Girl, I’m Gonna Get Your Goat

Posted on September 18, 2012 by loubega

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.

Aunt Becky’s Casserole

Posted on July 4, 2012 by loubega

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.

Throwing My Hat in the Ring….

Posted on March 30, 2012 by loubega

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!

The Story of Paul Bunyan

Posted on March 21, 2012 by loubega

This story is long ago in the wilderness of the American frontier, before that railroad came a’chuggin along into town. Choo- choo! It was a time of new beginnings, self-made men, fiddle playin’, pine trees bigger than you could wrap your arms around, if’n you so desired, and rampant genocide. Yessir, back then you could kidnap an Indian squaw and butt rape her bloody in the middle of town square ’til sun up and nobody would bat an eyelash. Nope, see back then they didn’t even have eyelashes. Their eyelids were smooth as a catfish’s clitoris. Sure, they’d get dust in their eyeballs all the time but they didn’t know any better. Those were just the times. They were hard times, but they were good times. Scratching and surviving.

One day this man and his big fat pregnant bitch of a wife rode into town. They were looking for a place to lay their heads but the Goathoof Inn was fuller than an Indian squaw’s butthole, so they couldn’t find any rightful beds anyplace. They decided to sleep in old Mr. Honeydew’s barn with the sheeps and the mule and the hay. And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as they settled down, that big fat pregnant lady’s water breaks all over the place and her stinkpot starts dilating as wide as Mount Vesuvius, only with more steam coming off the top. She starts huffing and puffing trying to squirt this little bambino out her cooch. ‘Cept it turns out that this little baby was really a big freaky baby. As big a baby as anyone had ever seen. That baby split her in half like a watermelon and she died something frightful right there in Honeydew’s barn. Next thing the townsfolk knew, that man that rode in with her started going on about how he wasn’t really the baby daddy and that the baby was immaculately conceived by God, The Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, who’d come down and lay with his lady friend. And by “lay” he meant hopping the first donkey-carriage to Pound Her Vagina In Village and not stopping once ‘fore he got there. He said that there were lightening bolts shooting out of the Lord’s peanuthole and angels on high were playing trumpets and harps and bagpipes and what not. Long story short, that fellow giddy’ed up and got right on out of town lickity-split and left those townsfolk to take care of that big freaky baby.

And they named him Paul. Paul Bunyan.

The folks raised him the only way they knew how. They smacked him on the ass, dressed him in flannel and overalls, gave him an axe and glued their pubic hair onto his face, giving him a chin strap mustache that would make Chris Daughtry jealous. And I know that may sounds strange to you now because, as you know, in this day and age, we can’t grow pubic hair anymore after the Incident at Sunblood Cove’s Shampoo+Conditioner Plant in the spring of ’17 . But back then they could. They had loads of it. Pubie hairs comin’ out their ears and eyeballs. Like I said, it was a different time back then, a simpler time.

And let me tell you what, that baby had an appetite is big as the day is long. They tried feeding him porkchops but he ate all the pigs. They tried feeding him peanut brittle but he cleaned out the peanut trees. They tried feeding him buffaloes and damn near extincted ‘em doing it. They wound up getting some of those Chinese immigrants (they were dime-a-dozen back in wild west times before inflation) and had them whippin’ up a mess of flapjacks around the clock. Once that big baby became a big man, them Chinamans would stack them flapjacks up about 15 feet high, drown them in maple syrup, and big ol’ Paul would stomp on in, shaking the earth under his feet, and he would gobble them up like the T-Rex did to that goat on Jurassic Park.

But he grew up tall and he grew up right. He could swing that ax like a mother fucker. He’d chop down a whole forest before Average Joe was done splitting fire wood. He’d get up early and be out past moon-up just whackin’ and whackin’. He whacked so much his hands got all calloused and his pube beard got bushier than Eugene Levy’s eyebrows. Levy’s brows have the the standard measurement for bushiness since the old days.

But things weren’t all biscuits and gravy. Sometimes he got down right depressed on account of being so tall and all. He couldn’t fit in the movie theater to watch the new Nora Ephron vehicle. He was to big to play hide and go seek. And he was bound to never know the touch of a woman because his giant weewee was bound to split her open sticky side first, like a melon. Just like how he killed his Ma. And with those calloused hands of his, ‘batin was a sandpapery misadventure that resulted more in blood than tadpoles.

So he ventured off on his lonesome. Just whackin’ his life away. Until one day he ate a 10 sheets of acid that he bought of this dude with a hemp necklace with a fucking crystal hanging off it and flat billed ballcap. Total Disco Biscuits fan. Anyways, that acid hit him like George Clinton hits the crack pipe and our boy Pauly B. started wiggin’ out thoroughly. Wellington Wigout style. He wigged out so hard that he thought he made friends with a giant blue ox named Babe. He hallucinated that they traveled the countryside, going to bluegrass festivals, selling grilled cheese sandwiches, and talking about sustainable living.

But the acid started taking a turn for the worst. One thing led to another and he hacked Babe into little blue pieces with his ax. Murdered in cold blood. He panicked. So he put the butchered body parts in a bunch of oil barrels and hid them in the swamp and got the fuck out of there.

