Tag Archives: God

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.

Big Willie Style

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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.

Throwing My Hat in the Ring….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you at the polls!

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!

If I Were a Mystical Beast

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I swear to God up in heaven above, people are always asking me, “Hey mister, if you were to be a mystical beast, which mystical beast would you be?”

Often times people are surprised and confused by how specific my answer is. So I drew a detailed diagram to explain my answer and dispel any lingering confusion. If I were a mystical beast, I would be a Human-Centaur (as seen below). The Human-Centaur is 50% human (head & chest), 50% horse (body), and then another 50% human (legs & feet). Now, I’m not a mathemagician but I believe that balances out to somewhere around 75% human and 45% horse.

The Human-Centaur is strong and noble and really really really rare. He has wavy blonde hair that he wears in a stylish yet masculine ponytail. He’s got a square jaw line just like Jon Hamm and bushy eyebrows like Eugene Levy (both total sexpots). Plus he’s got some ripped-ass pecs cuz he does upperbody workouts pretty much everyday. He’s got a membership at Gold’s Gym and I see him up there all the time TORCHING his delts, obliques, lats, bi’s, and tri’s. No fooling. If he’s got em, he’s TORCHING that shit thoroughly. I work the front desk at Gold’s, so I’ve seen my fair share of delt torching, but never like this. I’m talking FUCKING SCALDING.

Not to mention his stout-ass horse body. Like Seabisquick. Imagine him cantering around the forest, highstepping like a regal duke, letting sexy ass nymphs ride him barebacked, total raw dog style, laughing wildly, tossing their heads back in ecstasy with nothing to hold on to but his swoll rock hard pecs and ponytail.

Also,the only movie he owns is Mystic Pizza on VHS (as seen above) and is a huuuuuuge Julia Roberts fan. Like seriously obsessed with Julia. Every time I see him at Gold’s (torching) he drops at least one quote from Erin Brockovich. Last week, I thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance, but he was just acting out the scene where Julia collapses in Steel Magnolias. “DRINK THE JUICE, SHELBY” Seriously. Loves. Jules.

Plus Human-Centaurs have the best mating ritual of pretty much all mystical beasts. To get things warmed up, they do what is known as the “Human-Centaur-Pede”  which is basically like a line of 100 or 200 Human-Centaurs in the woods just eating out each other’s horse butt-pussies. They do this for about 8 hours, then they drink lo-carb meade and honey out of the ceremonial chalice to get the taste out of their mouth.

I Can’t Wait for Thanksgiving to be Over….

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I can’t wait for Thanksgiving to be over so I can to listen to Michael Buble sing all my favorite Christmas songs. A little smooth. A little jazzy. A little swagger with a half-cocked grin. Christmas time is Buble time. No butts about it.

I love the way his velvety warm vocals wrap around me like I’m an Egyptian mummy or something. Like I once owned a gang of Jew slaves that I used to build myself a statue of myself except with the body of a crocodile, while I sat around eating figs and letting hunky oiled up dudes fan me with ostrich feathers. And if the Jews didn’t work fast enough I would turn into a giant scorpion and stab them in the chest with my tail.

I love the way Michael does the ever-so-slightest pelvic thrusts when he is up on stage performing. It’s just the tiniest little push. So small that it cannot even be seen by the naked eye. Even with binoculars, you’ll miss it if you blink. I’m talking subtle little hummingbird humps. About the same amount of movement generated when two ladybugs are having sex. Barely there. But you know they’re occurring. You can feel them. In your heart. Ever had the hairs on the back of your neck stand-up? That’s Buble. In this way, Michael Buble’s miniature pelvic thrusts are a lot like God The Father, Creator of Heaven and Earth. It’s a matter of faith. And that faith makes you whole. You have to just believe it’s real because if you don’t, then what the fuck is the point of living? What is all this for? I swear to God I will blow my fucking brains out of my skull onto this bathroom floor if Buble isn’t really doing pelvic thrusts up there. But he is. I have faith.

