Tag Archives: Obama

I’m Going to Chillville

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Forget all y’all. Ya’ll a bunch of butt munching dillweeds. Gingerbreaded peckerwoods with queefy cunts. Y’all some fat tittied ginger-queefed pecker-weeds with dill coming out of your butt-cunts. Y’all making me mad and stuff. I don’t want to hang w’ch’all nomo’. Forgetchoo. Forget momma. Forget m’diddy. Forget Sharon. Forget Obama. Forget gas prices. Forget Sarah Marshall. Forget about Dre. Forget the Alamo. I’m gonna make like Jeffy Goldblum in The Big Chill. I’m gonna make like the 2nd most famous Jew hater there ever was, Walt Disney. I’m gonna make like Boba Fett did to Han Solo before he gave him to Jabba the Hutt. I’m talking cryogenetics. I’m talking Chillville.

Bury me in dry ice and pack me up in your gramper’s deep freezer in his garage. And don’t forget to saran wrap me up tight- if I get freezer burn I’m gonna ride that ass like Pecos Bill. I wanna fucking hibernate. If you wanna please me, you gotta freeze me. And make sure you put a sticky note on the freezer that tells people not to open it until Hootie and the Blowfish schedule their reunion tour.

We just have to wait for Darius Rucker to realize that country music fans will never like a black guy unless he is picking cotton. Darius, your throwing your life away. White people can dig black guys, but only if they act black. Otherwise, it just gets too confusing. That’s why Republicans hate Obama. So, either put on a gold chain and do the Humpty Hump or get the boys back together already!

Once the long awaited moment arrives, I want you to wheel the freezer into the concert (hopefully featuring Blues Traveler or Spin Doctors [beggars can't be choosers]), right in the middle of the heady groovefest, and thaw me out with hair dryers the moment they start “Only Wanna Be With You.” I wanna be drippin’ wet by the time Darius is baring his soul about how his cunt-tits girlfriend thinks he’s such a baby cuz the dolphins make him cry. And when they get to ”Hold My Hand”, I want to be cutting a rug with a doob in one hand and some hippy’s flappy tit in the other. Just like in ’94. Since I been frozen so long, a few squeezes of that flappy tit will probably get me spelunking right outta my pee-hole all over my Duckhead© khaki shorts and down into my Birkenstocks.  SO WHAT! HOOTIE AND THE BLOWFISH REUNION, MON! WHO ISN’T CUMMIN’ IN THEIR BIRKS?!?!

After the show I’m gonna do what every freshly thawed dude would do: try to squeeze on some more baby-fresh nugs with Pauly Shore and that Goonie ass mother fucker Sean Astin a.k.a. Rudy a.k.a. Samwise Gamgee. Weasin’ the ju-uice buuuuu-ddy. We’re gonna go pick up that fat, freckled kid from The Sandlot, Son-In-Law, and The Big Green, score some nose snow from Roger from Sister, Sister, and fuckin’ go hogwild on some Huevos Rancheros. Shit’s gonna be stoopid delicious.

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.

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!

Finals Week (UGH!)

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Next week is finals week, and I am SLAMMED out of my gorg! Two tests Monday, two tests Tuesday, and my Micro final not until Friday! I knew this would happen. I knew I would get THE WORST schedule in the history of final exams. I mean, seriously, I can’t catch a break. I was hoping to be done by Thursday because I told Brad that we would go see his Mee-Maw in the nursing home and steal some pills from her meds cabinet and get wrecked to shit and see who could fit what inside the other one. He’s gonna be steamed. Like a bowl of carrots.

Trisha gets done with all her finals on Wednesday. That fucking whore bitch. I know she’s going to go to the bars Wednesday night and do VegasBombs and bumps of coke in Seth’s truck until her eyeballs roll back in her head. If I know Seth, he’ll take her back to the Sig Ep house and rape her stoopid. So lucky. She’ll wake up and find the left-overs of last night’s creampie holding her puss lips together like icing between cake layers and totally freak, thinking she’s preggo. Cuz like Seth is her step-brother and when her dad finds out, he is gonna be pizzed. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is SHE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE TO TAKE AN EXAM ON THURSDAY, so she has time to go to med clinic and grab some plan-B pills to kill all Seth’s spermy egg-whites. GOD! Fuck her. Lucky cunt. She gets everything. 2008 Range Rover. Internship at Urban Outfitters HQ. HPV. And now this. I would give anything to abort Seth’s baby. But no. I’m not done with exams until FRIDAY! I’ve been crushing on Seth since like the beginning of time, when he took me to that swap freshman year. I was perioding all over the front of my panties cuz I ran out Maxi’s, so I only gave him a handy. Granted, I showed him my signature two-handed peppermint twist technique, BUT STILL.

