the water. That’s what she gets for having a Mexican granny- and she’ll still slurp upon my goat leg a.k.a my chubbed-out goat chode a.k.a my girthy chubby-wumba. We know all the ins and outs to getting it in and out. It’s calculated.

And sometimes we’re even romantic by accident and next thing we know Ms. Satin Titties working at the register in Subway is asking if I want extra roast beef on my footlong. In actuality it’s only a six incher (rounding up) but that didn’t stop us from tub-thumping in the stockroom. That’s how Jared Fogle was conceived. Jared’s mom had a chowder stew brewin’ in her Nether Clam and Papa Fogle came in and threw down some salami and asked if she wanted chips and a drink with that. Then fat Jared was born a few months later and then he just kept getting fatter and fatter. Then Jared’s mom took him into the same Subway where he was concieved and he was like “Fuck the bullshit, I’m only eating at Subway from now on.” Then he lost all that weight, made millions of dollars, and fucked bad bitches with no rubbers. Just like his diddy.

But we’re not here to brag about this and that, we’re here to help you. For all you fuddy-duddies out there, here’s a few poems you can tell your gal pal to get her gushing like the mighty Potomac.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Your skin is tan

What are you like 1/8th Sioux? 

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Pussies be warm

like Brunswick Stew

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Your hair smells sweet

What kind of shampoo is that? Is that Pantene ProV for Damaged Hair? Yeah, I thought so. Not that your hair was damaged or anything. I’m just saying, smells nice.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

You’re my therapist

and my father molested me

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

If you break up with me I’ll kill myself

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Can we try anal?

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Seriously, all my friends’ girlfriends are letting them try anal and they say it’s not as bad as everybody always says.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Okay like, I’m not the type of guy to lay down ultimatums or whatever but I just feel like if your not even willing to try anal JUST ONCE, then obviously this relationship doesn’t mean that much to you. I already bought a tube of ultra-lube and everything. I read some reviews on the website and it said it was the best lube for doing anal with. Please, Sharon.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

GOD SHARON!

You are such a selfish cunt.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Take my wife please

She’s a selfish cunt.

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I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

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I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus. On the tee-tee.

I’m fairly certain this means that Mommy and Daddy will be getting a divorce and that Santa is my new Daddy. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Dad doesn’t appreciate a g-darn thing that she does for him. He’s a slob. He’s a racist. He’s a busive. He’s a Baptist. He sits around all day in his fruity-booty whitey-tighties, scratching his nutsacks, eating beef jerky, and listening to REO Speedwagon. His only friend is the dog and he’s been dead for two years. You wouldn’t know it though, by the way Daddy keeps setting food out every morning and talking to the spot where old MustardFarts died. He treats that ghost-dog better than he treats us.

Mommy comes home after slaving away at the Waffle House. Like literally SLAVING. See, she picks cotton at the Waffle House. And when she comes home her dogs are barking. But does he ever thank her? Does he ever whip her up a little din-din? Does he ever give a deep tissue rub down? Does he ever take his jerkey smellin’ fingers off his balls long enough to give her a handjob? No. He doesn’t. He just yells at her for forgetting to get his order of h-browns chunked and smothered. Seriously. If he doesn’t get little chunks of ham on his h-browns he gets all loco, esé and starts throwing bows. Chris “Ludacris” Bridges style. Mad bows. 2 Fast 2 Furious. He flings Mommy to the ground and stomps on her rib cage until her bones making cracking sounds. Then yells at her for gargling up blood all over  the carpet and ruining the chances of get our security deposit back.

I’m GLAD Mommy was kissing Santa Claus on his candy cane striped dick. Santa seems like a real legit guy. A straight shooter. Real salt of the earth type a cool cat. He’s a giver. He’s an animal lover. He was really funny on Home Improvement in his younger years, back before he became Santa. Always busting Al Borland’s chops. Bustin’ em hard too. Like, bustin’ harder than Billy-Boy Murray, Dan-the-man Aykroyd, and that black guy back in the 80s. Anywho, maybe after the divorce with Daddy, me and Mommy can move up to the North Pole and live with Santa and the Elves and the Reindeer and Frosty and Jack Frost and Robert Frost and Michael Buble and the whole gang. And maybe Santa will learn to love me as the son he never had and train me as his apprentice to eventually replace him when he dies. Just like Kim Jong Il and his son. Oh, how I long to know love like Kim Jong Il and his son. Once I’m the new Santa, I’m going to find out where my old Daddy lives and go to  his house at night and sneak down his chimney and drop a Yule Log in the tank of his toilet. That way every time he flushes dookie water comes out.