Every Christmas Eve I like to take what I call a Buble Bath. It’s sort of a special tradition I have. First, I set the mood by lighting a few scented candles. Cinnamon. Fresh Fallen Snow. Gingerbread Wonderland. Shit like that. Soothes the soul. Maybe I’ll pop open a bottle of bubblé (the pun was fucking INTENDED). I fill the jacuzzi tub with oils and soaps from across the world from Canada to Oregon. Then I slowly, delicately slide 5 or 10 beans of ecstasy into my brown eye. As soon as I start rollinballz I pop in a mix CD of all my favorite Buble Christmas classics and hop on in the tub. For the next 6 hours I do nothing but cram a bottle of Pantene Pro-V Shampoo plus Conditioner for Damaged Hair in my shit-den, try to stack bath beads in my pee hole like a Pez dispenser, and let that sweet song bird of a man #OccupyMyEarHoles.

I usually try not to operate motor vehicles or machinery during the Holiday Season. Especially, if there is a radio nearby. ESPECIALLY, if it’s tuned to Magic 96.5. It’s too dangerous with the looming risk of hearing a Michael Buble song, which will send me spiraling into a 3-4.5 minute squirt sesh until the song is over. Afterwards I’m left with a half gallon of Buble’s homemade eggnog and have to wait until some stupid ass cunt bitch like Bing Crosby or some other faggot starts singing before I may commence normal activities.

Bing Crosby is a piece of shit. You’re old news buddy. Get the fuck off the radio. Let a professional sing that shit. Buble style. If I wanted to listen to Bing Crosby
I would go visit my Gram Gram at the retirement home. All those geezers do is play bingo, listen to Bing, shit themselves, and talk about the good old days when you could “drag a darkie out of his car, string him up by his scruff from the hanging tree, and make like a human pinata.” Those old people are racist as fuck. And so was Bing Crosby. You’re dreaming of a “White Christmas?” Really? In your dreams, Bing. The blacks and the mexi’s are here to stay and if you don’t like that shit, then you can go bury your fucking sleighballs in the pure white snow til they get frostbite, YOU FUCKING CUNT! You’re probably roasting chest-nuts on an open fire, waiting for some black folks to come by  caroling, so you can call Eugene and the boys to get out the fire hoses. Well fuck you Bing Crosby. You ain’t no Buble. Your songs sound like they were recorded in an abandoned barn in like 1940. Get with the times you piece of vocally challenged bird shit. Buble’s the real deal Holyfield. And if you can’t accept that shit, then eat a fat cock and have yourself a holly jolly Christmas.

I’m not going to support that kind of bigotry. And neither is Michael Buble.  Because he is Canadian and Canadians can’t process hate. They tolerate all races and creeds with arms wide open. Because that’s what the holidays are all about.

When I Get Out of Jail

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Dear Parole Board,

When I get out of jail I’m going to turn my life around. Straighten up. Become an honest man. Be a father to my children. Work to support my family. Spread the good word of my Lord and Savior. No more wheelin’ and dealin’. And I ain’t slinging no more crank to mexicans, that’s for sure.

When I get out of jail I’m going to go by my ex-wife Charleen’s trailer and finish signing those divorce papers. I’ll be the bigger man. I’ll thank her for birthing my children, Dilbert-Lee, Neil Armstronger, and Candy-Sue and tell her I hope she is happy with the new life she has found with Daryl. Heck, I’ll even shake Daryl’s hand and tell him to take good care of her. We are cousins after all. It’s like they say, blood is thicker than water. That being said, if Daryl smarts off I won’t hesitate to give him the old one-two right in the kisser.

When I get out of jail I’m going to swing by the the ole lumber yard and apologize to the bossman. Tell him I was wrong to steal his car keys out of his office and trade crank to a homeless man to have him shit in the trunk. I was wrong. Probably shouldn’t have pissed in the glove compartment either. I’ll tell him I did that shit before I found Christ but now that I am officially a Christian and all, the lord hath forgiven me for all that bullshit. I’ll say “Teddy, I did you wrong but if the good Lord can forgive me, don’t you think you probably should too?” Can’t argue with that. Cold hard Logic. Then I’ll see if he will give me my job back.