I was thinking, maybe if I convince my Micro Prof that my mom got murdered by black people in the ghetto that he will let me take my exam a day early. I’ll go into his office on Tuesday morning with mascara running down my face and tell him I have to get home STAT for her funeral. Seriously ASAP. All because of the blacks. The ones in the ghetto. I’ll explain to him that upper-middle class, Christian whites are the most oppressed people in America right now. Minorities are seriously taking jobs and stuff, even though they are less qualified because of affirmative actions. And Mexicans too.  Daddy says that’s how Obama got elected. Because of Affirmative African Action. And that’s why I always vote Republican. It’s time white people stop being ashamed and take America back from those people. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of being white. White people are seriously the best. That’s why I should be allowed to take my exam early. After I explain all that to my Prof, he’ll realize that I’m not just some bimbo trying to get out of the final and that my mom really is dead. Cuz of the blacks. Then I can snack down on Brad’s whopper dick all night long without having to worry about getting up early to take some test that I know I’m gonna pass anyway. I mean, HELLO! I know this shit. I’ve got fucking Micro coming out of my twat.

My Diddy Says

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My Diddy says marriage is between a man and a woman and that gay marriage ain’t real marriage. He says, cuz marriage is hard work. It ain’t no fun boys club. He says, if he could hang out all day with Mr. Frank and Big Jimmy, eating pork sandwiches, listening to Steely Dan, talking about Project Runway, maybe rubbin each others’ feet, and getting fancy haircuts- he would in a goddamn heartbeat. But that just ain’t marriage. It just ain’t. Marriage ain’tsposed to be fun like that. And there’s no good reason why one man should ever jaculate while looking into the eyes of another man, unless you’re watching the Alabama game and Saban is on the screen. Got 14?

My Diddy says Lennie’s mom’s juicebox shoots out hot fire. And that ever since Mumma passed last year from the die-beats, he’s had to find solace in the arms of another woman. He ain’t proud of it. But he’s a man, he says. With needs. I don’t judge him for that. I don’t think Jesus Christ Our Lord, Amen would either. And I’m pretty sure Mumma’d be ok with it. I can see her now, upstairs in heaven’s kitchen, looking down on Diddy as he takes Lennie’s mumma to the dick rodeo, smiling, sayin’ “That’s my Terry, still hasn’t lost his touch.” ‘Sides, it’s her fault for eatin’ so much Ladyfingers and dyin’ and leavin’ us to fend for our lonesome.

My Diddy says Obama is a Muslim and we don’t like Muslims cuz of the twin towers. He says that’s why we went to Iraq. Says if Reagan were still president, the 9/11 would have never happened, that it was all Obama’s fault. He says Reagan would have caught those Muslims and beat their asses blue as a baboon and then cut em up into little pieces while all of America watched and let blood spray all everywhere like a fountain and then he’d pop their eyeballs out and let the secret service and everybody take turns fuckin’ their eye sockets til they cum a bucket-full and then he’d bury em under the crawl space of the White House in garbage bags. Kinda like in Dexter, he says. Diddy loves Dexter.

My Diddy says condoms are gay.

My Diddy says Cam Newton took that money. No matter what the NCAACP or whoever says. He says cuz Auburn has got a crackerjack team of Jews that did a real good job of hiding all that money so nobody would find out. Jews are real good with money, he says. They just sit around all day counting it and rolling around in it and putting it in their mouth holes cuz they like the taste. He says Jewish men menstruate. And the Jews and the black people (like Cam Newton and Obama) made an unholy alliance to work against the white people to destroy college football. It ain’t right, he says.

