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 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.”
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.
This message goes out to all you punk-ass peckerwoods that think y’all bad: Lenny, Big Bob, Clarence, Floyd, Clyde, Cliff, Logan, Vince, P.J., Regular Donny, Donny Half-Dick, Peanut Head, Roast Beef Sammy, Bull Moose, and most of all, that big baby-bitch Earl. Earl, I’m calling you out. I’m gonna go Mary Ann and Wanda all over your ass.
This Saturday. Backyard Wrestling. My house.
I’ve got a couple sheets of plywood and I’m gonna drag my mattress and my lil sister’s mattress and my mee-mee’s mattress out in the yard and I’m gonna take all the cushions off the sofa and we’re gonna rumble like fuck. Then I’m gonna do a frog-splash off the roof of the trailer right onto Floyd’s stupid brown dick. You heard me Floyd, you snaggle-toothed dildo. I’m gonna tear that fat ass open so wide, it’s going to be a veritable Butthole Bonanza.
The only rule is: no fucking holds barred. I’m gonna have cookie sheets and curtain rods hid throughout the backyard to be used as you see fit. I plan on using the cookie sheets to beat Cliff’s fat klepto ass into submission and get him to finally admit that he still has my copy of 007 Goldeneye for N64. And my Shark Pack.
Also, another rule is you gotta come in costume and stay in character. For instance, my wrestling alter ego is named “The Arabian Knight.” I’m going to ride in on a blood thirsty camel, who’s going to be chomping at the bit to tear Logan’s throat right the fuck out of his neck. There’s gonna be more blood gushing out of Logan’s throat than when Floyd’s Ma is on her period. And we all know she’s got more flow than LL Cool J. Anyway, after my camel assaults the Logster, I’m going to do one of those Islamic ear piercing screams. Then I’m going to lay down my prayer rug, pray towards Mecca, recite the Fatihah, snack on some Halal lamb, some dried figs, maybe a little goat cheese and stuffed grape leaves, get upset about somebody drawing a cartoon of the prophet Mohammed, then I’m going to do a backflip and wage a fucking jihad down on everybody’s stink-taints. After I clobber the ever loving shit out of each and every one of your dicks, I’m going to explain to all you racist fuckers how not all Muslims are terrorists and how Islam is really a religion of peace.
Another rule is NO COMING AS LORD OF THE RINGS or STAR WARS CHARACTERS. I’m specifically talking to you Clarence, you fucking nerd-rope. This is fucking backyard wrestling not some pussy-ass Dragon Con LARPing freak show. We’re going to be hitting each other with fucking baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire. We’re going to be setting cinder blocks on fire and smashing them on each other’s face. It’s going to be raw as fuck and every time Clarence tries to cast a spell on one of us or use his Jedi mind tricks it makes us all look unprofessional. Clarence, swear to Allah, one fucking spell or incantation and you will be asked to leave. I’m not even joking right now.
Also, my cousin Daryl’s band “Hatchet Gash” is gonna come rock our asses inside out while we pummel each other like fucking brutes. They are an ICP cover band but they also have some tight-ass originals based off the plot of the 1987 Newbery Award winning novel Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. They’re really trying to stick with the Hatchet motif which is raw as shit.
Occasionally, since Daryl’s wife ran off with Fat Sam the owner of the Dairy Queen, the “Gash” will cover Band of Horses’ “No One’s Gonna Love You More Than I Do” and shit gets real depressing. Daryl will scream “FUCK YOU, SHARON!” and start crying and shooting up heroin on stage. It’s pretty fucking dope.
While we choke the fuck out of each other with garden hoses and shit and Daryl and the boys are rockin’ tits, Mom will be inside making some deviled eggs and Peanut Billies & J’s. All I have to drink at the house is Citrus Cooler Gatorade and Dr. Thunder, so if your picky little pencil scrotum wants something else, pick it up at the QuikShop before you show up. And guys…don’t be a fucking jizz-toilet. When you’re done, wash you’re dishes off and put them in the sink. My mom is not you’re fucking maid, Lenny, you cleft-lipped faggot!
The internet is a wet, wonderful labyrinth.
You start out innocently looking for pics of Scarlett Jo’s jugs and next thing you know you’re two days deep in videos of asian lady-boys having sex with guys in panda bear costumes with a Slim Jim salami dick. Or you are just trying to check IMDB to see what Freddie Prinze “Of Thieves” Jr. has been in lately and you end up watching a .Gif of an eagle takin’ a dump on a box turtle for 6 hours. Some have even gotten sucked into the mysterious and dangerous “Takei Vortex”, where you spend all day liking, sharing, commenting on George Takei’s facebook posts, never to return. Never.