Regrets? Sure. I got em. But regrets don’t change things and you can’t take back whatcha done in the past. Unless you’ve got a time machine. But we’re probably 40 or 50 years from them developing a time machine for use on the private market. And even then I’m sure they will have all sorts of rules and shit so that we won’t go back and start messing around with stuff and cause a rift in the space-time continuum resulting in alternate realities, you know. Like that time when old Biff got the almanac and gave it to 50′s Biff and 50′s Biff got lots of money and started porking Marty’s mom and bought her some good looking fake titties. And she was swimming around in that hot tub in Biff’s gold skyscraper and them fake titties were floating around all extra bouyant-like.  Anyways, the point is, without a time machine all you can do is express sorrow, move forward, and try to do better. Try to BE better. Live your life in His image.

When I get out of jail, first thing I’m gonna do is get me a hot meal. Something nice. Something I hadn’t had in quite some time. Maybe Red Lobster. Maybe Quimbie’s. I can’t say. Maybe go down to Ma and Pa’s Burrrito Outlet and make me one with all the fixin’s like I used to when I was knee high to a grasshopper. That’d be something.

But until then, I’ma sit right here in this jail cell, keep praying for forgiveness and await the day that I can spread His Word and don’t have to worry ’bout Cecil spreading My legs and pounding my ass into next week and cumming in my hair.

Sincerely,

Terry P. Dickenson, a servant to the one true God Almighty.

Referee Pregame to Players

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Boys, lets bring it in. We’re going to have a good safe game out there as long as you boys keep it clean. Nothing dirty. Even though some of you are absolutely begging for a good quick shot to the nads (specifically Jamal and Larry Fishburne Jr).  Now I’m going to go over a few rules real quick before we get started so that we’re all on the same page. I know I can be a hard ass some times but I play by the rules and I don’t like no funny business, see?

Rule 1: Respect. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me? Don’t bother. I’m about to lay it out real simple-like. You gotta respect me as your official. For Realz. I didn’t put on my black slacks and my Foot Locker shirt to come out here and get shit on by you little snot nosed fuckers. I have a whistle. Last time I checked, none of you shitdicks had a whistle. So go fuck yourselves. But guys, you also gotta respect each other out there- no grab ass and no finger play. You boys can do that in your own time. For all I care as soon as that clock runs out, you can start diddling each other’s Willard Fillmores until sun up. I’d suggest sneaking down after she’s gone to sleep and stealing some of your Mom’s vodka and then getting sticky with it in the kitchen. But so help me God, as long as that clock is rolling this is my turf, MY TURF, and I don’t want none of that corn dogging shit.  If you can do that, then I will in turn respect you and we will be peachier than a turtle in a basket.

Rule 2: This Whistle is God. You must worship this whistle. You must fear this whistle. You must sacrifice your first born to this whistle. You must eat this whistle’s body and drink it’s blood. This whistle died for your fucking sins. You must hijack airplanes in the name of this whistle. You must convince yourself that the Beatles are transmitting the word of the Whistle through the White Album, telling you to go murder some people and then carve a swastika on your forehead. Seriously guys, when I blow this thing you gotta stop, hey, what’s that sound? Everybody look whats going round. It’s my whistle and I’m blowing it for a fucking reason. Unlike my ex-wife who apparently needed no reason to blow anything in the bathroom at Quimbies while me and the kids are still at the table enjoying our garlic and cheese biscuits. They are a staple in my household. Apparently being a cheating bitch is also a Dickenson family staple.

Next Rule. No cursing out there. I just won’t have it. You can’t say the F-word, the C-word, the D-word, the H-word, the other F-word, the K-word, the N-word, the B-word, the S-word, the W-word, the J-word, the T-word, the P-word, or anything like that. I also don’t want to hear you say the Midget-word. The proper term is “little folks” or “little sweetie folks” or “munchkin men.” This is a sports game not one of these Jason Mraz rap MTV spring break jersey shore shows. I swear to God if I hear one nasty word out of any of your moist, kissable lips, I will pray to the heavenly father, Jesus Christ the Lord Amen (you may know him as my Whistle) to striketh thee down in this very sports arena with a flaming lightning bolt so that your parents will wail with sorrow as they sweep your charred remains into a heavy duty Ziploc bag.