Elevator Diaries

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“Elevator Going Up”

You’re never more alone than when standing in a crowded elevator.

My eyes were fixed firmly on my feet. In moments like these I keep them under the strictest regulation.  No sidewards glances. No eye contact. No acknowledgement that I was sharing this confined space with 5 other lifeforms. Head down. Staring at my shoes. Dems the rules.

Then I felt a twinge of electricity. A pang of something magical brewing in my nethers. First it started in my toes. Then I crinkled my nose. Wherever it goes, I always know: I was about to chub out.

I felt my pleated stain-resistant khakis tighten around my thighs and firmly latch onto my clinched fanny parts. My pupils dilated, their focus climbing up to the emerging lump in my lap. It began to grow in slow motion like an ash snake lit on the 4th of July. Beads of sweat began to aggregate on my brow and I could feel the blood pumping into the sleeping behemoth. Pulsating. Thriving like a hearty turnip.

By the time we reached the 12th floor, my humble erection was at a 45 degree angle, glaring straight into the eyes of my fellow elevateurs like a shackled cyclops- drooling and veiny.

The trembling young nipper next to me clung to her mother’s dress, shielding her eyes from my rock hard dick. An old Babushka clutched her rosary beads and murmered low and quick for her God to save her. The Chinaman pointed and shouted at my cocksicle as if Mothra was setting the city ablaze with his laser vision. After making eye contact with my throbbing member, a young businessman nervously reached into his briefcase. Rifling through his stock reports, he retrieved a pistol. In an instant his lips were wrapped around the barrel like it was Pete Wentz’s cock and he was a valued customer at Hot Topic. Swallowing that metaphorical load, his brain matter painted each wall of the elevator. The Chinaman, stunned, said nothing slowly backing into one corner. The Babushka dropped to her knees, threw up her hands and began to weep. The mother put the back of her hand to her forehead and fainted, collapsing into the pool of blood, brain, and business papers that had amalgamated on the the elevator floor; her young daughter standing there, motionless, not knowing what came next. Our eyes met, then like two kittens following a laser pointer, slowly panned down to the unreceding mound of flesh pulsating the button-fly of my khakis. A small grin appeared, then somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.

Ain’t nothing but my Bone-Daddy, y’all!

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!

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

What I Look for in a Woman

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My analyst, Dr. Werner Lipschwitz, says that I find faults in all my relationships with women because I am afraid to really open up and let them see my innards. My gutty works.  My heart.  My soul.  He says that maybe if I stopped jerking off to anime porn for two seconds and made a list of the things that I am looking for in a woman, that I might be able to find a healthy relationship where I’m boning on the daily. Carson Daily. He (Lipschwitz, not Carson) is a doctor after all, so he knows what the fuck he is talking about. They don’t just throw out titles like Doctor or Miss America to stupid cunts who wouldn’t know a sinus infection from a cum-filled French bagguete. So, without further adieu (french)…

Vajenga- Might as well get this one out of the way right off the bat. I definitely want my lady to have some chunky New England C-Chowder brewing down in her pantaloons. And it’s not just because I’m all about the humpty hump. There’s so much more to vajengas than just humping. I mean yeah, gettin’ two-inches deep into a steamy bowl of New England’s finest is great and all- it’s the greatest- but there’s more to it than that. For instance, one day I would like to have 2.5 children: Cornelius, Champagne, and half of little Jackie Chan Jr. I don’t care which half. He’s got feet of fury AND a cute little punnam that’s absolutely perfect for Chris Tucker to scream at. I love it when he’s like “Do you understand the words I’m making with my mouf!”  See, I’m a family man, that’s the honest-to-goodness. And the fact of the matter is, you really should probably have a puzzy-wuzzy stink pot if you are planning on pooping out some babes any time soon. You know what, on second thought, maybe I’m being a little too nit-picky here.  Nobody’s perfect. At the very least my dream girl needs to have a good, solid butthole. A big ole downtown brown round ain’t hurtin’ nobody. I’ll settle for a couple butt babies if I have to.

