This message goes out to all you punk-ass peckerwoods that think y’all bad: Lenny, Big Bob, Clarence, Floyd, Clyde, Cliff, Logan, Vince, P.J., Regular Donny, Donny Half-Dick, Peanut Head, Roast Beef Sammy, Bull Moose, and most of all, that big baby-bitch Earl. Earl, I’m calling you out. I’m gonna go Mary Ann and Wanda all over your ass.
This Saturday. Backyard Wrestling. My house.
I’ve got a couple sheets of plywood and I’m gonna drag my mattress and my lil sister’s mattress and my mee-mee’s mattress out in the yard and I’m gonna take all the cushions off the sofa and we’re gonna rumble like fuck. Then I’m gonna do a frog-splash off the roof of the trailer right onto Floyd’s stupid brown dick. You heard me Floyd, you snaggle-toothed dildo. I’m gonna tear that fat ass open so wide, it’s going to be a veritable Butthole Bonanza.
The only rule is: no fucking holds barred. I’m gonna have cookie sheets and curtain rods hid throughout the backyard to be used as you see fit. I plan on using the cookie sheets to beat Cliff’s fat klepto ass into submission and get him to finally admit that he still has my copy of 007 Goldeneye for N64. And my Shark Pack.
Also, another rule is you gotta come in costume and stay in character. For instance, my wrestling alter ego is named “The Arabian Knight.” I’m going to ride in on a blood thirsty camel, who’s going to be chomping at the bit to tear Logan’s throat right the fuck out of his neck. There’s gonna be more blood gushing out of Logan’s throat than when Floyd’s Ma is on her period. And we all know she’s got more flow than LL Cool J. Anyway, after my camel assaults the Logster, I’m going to do one of those Islamic ear piercing screams. Then I’m going to lay down my prayer rug, pray towards Mecca, recite the Fatihah, snack on some Halal lamb, some dried figs, maybe a little goat cheese and stuffed grape leaves, get upset about somebody drawing a cartoon of the prophet Mohammed, then I’m going to do a backflip and wage a fucking jihad down on everybody’s stink-taints. After I clobber the ever loving shit out of each and every one of your dicks, I’m going to explain to all you racist fuckers how not all Muslims are terrorists and how Islam is really a religion of peace.
Another rule is NO COMING AS LORD OF THE RINGS or STAR WARS CHARACTERS. I’m specifically talking to you Clarence, you fucking nerd-rope. This is fucking backyard wrestling not some pussy-ass Dragon Con LARPing freak show. We’re going to be hitting each other with fucking baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire. We’re going to be setting cinder blocks on fire and smashing them on each other’s face. It’s going to be raw as fuck and every time Clarence tries to cast a spell on one of us or use his Jedi mind tricks it makes us all look unprofessional. Clarence, swear to Allah, one fucking spell or incantation and you will be asked to leave. I’m not even joking right now.
Also, my cousin Daryl’s band “Hatchet Gash” is gonna come rock our asses inside out while we pummel each other like fucking brutes. They are an ICP cover band but they also have some tight-ass originals based off the plot of the 1987 Newbery Award winning novel Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. They’re really trying to stick with the Hatchet motif which is raw as shit.
Occasionally, since Daryl’s wife ran off with Fat Sam the owner of the Dairy Queen, the “Gash” will cover Band of Horses’ “No One’s Gonna Love You More Than I Do” and shit gets real depressing. Daryl will scream “FUCK YOU, SHARON!” and start crying and shooting up heroin on stage. It’s pretty fucking dope.
While we choke the fuck out of each other with garden hoses and shit and Daryl and the boys are rockin’ tits, Mom will be inside making some deviled eggs and Peanut Billies & J’s. All I have to drink at the house is Citrus Cooler Gatorade and Dr. Thunder, so if your picky little pencil scrotum wants something else, pick it up at the QuikShop before you show up. And guys…don’t be a fucking jizz-toilet. When you’re done, wash you’re dishes off and put them in the sink. My mom is not you’re fucking maid, Lenny, you cleft-lipped faggot!