My Diddy says he’ll kill Mr. Dickenson, my biology teacher, if he tries to teach evolution again. The one true way, truth and the light, God The Father Almighty created heaven and earth and that anybody that says different is searchin’ real hard for a swift kick to the dicks and balls, he says. If Mr. Dickenson is so smart then how come he says his grandiddy was a monkey? Monkies ain’t smart. My diddy says if Mr. Dickenson wants to make evolution sound more logical he should have picked a smarter animal to be his grandiddy. Like a dolphin. My diddy says dolphins are smart like us people. If they had robot voice boxes, like Steve Hawking, they’d be able to speak their minds just like the rest of us. Says they are the only other animals on Earth that have gay sex for pleasure and plus, if we all came from monkeys, then we’d all look like blackies. They may have descended from monkey’s, Diddy says, but us whites were put here by The Lord God after he made us outta clay, breathed life into our lungs, and Adam and Eve did the ol’ slide in to home plate and super-soak the catcher’s mit.

My Diddy says liking Tracy Chapman ain’t a crime. And don’t let anybody tell you it is. Just cuz it’s dyko-rock don’t mean it don’t got no musical quality. He says lesbians have great taste in music: Bob Segar, REO Speedwagon, and of course the one, the only, 4 Non Blondes. Diddy says the first time he saw 4 Non Blondes was at the 1993 MTV Spring Break Beach House. He was loaded up on cocaine and vodka-frescas but when they performed their acoustic version of “What’s Up?” it penetrated his soul like a flaming javelin of truth.  Said he never really listened to music before that moment. Sure he had HEARD music but he never really LISTENED. Not like he did on that faithful day. He absorbed those butchy sounds with every fiber of his being and let the music flow within him and without him. And he didn’t get enough neither. Followed ‘em all the way to the Lilith Fair. He said those lesbian women opened his mind to how society could be if the testosterone fueled patriarchy would quit gagging the world with it’s throbbing veiny cock. He says that’s a metaphor. Yep, Lilith Fair changed em something powerful. He even got to go backstage and meet Jewel. Never been more nervous in his life. Diddy says her teeth are even more fucked up than they look on the TV. Like somebody curb-stomped her Canadian ass. You’d think that after selling billions of cassette tapes all around the world that she could afford at least some of those invisible Invisalign braces. Guess she’s too busy winning Grammy’s for all that.

Buildin’ This City, Brick by Brick

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

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

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

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

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

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

Improving Obama’s Approval Rating

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With elections coming around in 2012, the talk of the town is what’s going on with the O Man? Will the Godless baby killing Democrats keep B-Rock in the hot seat? Or are those racist Koran burning ‘Publicans gonna get knee deep in some of that oval office pussaaaay and gas some mexicans? With a shitty 43% approval rating, one thing is for sure: kid better juice up those numbers or he’s going to have to give some H-jobs in the voting booth.

Let me start off by saying right-off-the-bat, from the get-go, straight-up, I’m no political analyst. But I do have over 1,200 friends on facebook so I’m pretty fucking sure I know a thing or two about being popular. I don’t want to brag or whatever but I was voted “Most Approved” in my high school yearbook.  And I used to take big fat stinky dumps in all the nerds’ lunchboxes in middle school.  That being said, I thought I’d share some tips with my black president Obama on how to make the whole country climb back aboard the Change Bus for the 2012 elections. Toot Toot!

1. Run on the Republican ticket and have that surgery that Michael Jackson had, where you turn white and become friends with Macaulay Culkin.

2. Do a guest appearance on Glee. Josh Groban did it and last time I checked Grobs has like a 89% approval rating. With that smile that lets you know that everything is going to be alright. With those eyes that whisper “you’re the only thing in the world that matters.” With those curls you just want to grab and tug as you reach a screaming climax buck’n bronco style.

3. Grow your afro out, guy. Afros transcend racial barriers. Whitey likey. Blackie likey. Everybody likey. Plus a big ass ‘fro will remind everybody of simpler times: the 1970s, when the streets were paved with cocaine and Kool and the Gang records. Gas was a nickel-a-bucket. Dad was sober. And you didn’t have to worry about Chris Hansen popping out every time you want to get a little of that fresh tightness.

4. Fix the economy already. People are seriously starting to get pissed.

5. Next time there is a tsunami, send it towards China instead of Japan. The Chinese are really scaring everybody here in America. They got like a gajillion people and they are smart as dick. AS DICK. If it’s not the machines that take us over, it will be the Chinese. Although, the machines will be made in China, so it’s kinda the same thing. All I’m sayin’ is that we, as a nation and as a planet, could afford to lose about 3 million of those smartdick blackhaired fucks.

6. Get rid of stuff people don’t like. Like immigrants and rough TP. I can’t be the only one who wants smoother beanholes and for America to speak only one language.