One great thing about being a participant of Internet Land is that you get to see how people stumbled across your humble patch of digital real estate. The following are a list of terms that folks have typed into search engines and through the wonders of electric Jesus, were brought here to LouBegaCalledHeWantsHisFedoraBack.com. Boy were they disappointed…
Here are some of our favorites. Enjoy:
-when did i change my status to jerkin it to dog boners
-those who eat carrots they are horny
-”church camp” penis
-jacky chan queef
-can white people wear jordans
-white people wearing jordans
-basketball shoes for white people
-do white people wear fila
-black and white people together
-i hate my outie
-fucking a statue
-moms muscle calves
-juggulos and jugguletts
-the crying game
-aaron carter boner
-kid rock midget
-corduroy blazers for men
-big fuckin tits
-is lou bega muslim
-bega boobs milks new videos 2012
-fat baby smoking
-monkey eating grapes
-black american comedians that wears suspenders
-nick saban in a birthday hat
-tiny penis chode
-beanie babies bears
-pictures with grandparents
-locker room boner
-tommy lee jones gay marriage
-marilyn manson sucks his own dick
-does marilyn manson have a big dick
-gatorade citrus cooler
-katie couric nipples
-katie couric nips
-katie couric upskirt
-big ass nipples
-muslim hairy chest
-naked hairy men
-penn state girls drunk lesbian party
-hairy black men
-hairy italian men
-2 guys fucking
-guys fucking guys
-men fucking men
-men having sex with men
-bonnie hunt practical magic
-two dudes fucking
-two gay guys fucking
-hairy lebanese men
-most hairy lebanese man
-gay man shaving for dick
Well, that’s that. We’re sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for, interneters. In retrospect y’all are a group of sick Lebanese-gay-sex-loving motherfuckers. Salud!
You haven’t lived until you’ve had my Aunt Becky’s casserole. Seriously. Whatever that shitty fucking excuse for an abortion was that you claimed as your “existence” is all total bullstuffing compared to the life you’re gonna lead after devouring some of Aunt B’s cassie rolls. I mean, this thing will transport you to a whole new world. Like that sluttytits Jasmine from The Little Mermaid. Whatever you thought was right is suddenly wrong. What’s down is up. What was real now seems spurious. Steve Spurious. You thought you knew, but you had no idea. This is the Diary of Aunt Becky’s Casserole.
I recollect the first time my taste buds had the honor of encountering Aunt Becky’s C-Role. I was 7 years old and it was 4th of July weekend. Dad was lighting sparklers and Kentucky Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Das. His eyebrows had been singed clean off. He’d been drinking Bud Heavy and you could see a dark ring of piss around where the tip of his knuckleduster oughta be in his shorts. Aunt Becky was there sucking cigarettes down her stoma barking about how she gobbled on Richard Petty’s nutsack during a pit stop at ‘Dega ’85. She was shoveling casserole onto paper plates and passin’ em around to anybody that would take one.
I remember that first fork full. The clouds parted and a beam of light descended from above -ancient aliens style. Time ceased. Like remember when Zack would stop time on Saved By The Bell and everyone would freeze and he’d address the camera. They call it breaking the fourth wall. SBTB was way ahead of it’s time. They were dicking around with time travel way before Lost. Member when Screech and Zack got in a fight over that twat-trap Lisa Turtle and everybody slurpin on sodie-pops at the MAX was watchin’ like WHAAAT? How could Z-Bird be into Lisa when he knows good and well how much his best bro Dusty ‘Screech’ Diamond wanted to finger fuck that pile of brown sugar? Plus, no offense Lisa Turtle but you are a solid 7.5. Totally bangable but I mean, c’mon, have you seen Kelly? She’s got a pouty little snapper molded out of solid gold, shaved cleaner than Stone Cold Steve Austin’s dome. And Zack was slurpin’ on that ham wallet back in middle school. That whole thing with Lisa was just a fling for Zack. Was it right to do that to Screech? No. Shit’s fucked up. But can you blame him for wanting to get a taste of that dark meat just once? No. A little leg and thigh ain’t never hurt nobody. Diversity is the spice of life. Saved By The Bell addressed interracial relationships way before we had our black president Obama and Big Willie was kissin’ our white women on our big screens.