Romance is our forté. We know romance. Like the way TNT knows drama, that’s the way we are with romance. Franklin and Bash and Rizzoli and Isles. Not even gonna beat around the bush. We’re like a white Hitch. I take brown girls on ski-doo rides to Ellis Isle so they can learn about their immigrant ass grannies. Then I roundhouse kick them into the water. That’s what she gets for having a Mexican granny- and she’ll still slurp upon my goat leg a.k.a my chubbed-out goat chode a.k.a my girthy chubby-wumba. We know all the ins and outs to getting it in and out. It’s calculated.
And sometimes we’re even romantic by accident and next thing we know Ms. Satin Titties working at the register in Subway is asking if I want extra roast beef on my footlong. In actuality it’s only a six incher (rounding up) but that didn’t stop us from tub-thumping in the stockroom. That’s how Jared Fogle was conceived. Jared’s mom had a chowder stew brewin’ in her Nether Clam and Papa Fogle came in and threw down some salami and asked if she wanted chips and a drink with that. Then fat Jared was born a few months later and then he just kept getting fatter and fatter. Then Jared’s mom took him into the same Subway where he was concieved and he was like “Fuck the bullshit, I’m only eating at Subway from now on.” Then he lost all that weight, made millions of dollars, and fucked bad bitches with no rubbers. Just like his diddy.
But we’re not here to brag about this and that, we’re here to help you. For all you fuddy-duddies out there, here’s a few poems you can tell your gal pal to get her gushing like the mighty Potomac.
Violets are blue
Your skin is tan
What are you like 1/8th Sioux?
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Pussies be warm
like Brunswick Stew
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your hair smells sweet
What kind of shampoo is that? Is that Pantene ProV for Damaged Hair? Yeah, I thought so. Not that your hair was damaged or anything. I’m just saying, smells nice.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You’re my therapist
and my father molested me
Roses are red
Violets are blue
If you break up with me I’ll kill myself
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Can we try anal?
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Seriously, all my friends’ girlfriends are letting them try anal and they say it’s not as bad as everybody always says.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Okay like, I’m not the type of guy to lay down ultimatums or whatever but I just feel like if your not even willing to try anal JUST ONCE, then obviously this relationship doesn’t mean that much to you. I already bought a tube of ultra-lube and everything. I read some reviews on the website and it said it was the best lube for doing anal with. Please, Sharon.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You are such a selfish cunt.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Take my wife please
She’s a selfish cunt.
Camp Gooseneck is as wonderful as I could have ever imagined! How silly I feel that I was so nervous before. You were right, this is turning out to be the best two weeks of my life so far!
My counselor’s name is Chadwick and he is a righteous cool dood. He has curly hair and wears plaid pants and plays Sister Hazel songs on his acoustic. He says he doesn’t like to wear shirts because they stifle his nips. He says his nipples need to breathe or else they get dry and when they get dry they get cracked and when they get cracked they get chapped. He says if he showed up for lifeguard duty with chapped nappies, it would beget a pussy drought dryer than the Dust Bowl of the Dirty Thirties. I don’t know what that means, but I believe it. And Mumsy I must admit, his nipple breathing techniques seem to be working. They are the healthiest in the whole wide camp. With the circumference of a Sacagawea golden dollar, they are truly a sight to be seen. They are THE wonder of Cabin Apache.
Some nights Chadwick lets us sneak out and play pranks on those cuntdicks in Cabin Sioux. “Everybody knows that the Sioux are a bunch of sackless dickheads, who wouldn’t know a piece of pussy from a pile of hamburger meat if it smacked them on the chodeshaft.” That’s what Chadwick says. I don’t know what it means, but I believe it. Anywho, one night we painted our faces all camouflage-like and snuck down to their cabin and pissed all over their clothes and in their shoes and duct-taped this one codpiece named Jacob to his bed and put a plastic bag over his face until his eyes rolled back in his head and his breathing stopped while Tommy whispered “Don’t you ever let me catch you even looking at Cynthia Mossberg again, you pot-marked tampon string!” It was CLASSIC!