Last Rule. Keep your shirts tucked in. You don’t want to go looking like some sort of yokel. Act like you got a job, hippies. And try to get your orange peels and empty Hi-C’s in the garbage cans.

Alright, good game guys.

Things I Would Rather Do Than Eat At Cracker Barrel

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  • Go to a Coldplay concert.
  • Have Uncle Kracker as a biological uncle then get molested by him.
  • Hire Steve Buscemi as a nude model for my sculpting class.
  • Watch  an According to Jim marathon on mute.
  • Eat some fresh Georgia peaches fresh off the vine.
  • Play checkers in the Cracker Barrel store, and then leave before eating.
  • Shave’ my pubies and glue them to my eyebrows so I look like the dad from The O.C.
  • Be outed by my granddad at Thanksgiving.
  • Eat raw chicken and get salmonella then eat raw salmon and get chickenella, ROFLCOPTERZZ.
  • Be Kathy Bates’ vibrator.
  • Take ecstasy with Rip Torn in the bathroom at a Jethro Tull concert in 1986.
  • Steal from and then subsequently share a prison cell with OJ Simpson.
  • Bake a fatty loaf of banana bread and give it to the orphans.
  • Funnel sand into my Urethra Franklin.
  • Sip on a frosty Monster Margarita on the sunny shores of Daytona Beach while Jimmy Buffet blares from my battery operated Bose portable stereo system. Meanwhile, my wife of 16 years rubs a mixture of spf-60 and Cheetos residue on her pasty, flabby tum-tum and complains about how she can’t go swimming because she’s surfing the crimson wave AKA sporting the red badge of courage AKA riding the cotton pony AKA her vagina is reenacting the battle scenes in Saving Private Ryan AKA Aunt Flo is in town and is making her poop blood out her pussyhole, and she doesn’t want to get eaten by sharks.
  • Go camping.
  • Pick up all the dirty diapers in the Walmart parking lot, across the street from the Crackel Barrel.
  • Sip on some bourbon, reading Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury in a country-style rocking chairs on the porch of the Creckr-Buurl.
  • Volunteer at Nana’s retirement home.
  • Volunteer for anything at all.
  • Go Jet Skiing with my tightest bros, bro.
  • Apply to MIT, go to school for 6 years, invent a shrink ray, accidentally shrink my beloved children, find them in my bowl of cereal, feel relieved, figure out how to reverse the shrink ray to return them to their normal size, write a screenplay about the whole thing, sell it to Disney for briefcases of money, pour all the money on the floor and roll around in it, buy a really post-modern house with a pool, do a little coke, do a little more coke, get addicted to coke, run out of money, try to figure out some way to suck more money out of Walt Disney’s bloated ass, “accidentally” blow up my beloved baby, let him rampage through Las Vegas while I do coke off strippers clits (two birds, one stone), sell the sequel to Disney, live happily ever after.
  • Have sex with a fresh, hot Krispy Kreme doughnut.
  • Meet Reese Witherspoon.
  • Have a taste of Reese’s pieces (pussies).
  • You didn’t hear? Reese Witherspoon has 4 pieces (pussies).
  • Yeah, it’s weird, I know. But that’s how God made her and who are we to judge, riiiight?
  • Like, cuz God is omni powerful and omni knowing and omni potent sometimes we don’t really understand His master plan. Does that make sense?
  • We are pretty much like ants to God.
  • Reese Witherspoon would be like our queen cuz she has so many vaginas and she can pump out worker ants to build furniture and shit.
  • Like in Antz with Woody Allen. and Danny Glover. The Glove. Glove Man. G-Love. Special Sauce.
  • Antz was so much better than A Bugs Life.
  • Yeah, okay, A Bugs Life had Kevin Spacey and RandyNewman doing the soundtrack.
  • I’ll give you that. Love some Randy New-New. Rando Calrissian. Newman the Jewman.
  • It’s the age old battle between Pixar and Dreamworks. We all know how the story goes.
  • It’s a tale as old as time.
  • Shrek vs. Toy Story. Madagascar vs. Finding Nemo. Kung Fu Panda vs. Ratatouille. Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit vs. Up.
  • Shit’s serious.
  • Imagine a movie with Woody, D. Gloves, with DJ Handy Randy Jew-boy on the 1′s and 2′s.
  • That’d be something worth watching.
  • I would much rather watch that than eat the shitty, geriatric food that they serve at the Cracker Barrel.