Braces- Teeth braces, leg braces, back braces, what the fuck ever. Nothing gets the blood pumping in my private part like a vulnerable, delicate lady with metal strapped to her body to correct her scoliosis or overbite or bowlegs. You ever gotten a toothy beej from a woman (or man I guess, but really? gross) who had braces? Fuckin’ fuggetabowdit. And don’t even mention fucking Invisalign. Invisalign is bullshit.

Fear yet respect for Magneto- I’m talking X-men here, people. My lady needs to understand that Magneto is a dangerous, powerful man who is willing to destroy lives to get what he wants. At the same time, she needs to be sympathetic to why he has such a violent agenda. It’s because he has faced oppression at every turn in his life. His parents were killed in the Holocaust, for Christ’s sake! Haven’t you seen X-Men: 1st Class? Summer Box Office hit of the Summer?! Life as a mutant is hard and a man can only take so much before he fights back. It’s like, Magneto is the Malcom X of X-Man Land and Dr. Xavier is the MLK Jr. Malcolm vs. MLK. Black Power vs. Being a Pussy Ass Bitch. It’s just like that.

Birdie Style- Some people like it doggie style. Some people like it cowgirl style.  Some people like it Julia Style. I prefer it birdie style. In case you’ve been living in a nunnery the last 3 months, doing The Bird is when you get butt-ass nukkuh and Elmer’s glue feathers (from Hobby Lobby AKA Hob-Lob AKA The Lob AKA Lisa Loeb) all over your body. Then the other person, the ”momma bird” in this instance, eats some French fries and regurgitates them down my throat hole- just like real birds do! If you can be my early bird, you’ll get this man’s worm everytime. BaCAW!

That’s about it.

An Open Letter to Tatyana Ali

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Tatyana Ali,

If you’re reading this somewhere, maybe on your laptop in some sophisticated L.A. coffee shop, sipping you’re tall iced soy mocha frap- no whip, maybe you googled yourself  just to see if anything new popped up, well we just wanted to say that we are so proud of you. We’ve watched you grow over the years from a young Ashley Banks, Will Smith’s tomboy lil cousin living the life of luxury in Fresh Prince to a nubile, ebony goddess with the voice of a Siren. Like the enchanting Greek seductresses, not like a high-pitched noisemaker that alerts one of emergencies. We loved you as a young, budding actress. Now, we’re so proud of the woman you’ve become. No drug problems. No sex tape (although we wouldn’t complain). And you didn’t turn into a fatty like Raven Symone from The Cosby Show and That’s So Raving. For real, bitch got fat. Cheetah Girls, more like Elephant Girls! Get it? Because they are both indigenous to Africa but elephants are way fatter? I probably shouldn’t make fun of her because ya’ll are prolly best friends since she was in Season 2, Episode 21 “Vying for Attention” of Fresh Prince in 1992 or whatever. Anyways, the point is we’re proud of you because not only are you beautiful, but politically active and polite. And yeah, of course we forgive you for not sending that lock of your hair that we requested, even though we have been sending you flowers everyday for 3 years. I mean I’m sure you just forgot to drop it off at the post office, right? I feel like you really get me, you know? You never judge me, even though it would be so easy for you to do (your dad being Judge Uncle Phil and all). It’s like you’re sending me messages in everything you do. Right to my brain hole. I remember that episode where you and Hilary got into a fight because you told her she was adopted because she was so light-skinned. I know that, secretly, that was a commentary about your overall distrust for the white man, something that I have been preaching about for years, ever since Vanilla Ice starred in Secret of the Ooze. And now that we’ve sort of opened up this dialogue and told you how proud we are, we wanted to apologize for breaking into your house last February and stealing used tampons out of your bathroom trash can. We wouldn’t have had to break the window if you hadn’t locked us out, TATYANA! Why don’t you answer my emails? Why the fuck don’t you love me?! I know everything about you. I know what gym you go to. I know you like to eat cold pizza. I know your social security number. I swear to God, if you would just give me a chance I’ll prove to you that we were made for each other. And if you don’t I’m going to cut your head off and put it in my freezer so I can keep it with me forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Hehe!

Love you Tatyana!

Your Secret Admirer