Where was I? Oh right. Becky’s casserole was the tittyfuck. After that first bite, I was engulfed in a cocoon of warm light. I found myself floating above, looking down at myself and I could see everything. My beginning. My end. Jesus Christ of Nazareth was there. So was Marty King Junior and Heath Ledger. In that instant my testicles descended and they’ve been there ever since.
Seriously, who the FUCK let the dogs out? I left them in the laundry room and somebody opened the door and they got out and took a soft serve dookie-dump all over my grammy’s Persian rug. And guess what jagoff, Persia doesn’t even exist anymore so that thing is a collectible. Just fess up. Spill dem guts. I PROMISE I won’t get mad. Swear to Gauld! Even though I told everyone specifically to stay the fuck out of the laundry room because the dogs were in there and if they got out and juicy deuced in the house, grammy would have my balls for breakfast with a glass of fresh squeezed OJ and a half a grapefruit and a bowl of piping hot oatmeal and a whole wheat bagel and cream cheese and a bowl of fiberPLUS. Grammy loves breakfast. She is always saying how it’s the most important meal of the day. However, there is no empirical evidence to support this. My point is, I’m not mad about the dogs. Seriously. I just want the person responsible to come forward so I can punch you in your stupid orangutan tits, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!
As if that wasn’t bad enough, then somebody left the back door open and those mangy mutts done dug up my flower beds. And I was THIS CLOSE to winning the tri-county’s monthly Most Beautiful Lawn Award and telling May’s reigning champ- Old Lady Goutshanks to go fuck herself with a big ol shovel, right in her poop shoot once and for all. Every month I’ve sat idly by while Goutshanks shows up with her fucking chrysanthemums. March, April, May. Cunt ass chrysanthemums. This month was my month to turn everything around. But then somebody let the dogs out. Now I can kiss that All-You-Can-Fit-In-Your-Shopping-Cart Lowes shopping spree and $35 gift certificate to Olive Garden goodbye. I could almost taste the unlimited salad and b-b-b-buttery breadsticks. Imagine that, hot doughy breadsticks dripping with sticky cum-butter. You ever had a mouth full of cum-butter? Me neither. Sounds fucking de-vine, but thanks to some loose-labia’ed floppy twat flap, I guess I’ll never know. The thing that really irks my nips raw is that now I won’t get to see the look on Granny Goutshanks’s face when the judges buttholes clinch in their stain-resistant khakis after laying eyes on my geraniums. Goutshanks won. Goutshanks won. Woe.
And if that don’t beat all, then somebody left the gate in the yard wide open and all the dogs got out and they ran in the street and all got hit by cars and are all dead now. If you were to go outside and look into the street, you would see like 50 to 60 dead dogs out there littering the roadside. Mountains of them. A dog pile.It smells yucky and it really is an eyesore. It’s driving the market prices on every house in the neighborhood into the fucking gutter. All because somebody let the dogs out.
Was it you Randall?! WAS IT?! Were you born in a barn Randall, you selfish so and so!? What don’t you understand about closing the gate so the dogs don’t get out? Why I oughta! Sometimes I just want to take you behind the woodshed and give you the old one-two, RIGHT IN THE KISSER. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to wallop you. Wallop you good ‘n hard. One time. Clock Ya. Knock your block clean off, seeee? Pack your bags Randy, I got you a one way ticket on the knuckle-express with an in flight meal of knuckle sandwich with a side of black eyed peas. And a pickle. And a Capri-Sun.
So I’m only going to ask one more time, RANDALL, who let the dogs out? Who? Who-who? Who? Who?
Some people think you should make lemonade. If you ask me, that’s a little too obvi. I mean, what ever happened to thinking outside the bun? Like, get the fuck out of that bun, guy. Shun the bun, guy. Shun the bun and head for the border. Yo quiero Fourth Meal. That’s innovation. Plus, it takes more than a bit of lemon to make some fresh squeezed ‘ade. Did life give you sugar as well? Cuz lemon juice by itself is fucking gross. Bitter beer face to the max. YUCKY. But if life were to (literally) sweeten the deal by throwing in some sugar and some high-quality Aquafina h2o water, then maybe lemonade IS the answer. But the saying isn’t “If life gives you lemons, sugar, water and a big ass pitcher, make lemonade.”
