Tag Archives: Aladdin

Backyard Wrestling. My House.

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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!

Aunt Becky’s Casserole

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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.

The Big Question

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

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

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

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

Q: Would you rather have sex with…

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

OR

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

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

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