Then his trip turned inward. Who was he? What was he doing? Was he really just going to go through life chopping down forests? Life was different now that Babe was dead. He was alone. He knew it was time. He knew he needed to make a complete change in his lifestyle.

So he shaved off his beard and went to community college to become a Certified Public Accountant. Then he got a job in the city at a big shot accounting firm and lived out the rest of his days like a cog in the machine.

Only he knew about his dark past. Only he knew about what he did to Babe. Only he knew where those oil barrels were hidden.

OR SO HE THOUGHT……

to be continued…….

This Halloween I Will Not Be Participating

Posted on October 11, 2011 by loubega

This Halloween I will not be participating. Cuz, like, I’m a grown-ass man and I don’t have time for all that baby stuff. I mean, I’m twenty-fucking-four years old. I can’t go around wearing some stupid clothes, spooking people, and eating a bunch of candies all night. That stuff’s for babies. Plus, I’ve got to be up early in the morning to get the oil changed in my ’92 Honda Accord DX before work. That’s grown-up stuff. Helllllllo! I work at Best Buy! How many little babies do you know that work at Best Buy? None. That’s how many. There are laws against that kind of shit. I know I’ve never called up the Geek Squad and been greeted by a nipple sucking toddler. Babies can’t understand the responsibility it takes to be the associate sales associate in the home theatre department. Do you know what that means? I’m third in charge of all home theatre equipment. All the Magnavox televisions? That’s my world. All that bass bumpin’ surround sound? Me. Every laserdisc player we got on the floor? You bet your ass I got that shit covered. Home theatres, candy-tits. That’s my domain. Do you have any idea what kind of pressure I’m under? More than Freddie Mercury featuring David Bowie that’s for sure (Get it? Like cuz of that song?). That’s why I’ve got much more important things to do than carving big fat pumpkins and getting their gross guts all over my hands. Like paying bills for instance. Or ironing my pants. Or whitening my teeth. Grown man shit.

This Halloween I will not be participating because I respect women. The materialistic patriarchy tells young women that they have to dress like pussy-eating slut nuggets. They dress like slutty cops, slutty cats, slutty referees, slutty nurses, slutty zombies, slutty Steve Irwins, and slutty Frankenstein’s (which doesn’t even make sense because if you’d read a book for once in your god damn life, you’d know that Frankenstein was the Doctor, these sluts are thinking of The Creature.) And I have had it up to HERE with all this objectification. These girls are somebody’s daughters. They are somebody’s sisters. They are somebody’s boss at Best Buy. Women are more than just a big fat pair of ovaries for you to drench with your tallywhacker juice. They are sacred and mysterious beings. Like, more sacred and mysterious than a Dan Brown novel. Have you read The Vinci Code? I mean seriously, Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks) is always getting himself into these sacred and mysterious pickles. Like how bout the time he found out that Jesus was a woman? Or how bout the time he figured out that Masons built that building? Mas. Ter. Of. Suh. Spense. Dan Brown, if you’re reading this I just wanna say I love your work. I love how you take historical themes and codes and symbols and stuff and make really bitchin’ stories with em. That’s so cool how you do that.

I’m not participating in Halloween this year because I don’t believe we should teach our kids that it’s okay to stuff their fat little cute ass faces with choco and taffy and lollies. Do some research. Each year over 13,000 young people are diagnosed with type-1 diabetes. That’s 13,000 Wilford Brimley’s we are creating each year by having these kids pig out on Wax Lips, Bazooka Gum and Necco Wafers. That’s 13,000 people walking around like a pirate with a peg leg, all cuz you wanted to have some “harmless” fun and play dress up like some adolescent mama’s boy. Well, I won’t have that blood on my hands. No siree Bob. And don’t even get me started on the negative effects on their lil’ pearly whirlies. My soon-to-be father-in-law is a oral hygienist and you would be appalled by the shit those two eyes have seen. APPALLED. Kids these days don’t even floss. They don’t understand that flossing is just as important as brushing. Yeah, sure it makes your gums bleed like a miscarriage but it’s like they say- no pain, no gain. That’s the problem with this generation. Nobody is willing to get their hands dirty. Nobody is willing to shed a little blood for the good of society, which brings me to my next reason…

I won’t be participating because I am a C. I am a C-H. I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N. And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T and I will L-I-V-E E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L-Y. Jesus Christ The Lord Amen died on the cross for our sins. Except guess what? Spoiler alert! He came back to life three days later and he is supposed to be coming back again any day now. So the last thing we need to be doing is going out participating in some Satanic holiday with witches and ghoulies and goblins and Ouji board seances. Shit ain’t right, y’all. Shit just ain’t right. You mess with the Devil and you are playing with fire. Literally. Because he lives in a lake of fire which is made out of fire, unlike normal lakes which are normally made out of water. Haven’t you seen Paranormal Activity 2? So Scary! It grossed $169,448,048 worldwide opening weekend, so you know it’s good. It’s about the devil, right? And he is totally possessing some little girl and her head spins all around in circles like an an owl and she pukes blood all over priests because priests MAKE HER SICK because the devil is so crazy. Red Box that shit if you haven’t seen it. Cray-cray.

