Backyard Wrestling. My House.

images (2)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.

$T2eC16dHJGoE9nuQg2,6BQZmSNqQKQ~~60_35The 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.images (3) 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.

93533490_o4hWN-M-1Another 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. backyardThey’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!

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.

Buildin’ This City, Brick by Brick

Just got the new Sims on my Macintosh, bout to go to town (pun intended). I’m gonna build so much awesome shit it’s gonna make that faggy-asslovin’ rollercoaster ride you built last year seem like a swift kick to the dick and ballsacks. Been mappin’ out my city for months now in between kitty naps, since I got fired from Quimbie’s last year. Everyday, just nappin’ and mappin’. My city is going to make blood spew from your buttmouth like a Kansas City fountain. It’s gonna have everything: super dope two story ice dancing rinks, like 3 or 4 Museums of Natural History, 1 Museum of Unnatural History, a gas station, fire hydrants, an abandoned lot where a former employee burnt down the Quimbie’s that used to occupy it, after they fired him for stealing slices of Extra Sharp Cheddar from the walk-in cooler. Ev-ver-ry thing. I’m gonna have a public swimming pool where no kids are allowed so the water doesn’t taste like baby piss. Gonna have a Gold’s Gym where sleeves are required, barb-wire tattoos are banned, and headphones are allowed but only if you are listening to The Wiggles. Only positive vibes, man. Wigglin’ out at the Gold’s. For sure.

Gonna have a mosque on every corner. I know how those Muslims love to pray. Except not within 5 miles of the airport. Cuz of 9/11 or whatever. There’s also going to be an orphanage right across the street from the hospital. And it’s gonna have one of those Blockbuster drop boxes so you don’t have to fill out any paperwork to drop off that little ball of throw-up after your baby momma gets done queefing that thing out her puzzzzzzzzz.

I’m also going to ban smoking cigarettes in work spaces and/or public places like restaurants (Shoney’s), cars, and funerals. We, the citizens of this city, have a right to breathe in fresh, buttery air into our nostrils without being poisoned by smokeheads like you. It’s like, seriously bro, you’re suffocating me with that cancer smog. Would you put that thing out already? Thanks. What, you think you look cool like James Dean or something? Yah right bro, yah right, in you’re dreams. You look like a puffer fish sucking on a little  skinny white dick. You think that shit’s hardcore, huh? Sucking on a skinny white dick is hardcore? You think you’re a big tough cigarette man, huh? Fahgetabaddit. Yah. Right. Bro. What, you think because black president Obama smokes that it’s “cool” now or something? If Obama jumped off a bridge would you too? Bet you would. You’re a sheep, man. Baaa Baaa Black President Sheep. God, how bout you think for yourself for once in your god damn life. Open your third eye, guy. Forget Obama. Seriously. Block out his negative vibes. He’s running this country into ground beef. He needs to practice some fiscal responsibility and realize that he can’t just print out Obama bucks all the live long day, smoking cigarettes, and munching on Michelle’s big fat 8 pound box o’ chocolate. See, he has no private sector business experience. He doesn’t understand. Period. The only experience he has is lightin’ up cigs and reading the Koran.

But we don’t have to worry about all that in my Sim city. No siree Bob. Obama ain’t prezdent round these parts. I’m prezdent round these parts and what I say goes. Like when I say that all the bitches in my city are gonna be topless and have double D titty-mounds. It’s gonna be a nip-nip carnival complete with boner bumper cars. And the sewer system in my new Sim city is gonna empty out right into Selena Gomez’s mouth. She be eatin’ dookie splatter bombs all day erryday.

Also, every second to last weekend of August we are going to have a Parkour exhibition. People are going to be running and jumping off shit. Doing flips. Barrel rolls. I saw ‘em doing it on a Nike commercial and it looked cool as a fucking cucumber. If the city council gives me any guff about it I’m going to be like, “Hey dickspindles, get your head out of your keisters. Haven’t you ever seen a Nike commercial? Haven’t you watched the Bourne Identity? Ever heard of Jackie Chan? Ever drank Mountain Dew? Ever done the Dew, DUDE? Parkour is cool as shit. It’s like Cirque du Soleil except on the cold hard streets of life and instead of leotards, The Beatles, and man on man rape , they are wearing Nikes and cargos and sweatbands and pounding out hot vajizzy after a fat ass jump. Raw athleticism. Like rawer than WWE monday nights. Like rawer than Eddie Murphy comedy specials. Like rawer than my sweet sugar walls after I stay at Uncle Garrett’s for the weekend. I’m gonna be like so super psyched. And just think of the revenue boost to local businesses that we will receive from this exhibition. Tourists’ bucks flowing right into our coffers.”