7. Catch that 9/11 dude.

8. IMPORTANT! Get a voice coach. Right now your sitting at only a solid baritone. Straight up. Real talk. Which is fine for a one term black president. But if you want another 4 black years, you need range. Frankie Roosevelt could hit that high C over middle E. I think that with the right v.c., we could take those angelic pipes to tenor-ville. Maybe even bass-town, if you get the right coach. May I suggest Josh Groban?

9. Go Country! Once again, every one loves you once youv’e gone country. Throw some southern twang into your speeches. Say ”y’all” and “fixin’ to” and “Damnit, Michelle, I’ma go upside that head if’n ya don’t cut down that racket you call an Athsma inhaler.” Stuff like that. Also, make Toby Kieth the Secretary of Defense. This has just been a long time coming. Look at them boots!

That should help you get started and give a lil boost to those numbers, but you have to remember, as long as you look different, articulate, and claim to be a Democrat, the white people (decision-makers) will always hate you no matter what you do. ;) Love you. Black President. Hallelujah Hallelujah!

Mythbusters: Rumors About Marilyn Manson

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We all know there’s tons of crazy rumors about Marilyn Manson floating around out there. I get it, he’s different and we hate things that are different, so we make up lies about them to distract ourselves from our own inner desires to tuck our ding-dongs between our legs and pour animal blood all over ourselves. I did this same sort of thing in middle school by calling the effeminate kids “gaybunnies.” I realize now that I was just acting out because I secretly wanted to get knee deep in Sean Hunter aka Ryder Strong of Boy Meets World. Since then, I’ve made my peace with the former classmates I once tormented (by giving them head in the bathroom at our class reunion last year). I think it’s time we gave Marilyn enough respect to do the same for him. Time to bust some myths, motherfuckers.

Rumor 1: Marilyn Manson had some of his ribs removed so that he can suck his own dick. False. I mean, think about it, guy, he is a big famous rock star. He probably makes so much sex with pasty goth girls wanting to bear the antichrist, that he can’t afford to waste any sperm on himself. That’s sacred sauce. Seriously, this one doesn’t even make sense.

Rumor 2: Marilyn Manson was Paul from the Wonder Years. What are you fucking retarded? Of course he is. Didn’t you ever see the episode where Kevin catches Paul slow-jerking over a dead bird in his tree house? That’s a classic.

Rumor 3: Marilyn Manson is a Reverend in the Church of Satan. False. I know this first hand. He is in my bible study class on
 Wednesday nights. Sometimes we we will get coffee afterward and discuss scripture. Allelu! Allelu! He’s a lot more thoughtful than people give him credit for. We were talking the other day and he made a pretty good point about the story of Noah and his Arc and how it probably wasn’t a literal thing that happened, but a metaphor for the first petting zoo. I’ll tell him you said hi.

Rumor 4: Marilyn Manson killed Tupac. Probably true. I don’t know. There is evidence to suggest this but there is also recent evidence supplied by The Committee to Keep America Christian that it was in fact President Obama who pulled the trigger on the late rap martyr.

Rumor 5: Marilyn Manson killed his parents and fed them to some big gorilla at a zoo or something. False. Gorillas don’t eat meat. They eat bamboo. Everybody knows that. Unless they are those grey ones with the fucked up teeth from Congo, then you gotta blast they ass with a diamond-laser, Laura Linney style.

Rumor 6: Marilyn Manson got his dick tattooed black. True. However this isn’t actually as weird as it seems. 1/3 of all white American men between the ages of 16-30 have their dicks tattooed black. For obvious reasons. It’s sort of like a secret underground club of Michael Jordan fans.

Rumor 7: Marilyn Manson has an L.L. Bean backpack. True. So what? They make really quality stuff. What, a guy like him can’t appreciate a sturdy, American made backpack to carry around his skulls in? Fuck you. Don’t pigeonhole L.L. Bean products. Plus, they make it super easy to order. I’ll bring over a catalogue this Sunday after I take my dog to be put down. I need some new undies anyway.

Rumor 8: Marilyn Manson got a sex change in 2006. Full structural renovation. Upgraded his outie for an innie. This is true. He now
 performs under the stage name Lady GaGa. 