How I Found God

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Do you feel a deep yearning deep down in your deep bones to connect with the big guy in the sky? Do you feel empty and incomplete inside and out? Don’t know how to get full again? We’ll I’m here to tell you- there is hope out there.

You know, I used to be just like you, with that big, Jesus-sized hole in my heart. Well guess what, big shot, you can’t fill that hole with booze or dope or huge mountains of cocaine or hookers or $100,000 bracelets or any of that stuff. Only Jesus. Let the Holy Ghost fill you up to the tippity top. And trust me, I know from experience, guy. I’m not one of those uptight holier-than-thou squares. Heck no. I’m cool, bro. I’ve been around.

Brah-man, I’m tellin ya, I used to toke fat doobies of heady shwag out of a bong I made out of a Dr. Thunder can at Dave Matthews concerts like once a year. I wore Kavu Visors. I went to Bonnaarroo one year and did like 3 hits of acid, 2 tabs of lsd, AND a dose, plus I drank like 3 Mich Ultras. Then I plugged a couple beans of ecstasy in my b-hole and went to the Bassnectar show. After the show I had sex with a plastic bag. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. So, I’ve been there, bro. I got to the point where I was shooting up so much pot that I LITERALLY forgot to feed my dog. For like 8 weeks. He’d been dead for a year in the garage before I sobered up, but I couldn’t smell anything due to the all the “Coco B. Ware” I was doing. Snortin’ it. Sniffin’ it. Bumpin’ it. Humpin’ it. Straight to the dome, my man. The Astro-Dome. I got so MESSED that I named my head that. Like, as a nickname. The Astro-Dome.

And that’s not all. I used to have homosexual, premarital, underage sex with all sorts of people. Grannies, trannies, fatties, my dad, hispanics, hobos, veterinarians, proletarians, boyscouts…We could be here all day. The point is, I let temptation and lust control my life. I got my dick pierced.  I had a monthly subscription to EdwardDildoHands.com. Heck, one afternoon I made a Kathy Bates collage out of tabloid pics, stuck my rod through it, then shut it in the bedroom door. I was messed up. But I found my way out. Or should I say, He found me and lead me out. Of the darkness. Like that book.

See, I was using this junk to fill me up. Then I realized, I’m an 86 year old man just full of junk with a dead dog and a sore wee wee. One day I was driving to Smoothie King and I saw it. The sign. I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes. It was a big black sign with all white lettering that read and I quote: “Darryl, you fucking douche, this is Jesus Christ. Ya know, of Nazareth? And I’m not sayin’, but I’m just sayin’, get your shit together. You are acting like an asshole, and noone wants to invite you to Craig’s XXX-Mas shindig. Drugs are for hippies and little faggy choirboys.” I realized then and there that I had to let Jesus into my life. I had to let him take the wheel and drive me to a little town I like to call Happiness. Drugs can’t do it. Sex can’t do it. Money can’t do it. Kathy Bates can’t do it. I realize that now. I love God so much. He is my Prince Charming. He is the one. He is the only thing I want to smoke. His is the only collage I want to put my penis through. He is my man. And if that makes me gay then fine. I’m gay for God, but I’m full now. Full of God’s big ol’ thaaaang. And let me tell you this, brother, it feels good. It feels damn good.