I made all my bunkmates friendship bracelets in Arts’n’Crafts as a symbol of our being bros and all. We also made a blood oath that we would die for each other. We all pricked our fingers and rubbed our blood all together. Nothing brings a group of young men closer than rubbing their open sores together. Black Bobby wasn’t allowed to take part in the blood oath though, because Clarke said that if we caught any of Black Bobby’s sickle cells in our bloodstream, we would all turn black and we collectively decided that we’d prefer to be white. Nothing against black folks, you understand, it was just a personal decision. You know, you always hear that there is this hidden cost to being African-American. Whether it is the statistically lower pay or the higher rates of heart disease, HIV/AIDs, and diabetes or just the subtle everyday racism of the white hegemony. The only way to make it as a black in this country is to sell crack rock or have a wicked jump shot. I think I’d rather just stay white, thank you very much.
Last week, me and this girl named Sharon from Cabin Cherokee went on a canoe ride around the lake. It was a blast! We parked our canoe behind the big branch that hangs over the edge of the lake and she took off her bikini bottoms and showed me the little brown hairs she had sprouted on her hoo-hoo cooch that everyone in camp was talking about. She pulled out a baggie from her satchel and emptied it into a spoon. She dropped some lake water in and then used a match to heat up the bottom of the spoon. She sterilized her needle in the lake, after finding the biggest vein in my arm, and gave me a shot that she said “would make me forget about when Daddy would rub his zipper up and down my spine.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I believed it. We sat in that canoe for what seemed like hours, sipping from her canteen, listening to Break On Through by the Doors, and slobbering on ourselves. I don’t want to speak too soon, but Mumsy, I think Sharon might be the ONE.
There is a large creature that lives in the woods behind the ropes course. At night we hear his blood thirsty howls and the cries of children he has trapped in his forest cave. Camp lore says that he devours the souls of campers and drains out all their blood and innards into a large gourd. Then he takes their bones and grinds them into a fine powder. Once the blood gourd has been brought to a steady boil over an open fire, he mixes in the bone meal and a pinch of brown sugar. Let that simmer for about 15 to 20 minutes, just long enough for the flavors to really coalesce. Then let it cool for about 5 minutes to seal in the taste, and you are left with with what the counselors call Gooseneck Bloodmeal.
Chadwick says as long as they give the monster 3 campers from every camp session, his appetite is quelled long enough to prevent him from attacking the whole camp. It’s for the greater good he says. Campers should feel honored to be selected for the sacrifice. For the greater good. It is through the spilling of their virginal blood that the monster is satisfied and lets us play capture the flag and go canoeing and have talent shows. For the greater good. Baxter Culpepper, from Cabin Chickasaw, went missing several days ago. The other campers and I have begun to speculate that he has been selected. Probably all that is left of him by now is a pile of hair and teeth. For the greater good.
But that was days ago. The creature is hungry again.His howls have been louder the past several nights. It’s about time for a new selection to be made. Oh! Mumsy, you will never guess what just happened. As I am writing you this very letter, a group of counselors in dark hooded robes have burst into my cabin. They are currently binding my feet and hands. I will admit, it does make writing this letter a bit more difficult. Now they have put a burlap sack over my head. I apologize if my handwriting is suffering, it is difficult to see with the sack and all. Now they are dragging me by my feet through the woods and chanting ominously. I must give credit where credit is due, it is sort a catchy little number. Well, the creatures howls are now upon me, so I must be going. For the greater good!
Give Papa and little Susanne my love! Ta-ta!
P.S. could you send me some of those toffies I like so dearly?
….that can describe the way I feel…
I want to stand with you on a mountain.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever.
Until the sky falls down on me…
Those are the only words I need.
And I just want you to know, Sharon, our love is like a savage garden- powerful, beautiful, mysterious.
Dear Officer Policeman!
Hey there, mister. I like your hat. I would like to take this opportunity to first thank you and the other fellows in blue for all the hard work you’re doing keeping our streets safe out there. I haven’t gotten rough housed by gang bangers in a coon’s age. I owe that to you guys. So, now that that’s out of the way…I don’t want to get all awkward or whatever but I feel like there is an elephant in the room. And I don’t mean the Chief’s dumpy assed, brisket and bread lovin’ wife….No, it’s just that….well, there’s no easy way around this….I’m not too proud to admit that I have trapped everyone inside of this here Outback Steakhouse with a deer rifle, 2 packs of Pop Pop Snappers (you know, those little white tadpoles that make for classic outdoor fun), and a clean bomb. In case you didn’t know, a clean bomb is like a dirty bomb except it is made with hand sanitizer instead of radioactive material.