These are the reasons I will not be participating in the Halloween this year. Swear to God. It’s not because, as a registered Level III sex offender, I am legally prohibited from loitering within 300 ft. of Child Safety Zones such as playgrounds, schools, childcare centers, bus stops, D-Z Discovery Zones, anywhere with laser tag, or any location where children congregate. It’s got nothing to do with a municipal edict requiring that I post signs telling trick-or-treaters “No candy at this residence (cuz I raped somebody tiny).” And it certainly has got nothing to do with the GPS around my ankle and the mandate from the U.S. District Judge requiring that I stay inside my home. I mean, sure, those could put a damper on my Halloween IF I WANTED TO PARTICIPATE. But I don’t. Cuz it’s a dumb holiday for pussy babies. It’s like, so whatever.

When I Get Out of Jail

Posted on August 22, 2011 by loubega

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

Posted on June 25, 2011 by loubega

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.

My Existential Crisis

Posted on March 1, 2011 by loubega

Oh God. Who am I? What am I doing here? It’s like right when I feel like I got the hang of it, everything goes bonkerzz. I feel like a ship being tossed at sea, scanning the horizon for any beacon of reality. Inside my leaky hull are a panicky, motley crew consisting of a professor, a millionaire, his wife, two sluts, and a fat black Jamaican woman listening to Mötley Crüe, trying to block out the howling winds of uncertainty. That’s how I fucking feel, bro. Sometimes I don’t know the difference between my dreams and my waking life. What’s real? Am I real? Is God real? Was Jesus a Republican? It’s just, I don’t know how to deal with the uncontrollable changes that life keeps hurling, like so many drunken 18 year old Spring Breakers. It’s like right when I blow twenty-eight hundred bucks on JoBro merch, Biebs hits the scene. How the fuck am I supposed to deal with that shit? That cash is gone now. Wasted. And contrary to popular belief, middle school P.E. coaches aren’t made of money. Gut, passion, and grit? Sure. But not money.

I’m scared. I’m scared fucking shitless. Are the Jonas Brothers bitter about Biebzilla stealing their middle school snatch? I know I would be. I would fucking lose it. I would lose it so bad. I’d be flsuhing my purity rings down the dwain, cutting up a dozen lines of that sweet, sweet yakkity-yak-don’t-talk-back, and calling up Miley Cyrus to wollop that achy breaky sphincter so far back into 2003 that Lizzie McGuire is going to hear her begging me for mercy. But would it be worth it? Does anybody care? Is anyone out there listening? Where do the words go after you erase them? If a tree falls in the forest, what happens to all those birds and squirrels that once made it their home? It’s like just when newlyweds Teri and Jacob Bluebird have gathered all the used cramp-ons and twigs they can find and built a happy home for their egg babies, the god damn tree falls smack into the ground. Why the fuck are trees always falling in the forest anyways? So many questions and nobody to answer. What’s out there? What are they waiting for? I feel like J-Love Hewitt in that movie where she has huge cans, and she yells into the heavens “What are you waiting for!?” I feel just like that. Like my tits just grew and everything. I feel so much like JLH right now, it’s fucking stupid. I wish somebody, somewhere would speak up and give me the answers. Seriously, I can’t hardly wait for those fucking answers. Like that movie with Jennie Love where she can’t hardly wait…for what? I’m not sure. What am I, Jennifer Love Hewitt, waiting for? Who am I really? Do I exist or am I just a perception of my own dreams? When we die, is there a lake of fire or a river of fortune? Or is it just nothingness? A sea of blackness unbeknownst to living things. Emptier than a glass of cool ice water on a dry July evening in Kentucky, hours spent in the fields, larynx aching for a droplet of something, anything to quench the neverending thirst that is… this beautiful life.

Babies! Babies! Babies!

Posted on February 16, 2011 by loubega

Do you pine desperately for a little bundle of joy of your own? Want a bouncing baby boy or girl, but don’t know how to make one? Or can’t convince anyone to have the sex with you? Was your biological clock set on silent? Or are you just tired of the one parent that’s still alive nagging you all the time saying “Allen, I want grandchildren,” “Allen, when are you going to give me a grandbaby?,” “Allen, are you having fertility problems?,” “Allen, the only thing keeping me alive at this point is the thought that I may one day have a grandson who will play sports and make me proud and not disappoint me in almost every aspect of daily life” even though she knows full well that you’re a gay homosexual? That’s not how that shit works, mom! It’s fucking science, mom. The sperm has to fertilize an egg inside a woman’s vagina hole, and the last time I saw one of those was when Aunt Tracey was wearing a skirt and got drunk and fell off the porch back at the family reunion in ’96. Well…anyways, have we got news for you! Babies! Babies! Babies! is your one stop shop for onsite baby delivery for all you pathetic motherfuckers.

But how does it work?

Great question, Peggy. It’s so fucking easy a caveman could do it. It’s so easy that it even let Retard Phil with the caveman forehead put two fingers in it after Sunday School. That’s how easy. First, fill out this survey:

Are you going to be good parents and not fuck this kid up like my mom did?