Those more materialistic people say you should paint those lemons gold. Because gilded lemons are worth a buttload more than just regular yellow ones, everybody knows that. Gold is like super expensive. It automatically makes you awesome as nipple-farts. That’s why all the hip-hoppers wear gold necklaces and gold teeth and gold pagers. To show everyone how much more funky fresh they are than us regular folk.
Those capitalist pig types say you gotta take those lemons, hold on to them until their market value rises, and then sell them back to life for twice what you got them for. At this point, the only way they can afford their monthly lemon payments is to take out a second mortgage on their house and milk their childrens’ college fund until it’s dryer that Joan Rivers’ crumbly snatch biscuit. That’s when you know you have life by the taint. The classic switcheroo.
Jimmy Buffet fans say you should take the lemon slice it up and put it in your Landshark. Alcoholism is the only way that Parrotheads, these flabby middle-aged white folks with hawaiian shirts and socks’n'sandles, can pretend that they are still relevant. See, alcohol effects judgement and lowers inhibitions and one should not drink it if pregnant. Especially if you’re pregnant with a baby. Especially if you’re pregnant with a baby that you would prefer not to be deformed. I mean sure, we all WISH we could disfigure our unborn children and get drunk every night and sing “Pirate Looks at Forty” while The Buff is up there shredding his acoustic. But alot of us feel a responsibility to society to not hit up BuffeTupt Tour 2012, and instead, get a job, and raise our children, and continue having self-esteem.
Those more spiteful and bitter personalities say you should take that lemon from life and then squeeze the lemon juice into life’s eyeball holes. And while life is momentarily blinded by the juices, you shank it in the guts with a sharpened screwdriver like 14 times. And while life is lying on the ground, screaming, bleeding to death with lemon juice in it’s eyes, you pour gasoline all over life’s clothes and set it on fire. After a few minutes of burning to death, you piss on the smoldering charred remains. That’s what life gets. I’d like to see life try to pull that shit again.
The prevailing assumption of all of these theories is that being given lemons is a negative thing. Like the worse thing in the world that you could ever receive is a lemon. Like lemons are the equivalent of a thermos full of diarrhea. Like lemons killed Tupac. Like the showers at Dachau were squirting out lemon juice.
This assumption is erroneous! Erroneous, I say! There are people out there that would go apeshit for a basket of lemons. Just think, there are little black African kids with HIV/AIDs and crazy bellies and flies swarming around their oversized heads, eating nothing but sand and hair, and we are pissed of about getting some lemons?! Delicious, juicy lemons? Lifegiving fruit?! Sure maybe they’re a bit sour. And maybe they’re one of the more acidic members of the citrus family. But they are better than eating sand and hair and thermos’s full of wet, runny, butt juice.
So next time life gives you lemons, be glad you’re not one of those black African kids with the big head and skinny malnourished bodies and the HIV/AIDs and the flies and the machete wielding warlords that chopped up your parents and the sand and hair and the lack of potable water. And worst of all, imagine how tiring it would be for the Wichati people to have to kneel every time someone mentions the name of their sacred white bat. Shikaka. So tiring. I bet they get shin splints out the ying yang. The only thing that they have to live for is the hope that Lady Blacksmith Mambazo will come out with a new album. Fat chance African kids, fat as fuck.
Here’s our advice: When life gives you lemons just fucking take them and eat them. Rind and seeds and all. There’s no need to even bother chewing. Swallow them whole. There’s vitamin C in there. Don’t be a fucking jizzwad.
In honor of the release of the third installment in the opus that is MIB, or if you’ve been living in a fucking ditch for the last fifteen years and I have to spell it out for you: Men In Black, we at LBCHWHFB have decided to compile a list of our favorite Bill Smith vehicles from the past Willenium.
Actor, rapper, father, philanthropist, actor, whatever the man touches turns to gold. He’s like Midas, but with a way bigger dick and multi-platinum hit singles. Not to mention that perfect smile topped off with that unforgettable mustache. Not a lot a people know this, but Midas actually scored a Billboard top 100 in 1972 with an album entitled, Chodeshaft Overdrive. This groundbreaking album actually went double platinum but at the award ceremony, Midas turned it gold as soon as he touched it. What a total stupid idiot dickhead. We bring that up in order to contrast the achievements of the Frickity-Frickety-Fresh Prince, Big Willie himself.
He did so much in his short, short life to be proud of. The only complaint we have was that God took him too soon. But we know he is up there in heaven now, making fun of Carlton and neurolyzing folks. And so in memory of Will and MIB3, here are are our absolute favorite moments from our absolute favorite black man that there ever was.