Just a quick role call of who all is in here before I start Pop Pop Snappin’ up in this motherfucker- we got my waitress, Jenny (suckered me into ordering the seared Ahi Tuna with the Baked Potato Walkabout Soup- no regrets! it’s D-vine), three nuns (the sweetest!), The Davises (it’s Jordan’s birthday and they ordered the Chocolate Thunder from Down Under and the staff sang a traditional Ausie birthday song, hate to tell him but the dessert’s name doesn’t come from when you eat it, it comes from the dookiepie splatter bomb that arrives 30 minutes later), we got Trisha “The Cunter” Hunter and the black dude she is cheating on her husband with (Just so you know, I specified that he was black for descriptive purposes. I’m trying to paint a picture. It’s not like I disapprove of their interracial relationship or anything. That’s fine. No problemo, Senor. There is nothing more beautiful than a well-toned African-American man, with his dark skin glistening in the flickering candle light, his dark mahogony flesh beaded with sweat, the pink palms of his hand around her throat as he rapes a white woman. No, it’s not the interracial thing that bothers me. It’s more the fact that ever since Trisha’s husband went into that coma after that Ski-Doo accident, Trish has been getting on more black cocks than AIDs.) We also have Dan in here, who Jenny and I have nicknamed “Fat Bill Paxton” (but don’t tell him I said that because I know he is self-conscious about his weight. I can tell because he ordered the Queensland Salad and a diet Fanta. I mean, he’s not like FAT fat. I mean sure, he could stand to lose like 50 or 60 lbs, but he’s really just got those classic Paxtonian looks so he still does alright for himself, I mean shit, have you seen Spy Kids 2: Island of Lost Dreams?).
Anywho, I’ve prepared a small list of demands if ya’ll get a free moment.
1. I’ve got like $500 in Blockbuster late fees. Jim Varney is partially to blame for this excessive debt. If they honestly expect people to return movies on time, they should think twice about offering the Ernest series. Ernest Goes to Camp. Ernest in the Army. Ernest Scared Stupid. Ernest Goes to Jail for Cooking Meth. Ernest Goes to Jail for Allegedly Raping a 7-year Old Boy. Ernest Goes to Jail for soliciting his longwanger on Craigslist. He. is. too. funny. The way he always gets himself in those classic goof-ups is priceless. PRICELESS. Although, if you were to attribute a price, it would probably be around $500- which is how much they’re charging me. Do you think there is any way you could possibly take care of that for me? Thanks.
2. I want an upskirt photo of Harriet Tubman while she be doing yard work.
3. Three Snickers Ice Cream Bars and a Citrus Cooler Gatorade. Fucking delish! Snacksville, U.S.A.
4. The third season of According to Jim on Blu-Ray.
5. A Blu-Ray player.
6. Go to my house and shut off my mother’s oxygen tank and make it look like a accident so I can inherit her porcelain doll collection.
7. Snatch up a midget and rip his clothes off. Super glue a bunch of Googly Eyes onto his body and a feed him ecstacy. Wait for me to fall asleep and put him in bed next to me. When he is secure, turn on a flashing disco ball and put on the new Rihanna album. Then get the fuck out.
8. I haven’t been fishing in forever! Do you think this weekend or next we could go up to your lake house and cast in a few lines? I could really use a nice weekend fishing trip to just let down my hair- especially after this little soiree. Do you remember the last time we went to the lake? With Sharon and her European boyfriend? It’s like, uuuuuuugh get circumcised already! Aside from that- SO FUN. Ok, so I am officially excited about this weekend!
Thanks so much for everything. Could you try to get everything done in the next 45 minutes? because the new Real World season premier comes on at 9 and the first episode is really important because that’s when you get to meet the whole cast and see clips of their audition tapes! So cool. If I miss that premier I swear to god I will paint the walls of this Outback Steakhouse red with the blood of the every single one of these fuckers. TTYL.