Fuck 2011

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Fuck 2011. 2010 4 life. Like the wolfpack. Just toooo sweeeeeeet. All you folks out there flip-flopping like Johnny “The Ketchup Man” Kerry as soon as New Years Eve gets here. Everybody everywhere sayin “Happy New Year!” So willing to just leave 2010 in the past, like yesterday’s hooker. Well guess what dickhead, 2010 has feelings too and it’s so disrespectful that as soon as the clock strikes twelve your pumpkin asses shit all over 2010. Just as a general rule of thumb, shitting all over anything except the inside of a toilet, plastic bucket, or Phil Standen’s lunchbox is disrespectful. I’m not going to flippantly abandon 2010 like a little harelipped baby crying in a dumpster behind my apartment. No sir. Not me. 2010 and me go back like chiropractors.

Here’s some great things about 2010:

  • We elected our first black president. Take that white folks! Right in your white money filled asses!
  • We won the Iraq war.
  • Avatar in 3-D.
  • Blink 182 reunion tour. The boys are back in town.
  • Michael Jackson returned to the promised land. RIP. I know in my heart you didn’t fiddle with those kiddies p-words.
  • Michael Schaivo successfully sued to have his brain-damaged wife Terri’s feeding tube removed.
  • V-neck shirt fashion explosion. KaPLOW.
  • We gave Israel to Palestine. Finally.
  • Took a grand total of 5 stinky dumps in Phil Standen’s lunchbox.

And I know some of you jagoffs are saying “Hey, guy, you’re afraid of change. Why don’t you stop being such a pussy baby, accept the inevitable passage of time and embrace the new year?” Well let me answer your question with a question. Did Abraham Lincoln just accept change when the South seceded? Did Chris Brown just accept change when Rhianna started mouthing off? Did my Dad accept change when I told him I’m not really into women, persay. No. He didn’t, and I’m not going to either. If there is one thing I learned from my Dad, it’s don’t just stand by and watch your son grow into a god-hating hell-bent man smoocher. And change. Don’t accept it.

Fuck 2011. Seriously. Take out that tiny, flaccid, coat hanger abortion of a dick, and fuck it til you cum. I don’t even want to hear it. As far as I’m concerned this is just 2010 2.0 – Round 2. Just like they did to the last Harry Potter movies. Round 2. Ding Ding Ding.

Blogging from Cannes, France Earlier This Summer

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DAY 1

After one delay, one reroute, one airport change, two turtledoves, and partridge in a pear tree, I am glad to say that I have officially arrived in Cannes. Fellow peeved passengers would take the obvious route, blaming the volcanic eruption, calling it an “ash-hole,” ect.  Me?  I blame Obama. And no this is not a “he’s black and therefore he is ashy” joke, although I could’ve easily made that argument work as well. Maybe not. He got smoove skin, like a baby covered in baby oil. If you use baby oil on a baby, is it assumed that it is baby oil or do you still have to clarify the correct type of oil? Can we just say the baby was covered in oil, and everyone know what I’m talking about? Or will they think he was just swimming in the Gulf Coast? Who’s to say really? (Insert another rhetorical question.) Anywho, after all the horseplay and hullabaloo, I finally made it. My luggage however was not so luggy. (See what I did there?) I am now going to have to spend my first night and most likely most of my first day, wearing my travel clothes. That is to say, my white faded vintage Dr. J t-shirt and khaki shorts. Did I already mention that it’s raining. Hard. Like a Christian Slater movie from the 90’s. And that it is hovering somewhere around 50-60 degrees? Much like if Nick Lachey were to leave 98 degrees. Scratch that. If Nick were to leave 98 degrees, it’d be like 8 degrees. Nick makes up for at least 90 of those degrees. Have you seen with his shirt off? What’s that? 98 degrees hasn’t been around for years? Nick went solo like ten years ago? Is his solo act entitled 90 degrees? Because it should be. Anywhozer, my jacket is still in Gay Paree along with the rest of my garb, so that means one thing is for certain and two things are for sure: 1) This will be the best wet t-shirt contest that France has ever seen, due to the rain, my white shirt, and my already eloquently hard nippers  2) Y’all! The people here talk sooo funny! It’s like where are you from? Ya know? and last but not least 3) You gotta make that booty clap, girl.

That’s all for today guyzz!!!! Talk to you laterzzzz!!!! UGH, LOVE Y’ALL!!!!!!!

(Unfortunately, due to the intoxicating nature of the French wines I was imbibing, I only blogged for one day. But take my word for it, yall, France is beautiful.)