1. His role as Jackie Chan playing Mr. Miagi in The Karate Kid 5: The Pursuit of Happiness. LOVE the scene when Daniel san and Miagi are in the bathtub together.
2. I Am Legend of Bagger Vance. Playing alongside white people, Matt Damon and Charlize Theron, Will plays a “magical negro” that plays golf and his dog gets eaten by scary zombies. Like, they are like half zombie, half vampire cuz they can’t go in the light but they are 100% scary. I bet when they were shooting, Charlize was shaking in her little booties cuz she was so scared. But I bet Will was like “Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, You zombies better not come over here or I’m gonna shoot a golf ball at you.”
3. One word: Hitch.
4. Tea Cake Walters in Made in America. If you haven’t seen this Ted Danson/ Whoopi Goldberg driven film experience in all it’s glory, then sister, you haven’t lived. Ted Danson is a big time assmuncher car salesman. Whoopi is a African queen (as always) who owns a shop where they sell dashiki’s and other African shit. Nia Long is Whoopi’s daughter, who after being created in a lab somewhere goes out looking for her father, the sperm donater.
She finds out it’s Ted FUCKING Danson, and this is where the hi-jinx ensue. This movie has everything. Monkey humor, Bear attacks, Jennifer Tilly’s ass, and last but certainly not least, the man from Miami himself, Willie Smith.Will plays Nia’s friend named Tea Cake and they ride around town on a motorized scooter. Shit is the titty-sex fa realz. Netflix or Red Box the dick out of this film ASAP. But for the full effect, it really should be seen on one of your grandmother’s taped-off-TV VHS’s. If the VHS just happens to come with two films recorded on it, and the second is Little Big League, then that’s just the best bonus feature a guy could ask for. More like boner feature.
5. Donkey from the Shrek series. Boy got straight jiggy wit’ it, y’all. Na na na na na na na. Na na na na na na. He was acting so funny like a donkey and stuff. Talking about waffles and stuff. AND HE MARRIED A DRAGON! omg. Too funny, you guys. How do they think up this stuff? Seriously? How the fuck do they think up this stuff? They must be smoking so much acid over at Dream Works. They must be eating so many magic mushrooms and smoking so much heady nugz and listening to Dave Matthews, bro. Trippin’ their nards off. I bet they just turn off the lights or whatever and listen to “Ants Marching” on repeat for like 9 hours. Dave, man. Fucking Dave.
6. Ali. The greatest. The mother fucking greatest. A diamond in the rough. Big Willie plays Prince Ali, a fake prince who is trying to get all up inside Princess Jasmine’s tight little Juicy-Juice squirtbox. And she’s got on this sexy little blue number with her midriff exposed. You’d have to be Marvin Gay not to chub out every time she wiggles dat azz on screen. Except this piece of shit, Gilbert Gottfried, hypnotizes the Sultan and turns into a giant cobra and locks Jasmine in a giant hourglass. But he’s no match for Ali. He was all like “I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. You can’t beat the greatest because I am Prince Ali.”
We here at LouBegaCalled will always love you. Rest in Peace fresh, sweet prince.
I don’t think I’m alone when I say grandparents are intolerant bigots. They don’t care for the blacks. They don’t care for the jews. They don’t care for Mexicans. And I know they’re not technically a race, but they don’t care for homosessssssuals either.
If our grandparents had their way, shuffleboard would be the national sport, all the black folks would be shipped back to Africa, gays would be forced to live in subterraneal caves, Elian Gonzalez would have had his dick cut off, and rollerblades would have never been invented. Can you imagine how horrible that would be? I mean, instead of catching mad air off some big ass jumps on our blades, we would have to use those old 4 wheel skates that make you look like a crusty old pussy-fart. Shit’s fucked. My blades are like an extension of myself. Give me blades or give me death. Either you’re bladin’ hard or you’re hardly bladin’.
Not to be calloused (even though I am, severely, on my inner thighs from so much blading), but the world is going to be such a better place once all the grandparents are dead. We will be finally able to get down to all that stuff Martin King dreamed about. Like, the kids holding hands on a mountaintop thing and kissing or whatever. We will finally be able to have a Christmas Eve that doesn’t involve shouting the word “coons!” at the neighbors (who aren’t even black, they are from Pakistan.)