Sometimes I get the strong urge to kill myself. Not because I’m depressed or mentally unstable or my life sucks or anything like that. It’s just because I’m lazy. Some days, it seems like it would just be easier to kill myself than to get up at be at work by 9:00 and pretend to be returning emails for 3 hours while I google news articles about domesticated animals attacking their owners. Like, some days I would rather just kill myself than have to go to Dillard’s to buy a new pantsuit because I left my Uniball in the pocket when I washed them and it bled everywhere. Tom from Accounting was like “Anyone ever heard of pocket protector?” And I was like “Fuck you Tom. The last thing I need is for you to give me shit right now. I have enough going on. Mr. Peterson has been up my ass lately about these M-93′s and I would seriously rather kill myself than sit here and listen to your bullshit. Plus, a pocket protector wouldn’t stop me from washing my pen, you cleft-lipped faggot.” Then he whispered something to Pudding Dickenson in the cubicle next to me. That really burned me up. I’ve had a super-mega-huge crush on Pud ever since I started working here. I know that he’s engaged and I’ve actually met his fiancé Sharon, who is a really nice lady. Too nice if you ask me. Seems like she’s hiding something. Just saying. I’m not saying I would do anything to break them up. I don’t want to complicate me and Pud’s relationship like that. He just gets me. Ya know?
Listen to me! I’m sorry. Back to the topic at hand. Sometimes I would prefer to just off myself than deal with all that jiz-unk. Like, I would rather kill myself than have to call the guy to come fix my garbage disposal, then wait around for him to show up to fix the garbage disposal, and then maintain small talk with him until he’s finished fixing my garbage disposal. Uuuuuuuuuuugggggggh! That’s the sound I make when I get the urge to kill myself. Gotta wash my clothes? Uuugh. Gotta put air in my tires? Uuugh. Gotta go around getting my neighbors to sign these sexual predator forms? Uuugh. I honestly would rather end it all. I have this feeling almost every time I have to do something I don’t want to do.
This often leads me to think, how would I choose to kill myself? Obviously I would lean towards something that doesn’t require a lot of energy or set up. I would rather kill myself than have to set up some elaborate means of commiting suicide. I want something quick and easy. I’m not trying to make any big statement or anything and I don’t have time to set up some Rube Goldberg suicide machine, where I get my shirt ironed, an egg fried, my ficus watered, and dozen poison darts fired at my face. I think one of the best ways to kill myself would be to let a domesticated animal kill me. I’ve done a lot research on the google and found that it has several distinct advantages:
1) It’s effortless. All you have to do is hold still. Just let your domesticated animal do all the work, whether it is a chimp, elephant, pitbull, or whatever. It doesn’t get any easier than that, unless you choose to starve yourself to death but that takes such a long time. You’ll end up just sitting around for days waiting for it to kick in. And as far as I’m concerned, I would rather kill myself than have to wait on myself to starve to death. Whereas with the domesticated animal route, it could take as long as a couple seconds.
2) No clean up. Especially if you are working with a domesticated tiger or something. Chances are, if you give them enough time, they will eat you entirely. In fact, they will buff and polish the floor with their sandpapery cat tongues to get every last bit of your tasty remains. Considering that people don’t prefer to buy the apartment where some guy was just mauled and devoured by an animal, the shiny floors might actually help the resale value.
3) Circle of life, bro. It’s mother fucking nature. And I, myself, am I huge Elton John fan, so I would consider this kind of a dedication to his songwriting. You guys remember that scene in Almost Famous when they sing Benny and The Jets in the airplane? Classic.
The economy is fucked up, you guys. Seriously. Shit is crazy. Ain’t nobody got jobs. Gas is 63 bucks a gallon. Three consecutive weekends, tickets to Biebs 3D has been sold out when Sharon and I got to the theatre. You know things are bad when Randy leaves American Idol. What the fuck else does he have to do? Play bass?* That’s not even a real fucking instrument jackhole, it’s just a guitar that’s missing two strings. I mean, honestly. Dubs t fuck is going on around here? Last time I checked, this was America. Land of the free, home of the blind. Helen Keller? Ever heard of her? So what happened? Folks wanna blame Wall Street, they wanna blame the government (or as I like to call them, ” dot gov”). People wanna say that it’s the Chinese, the Jews, W the President, the Baldwin’s, whoever. Everybody is blaming everybody, like a turd just floated to the surface in the h-tub, and no one is looking at the facts or trying to fix the problem. No one but your neighborhood friendly bloggers here at LouBegaCalled. That’s right dipsticks, we done solved the economy. Peep this.