Rome wasn’t built in a day.  Neither was my new Tony Little Gazelle Freestyle Elite. And my new city, Spicy Mayonnaise Dicktown,  won’t be either.  First I just gotta
get my dad to give me the password to his brand new Apple Macintosh, and it’s on like my socks when I masturbate.

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

karaoke

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

The Big Mouth Billy Bass and the Economic Downturn

The economy is fucked up, you guys. Seriously. Shit is crazy. Ain’t nobody got jobs. Gas is 63 bucks a gallon.  Three consecutive weekends, tickets to Biebs 3D has been sold out when Sharon and I got to the theatre. You know things are bad when Randy leaves American Idol. What the fuck else does he have to do? Play bass?* That’s not even a real fucking instrument jackhole, it’s just a guitar that’s missing two strings. I mean, honestly. Dubs t fuck is going on around here? Last time I checked, this was America. Land of the free, home of the blind. Helen Keller? Ever heard of her? So what happened? Folks wanna blame Wall Street, they wanna blame the government (or as I like to call them, ” dot gov”). People wanna say that it’s the Chinese, the Jews, W the President, the Baldwin’s, whoever. Everybody is blaming everybody, like a turd just floated to the surface in the h-tub, and no one is looking at the facts or trying to fix the problem. No one but your neighborhood friendly bloggers here at LouBegaCalled. That’s right dipsticks, we done solved the economy. Peep this.

Wasn’t it just 10 some odd years ago that America was on top making that sweet, sweet cheddar cheese skrilla, not a care in the goddamn world? Footloose and fancy-free? What had happened? What has changed? What could’ve happened in ten years that could have caused the economy to collapse? I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell you right now. 4 words. BIG. MOUTH. BILLY. BASS. Boom. Take a minute and wrap your mindtits around that, and let a brother explain.

Think back. What was the one thing everyone had in their homes back in the late 90′s/early 2000′s?  Whose living room wasn’t complete with the joy of song coming from an electrical singing trophy fish that hung on the wall? That’s all I’m saying. You bring back the BMBB, and you bring back this country. I know what some of you are thinking. That the Billy Bass was serving a purpose back in those days, creating a sort of redneck backwoods-rape feng shui, distracting us from the horrors of terrorism and the aftermath of 9/11.  What possible use could one get out of a BMBB in today’s ever-changing technological metropolitan world? How bout you shut the fuck up for two seconds and I’ll tell you? For instance, I use my Big Mouth Billy Bass as a sybian while the hubby is away, riding it to full orgasm, as it’s tail fin slaps my juicer, all the while bellowing Take Me To The River. And that’s just one example! We start getting these back into folks’ homes, we start to see real economic  change in this beloved country, our United States. Urrybody gon’ be making money hand over fist, just the way I like my handjobs.

If there is anything we can learn from Billy it’s this: Don’t worry be happy. It’s like Alan Greenspan says, money = happiness. That’s why they call these things depressions. We need to not be afraid to spend that shit! That’s the only way to both be happy and get this economy bumpin’. And I know some of you are thinking, “Hey Lou Bega, money can’t buy you happiness.” Who the fuck told you that? Your poor parents? Yeah, thought so. Rich families are too busy taking the yacht to Barbados for the weekend to instill that value in their children. Pretty sure it can buy you happiness. Case and point: go buy 4 BMBB, hang them on the wall in the basement, smoke some DMT, press the little red buttons, and enjoy.

* For those of you that haven’t read the March 2007 issue of Bass Player, former American Idol judge Randy Jackson is a well known session bassist playing with such artists as Journey, Urethra Franklin, Tracy Chapman, Mariah Carey, Bon Jovi, Herbie Hancock, Bob Dylan, Billy Joel, Roger Waters, and George Michael. He was not in the Jackson 5.