Now, I’m not saying that you should kill your grandparents. At all. Especially not by, like, smothering them with tempurpedic pillows during one of the 18 hours a day that they are asleep. Or by cutting the brake lines on their electric wheelchairs. Or by giving them a heart attack by telling them that you are moving to California to drop marijuanas and gay-marry your black boyfriend and have interracial babes galore. Mulattoes all over the place.
Or you could cover a pit full of sharpened sticks with palm leaves and dangle a photograph of Bob Newhart over it. They fall for the Newhart trap 9 out of 10 times. Then all you have to do is fill in the hole with quick dry cement and cash your inheritance check.
Or if you’re really crafty, you can rig their Jitterbugs to shoot a sharp metal rod through their ear and into their brains. Kind of like that guy in No Country for Old Men. It’s almost like, when you consider the title of the movie and all the killing and all, it’s like the Coen Brothers want us to kill our grandparents. It’s like their sending us secret messages through the guy who played opposite Big Willie Style in Men In Black. Agent K.
Again, we are in no way endorsing any of these things. All we are saying is that the world will be a better place if you did kill your grandparents. Because they’re racists.
Jackpot! ChaCHING! Who’s got two middle fingers aimed your direction and is gonna be the next MTV reality star? I’m gonna hit the open road in that Winnebago with the cow skull on the grill and 5 total strangers between the age of 18 and 24: A slut, a religious fanatic, a gay guy, a douchey homophobic jock-strap with gelled hair, and a minority.
My role in the gang will be the recovering drug addict ex-convict that struggles with his tempestuous past. See, my dad used to beat me. My girlfriend used to beat me. My aunt Tess used to burn me with cigarette butts. I was molested by my SCUBA instructor. I used to have a speech impediment. I had tuberculosis. So I started smoking grass. Monkey grass. I smoked so much monkey grass that my Gram-gram kicked me to the curb. I was living in the sewers, eating nothing but half eaten hotdogs and old shoelaces. I was blowing all the cash that I earned from drawing caricatures of tourists at the boardwalk on that stankity-ass sticky-icky monkey weed from Lowe’s Home Improvement. One time I smoked so much monkey grass that the whole left side on my body went paralyzed for like 3 months. I could only talk out of the side of my mouth like Greta Van Susteren and I just laid under a grate in the sewer hoping somebody would drop some hotdog or lose a flip flop. I once starred on the internet porn site “GooseneckCocks.cum” under the pseudonym Solomon Soysausage, in order to make enough money to feed my addiction. I also killed my whole family with gardening sheers I stole from Lowe’s while re-upping on that sweet ape cheeba. But then I sent in my audition tape, got selected, and now I’m ready to turn over a new leaf.
Obviously I’m going to cause lots of drama in the Winni, so that I’ll get lots of screen time and be famous as fuck. I’m going to double stuff cream pie the Slut with the Douchey Jock. She will get pregnant and we won’t know who be dat baby daddy, so we will go halfsies on an abortion, much to the dismay of the religious zealot. To make it up to him, I’m gonna ask if I can say Grace at supper, then use it as an excuse to thank God for allowing abortions. Then I’m going to tell the minority “I’m not racist, some of my best friends are black.” And I’m not going to talk to the gay guy whatsoever. Cuz I don’t want to get cooties. Midway through the season, I’m going to shatter my sobriety by going on a hardcore monkey grass binge until the left side of my body goes completely paralyzed. My castmates will have to push me around in a wheelchair and wipe the drool from my chin.
Once I’m in Road Rulez, I’m going to bungee jump my absolute tits off. I can see it now, there I am dangling by my ankles from an elastic rope, high off adrenaline and monkey junk, with my tits some 4o feet below at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. They’ll probably let me bungee jump off the Goodyear Blimp into a volcano. I’m going to be SO NERVOUS! Cuz I’m afraid of heights and lava. Those are probably like my two biggest fears. My third biggest fear is either Lowe’s running out of monkey dope, or my aunt Tess coming back to life, pulling the garden sheers from her forehead, and chasing me down and burning my butthole with the ashes from a tobacco pipe.
After the season is over and I’m a notorious Road Rules personality, I can just do Real World vs. Road Rule challenges until the end of my days. I’ll do physical challenges like hitting some Real World fuck-stick with a foam noodle and they’ll fall into a swimming pool full of eels. Since that is just a seasonal gig, I can invest my time and money into the technology to upload my consciousness onto the internet. Like TRON. I’m going to wear florescent spandex suits that make my gooseneck cock look stout as a Guinness Draft.