Wasn’t it just 10 some odd years ago that America was on top making that sweet, sweet cheddar cheese skrilla, not a care in the goddamn world? Footloose and fancy-free? What had happened? What has changed? What could’ve happened in ten years that could have caused the economy to collapse? I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell you right now. 4 words. BIG. MOUTH. BILLY. BASS. Boom. Take a minute and wrap your mindtits around that, and let a brother explain.
Think back. What was the one thing everyone had in their homes back in the late 90′s/early 2000′s? Whose living room wasn’t complete with the joy of song coming from an electrical singing trophy fish that hung on the wall? That’s all I’m saying. You bring back the BMBB, and you bring back this country. I know what some of you are thinking. That the Billy Bass was serving a purpose back in those days, creating a sort of redneck backwoods-rape feng shui, distracting us from the horrors of terrorism and the aftermath of 9/11. What possible use could one get out of a BMBB in today’s ever-changing technological metropolitan world? How bout you shut the fuck up for two seconds and I’ll tell you? For instance, I use my Big Mouth Billy Bass as a sybian while the hubby is away, riding it to full orgasm, as it’s tail fin slaps my juicer, all the while bellowing Take Me To The River. And that’s just one example! We start getting these back into folks’ homes, we start to see real economic change in this beloved country, our United States. Urrybody gon’ be making money hand over fist, just the way I like my handjobs.
If there is anything we can learn from Billy it’s this: Don’t worry be happy. It’s like Alan Greenspan says, money = happiness. That’s why they call these things depressions. We need to not be afraid to spend that shit! That’s the only way to both be happy and get this economy bumpin’. And I know some of you are thinking, “Hey Lou Bega, money can’t buy you happiness.” Who the fuck told you that? Your poor parents? Yeah, thought so. Rich families are too busy taking the yacht to Barbados for the weekend to instill that value in their children. Pretty sure it can buy you happiness. Case and point: go buy 4 BMBB, hang them on the wall in the basement, smoke some DMT, press the little red buttons, and enjoy.
* For those of you that haven’t read the March 2007 issue of Bass Player, former American Idol judge Randy Jackson is a well known session bassist playing with such artists as Journey, Urethra Franklin, Tracy Chapman, Mariah Carey, Bon Jovi, Herbie Hancock, Bob Dylan, Billy Joel, Roger Waters, and George Michael. He was not in the Jackson 5.
I’m going to be Frank. I’m better at being Earnest when I can be Frank. But I just don’t want to seem like a Dick because of how Frank I am. So hopefully, you’ll read this, realize how Earnest and Frank I am being, while simultaneously not trying to act like the Dick I have been, then maybe you Will meet me for a cup of Joe. That’s the least you could Grant me. I know we’ve been going through some real booshit lately and I know I’ve Ben aloof. Aloof as shit. So aloof that I lost touch with who I was. So aloof that I lost touch with who YOU were. But I just wanted you to know that the old me, the me you fell in love with, is back. And I’m here to stay, baby. It’s like the new me got so preoccupied with working and paying the bills and getting the oil changed and eating edamame and taking Darren to Taekwondo practice that I forgot what was really important. Us, Sharon. That’s all there is. You, me, and that precious little Kenyan boy in there that took 3 years of clawing and scratching to adopt. Yous guys are everything to me. And the new old me sees that now, something that the new me wasn’t capable of. That new me is all in the past now Sharon. That’s the old new me. You know, the old new me lost his sense of adventure and spontaneousness. You saw it. I saw it. Darren was even beginning to ask questions. “Diddy,” he’d say “why don’t you hit on Krista’s mom anymore at Taekwondo? She’s beginning to think that you don’ t really like her or see a future with her. You can’t just do that stuff, Dad. You can’t just give someone, especially my sparring partner’s Mom, the best late afternoon fuck sesh of their life and then act like that person doesn’t exist. You didn’t raise me that way. And I know Grandpa didn’t raise you that way. Now get in there, and show Mrs. Thompson that you are the person that she thinks you are. Or don’t, and prove us all right. Me. Krista. Mom. Mrs. Thompson. We all see that you have changed and are not the same man. So, do what you want, just know that we are not going to be here to help you and console you when the bottom drops out, bucko. Know that shit.” Well, no more of that corduroy wearing pencil-pusher, Sharon, I swear. I’m the new and improved new old me again and for good this time. You remember, the me that always had weed and change for a dollar. The me that always tried to finger you once they turn the lights down in the movie theater. The me that shaves Mickey Mouse into his curly-pubes. The me that always carries a gun, just in case things get Harry. I’m back babe. I’m the new old me, again. Now fire up the Hyundai Sonata, we’re going to CiCi’s.
