I Got Picked for ROAD RULES!

Jackpot! ChaCHING! Who’s got two middle fingers aimed your direction and is gonna be the next MTV reality star? I’m gonna hit the open road in that Winnebago with the cow skull on the grill and 5 total strangers between the age of 18 and 24: A slut, a religious fanatic, a gay guy, a douchey homophobic jock-strap with gelled hair, and a minority.

My role in the gang will be the recovering drug addict ex-convict that struggles with his tempestuous past. See, my dad used to beat me. My girlfriend used to beat me. My aunt Tess used to burn me with cigarette butts. I was molested by my SCUBA instructor. I used to have a speech impediment. I had tuberculosis. So I started smoking grass. Monkey grass. I smoked so much monkey grass that my Gram-gram kicked me to the curb. I was living in the sewers, eating nothing but half eaten hotdogs and old shoelaces. I was blowing all the cash that I earned from drawing caricatures of tourists at the boardwalk on that stankity-ass sticky-icky monkey weed from Lowe’s Home Improvement. One time I smoked so much monkey grass that the whole left side on my body went paralyzed for like 3 months. I could only talk out of the side of my mouth like Greta Van Susteren and I just laid under a grate in the sewer hoping somebody would drop some hotdog or lose a flip flop. I once starred on the internet porn site “GooseneckCocks.cum” under the pseudonym Solomon Soysausage, in order to make enough money to feed my addiction. I also killed my whole family with gardening sheers I stole from Lowe’s while re-upping on that sweet ape cheeba. But then I sent in my audition tape, got selected, and now I’m ready to turn over a new leaf.

Obviously I’m going to cause lots of drama in the Winni, so that I’ll get lots of screen time and be famous as fuck. I’m going to double stuff cream pie the Slut with the Douchey Jock. She will get pregnant and we won’t know who be dat baby daddy, so we will go halfsies on an abortion, much to the dismay of the religious zealot. To make it up to him, I’m gonna ask if I can say Grace at supper, then use it as an excuse to thank God for allowing abortions. Then I’m going to tell the minority “I’m not racist, some of my best friends are black.” And I’m not going to talk to the gay guy whatsoever. Cuz I don’t want to get cooties. Midway through the season, I’m going to shatter my sobriety by going on a hardcore monkey grass binge until the left side of my body goes completely paralyzed. My castmates will have to push me around in a wheelchair and wipe the drool from my chin.

Once I’m in Road Rulez, I’m going to bungee jump my absolute tits off. I can see it now, there I am dangling by my ankles from an elastic rope, high off adrenaline and monkey junk, with my tits some 4o feet below at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. They’ll probably let me bungee jump off the Goodyear Blimp into a volcano. I’m going to be SO NERVOUS! Cuz I’m afraid of heights and lava. Those are probably like my two biggest fears. My third biggest fear is either Lowe’s running out of monkey dope, or my aunt Tess coming back to life, pulling the garden sheers from her forehead, and chasing me down and burning my butthole with the ashes from a tobacco pipe.

After the season is over and I’m a notorious Road Rules personality, I can just do Real World vs. Road Rule challenges until the end of my days. I’ll do physical challenges like hitting some Real World fuck-stick with a foam noodle and they’ll fall into a swimming pool full of eels. Since that is just a seasonal gig, I can invest my time and money into the technology to upload my consciousness onto the internet. Like TRON. I’m going to wear florescent spandex suits that  make my gooseneck cock look stout as a Guinness Draft.

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.

Just Some Cactus People

Cactus Person #1 – Stewart Konigsberg: The Well-Intentioned, Bumbling Yet Seemingly Respectable Businessman-Husband

He finds being a cactus-person a curse. Every morning Stew curls up into the fetal position in the shower, inserts his bottle of BIG SEXY HAIR hairspray into his rectum, crying “Why?! Why couldn’t I just be a normal person?!?” He has trouble being intimate with his sexy, slut-ass. 2% milky fat skinned wife, Michelle, and has lurking suspicion that she’s been getting that Pennsylvania-in-Virginia action from Big Dale, who sells razor-sharp steak knives and lives in a trailer next door, while he’s gone to the office. And he’s right. She is. They be pokin dis way and dat way and dis way and dat way. All. The. Live. Long. Day. He got that ass in the wheelburruh, the crabtrap, the piggy-n-a-blanket. You name it. Big Dale delivers those earthquake ‘gasms by the baker’s dozen while she screams “Come Mr. Tally-man, tally me orgasms!”Mr. Man has to wear his chest-high fly fishing waders when he comes over cuz that pussy be gushing like the mighty Cumberland. Cast a line in, he can eat for weeks. You know how the story goes: teach a man to fish. Except he’ll never get the taste of salmon out of his beard. Ole boy’s got FEMA on speed dial from the threat of potential pussy flooding, I tell you what. Got himself an inflatable tube, two paddles, and a life-vest he keeps in the basement, just in case he has to paddle his way out.

But it’s hard to blame Michelle for her infidelity- and it has nothing to do with Stew’s flaccid, prickly little bread and butter pickle. Sure, those razor sharp spines covering his body have taken their toll on their physical relationship, but he’s also not emotionally available for her, you know? Of course he tries. He loves her, or at least he thinks he does, that is to say, if he knew what real love was. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea. It’s like that show Diary on MTV. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea. This is the diary of Stew’s Views on Love and The Human Condition.

Because of his inability to make significant connections with loved ones, Stewart suffers from intense bouts of depression. Don’t tell Michelle, but 3 months ago he was fired from his job at the firm for pounding a fifth of Wild Turkey 101, Donnie Draper style, taking his shirt off, and puking on his secretary’s desk, then strangling his secretary, starting a trashcan fire in his office, catching a pigeon with a cast net, roasting it over the trashcan fire, hurling the charred dead bird at his secretary, screaming “I said hold my calls!,” stuffing a handful of Perocets and Pepperoni-Pizza Combos into his mouth hole, washing it down with Elmer’s Glue, and carving “Michel” into his forearm with a letter opener, then losing consciousness, waking up in the hospital, yanking the IV out of his arm, and running bare-assed in a hospital gown down Martin Luther King Boulevard, screaming “Why?! Why couldn’t I just be a normal person?!?”

Everyday since then he has spent 9-5 in his 92 Honda Accord DX, behind the Lowe’s, inhaling barbiturates and whiskey, trying to muster the courage to either kill himself or Big Dale one. Everyday he pussies out.  Every night he “gets off work” and comes home.  Dale just happens to be over watching TV, gingerly drinking ginger ale. According to Michelle, Dale just happened to drop in to “show off his new selection of quality handmade steak knives.” He just “happened to get back from his fly fishing trip.” Michelle just “happens to have a fat wad of goo in her hair.” Something smells awful fishy (and it’s not just Big Dale’s beard).