Frank, Earnest, Dick, Will, Joe, Grant, Ben, and Harry
HeY gUrL hEy! HaVeN’t SeEn YoU iN FO-EVAAAA! MuSt HaVe A sKyPe SeSh AsAp. I can NOT w8 2 talk 2 U. I was thinking, my B-dAy is coming up, and it would be gr8 if we could do it then, because the only gift this little Hello Kitty asian school-girl could ever want would be to see your presh punnam (well, and a pair of new Steve Madden’s and for the gyno-saur to be a little more gentle with my delicates next time I go in for a pappysmudge.) Don’t worry about those last two though, I’ll just ask my g-mizzle for those. She may not make it to my next birthday, so I’m gonna make her load me up on presents this year. It’s not that she’s that old or sickly or anything. It’s just she just got mixed up with Mikhail and the Russians over some money down at the races. Dad says any day now they are going to bust in and cut off her hands and sell the rest of her old organs on the Russian African-American market and then feed her leftovers to the g33se at the park. That’s why those things are so mean, they’ve got a taste for human blood. Like Vampires, but less homoerotic. Girl, you know I’m Team Jacob.
Oh giiiirl, you are going to shit on your Dad’s dickhole when I tell you what Liz told me yesterday. So, ya know how Bobby was like soo in love with Allison and was basically on his hands and knees asking her to let him see that baby cavern? Well apparently, last weekend, at Sharon’s sweet sixteen, they hooked up. I KNOW! Like hooked up hooked up. And Allison says that his thing is tiny. Ugggh! Like it just rests there on top of his ballbag. Like a little acorn. But get this, after the fuck sesh, Allison let it spill that she has diabetes, so to get even, Bobby kidnapped her, fed her Godiva’s and denied her her insulin until she died! I KNOW! Like died died. HILARIOUS! That is so Bobby. On a sad note, the funeral is on Friday and I have absolutely nothing to wear. Ugh. Maybe I could Skype you in. I know Allison’s brother, Todd, would love to talk to you. LOLZ. JK, I know you don’t date black guys.
Annnnywayz, can’t wait to see your sexy face on my B’Day! Tell Shawn that he better be taking care of my girl over there or I’m gonna have to come beat him up. LMAO! Just kidding, he’s a man, he would totes kick my ass. Y’all be safe and have fun killin’ Iraqi’s! Mwah! Lovez!!!!!
P.S. Your dad is fucking Stewart’s Mom and Stewart is super pissed. You’d think, by now, he’d have dealt with the fact that his Mom is the town trolley and has gotten stuffed more times than a catcher’s mit. Like, she is like a form of public transportation but she also resembles an article of baseball equipment, you know? I know, we are terrible! But seriously, fuck Stewart. After the shit he pulled with Teagan after prom last year, he deserves to listen to his mom get pounded by your Dad’s thick, black, dick-meat. Ya know? I mean, I don’t like Teagan or whatever, she is a fat piece of shit, but I don’t think anybody should have to go through what Stew put her through. Seriously. Mayonnaise is meant to go on sandwiches and nowhere else. Stew had that whole “grab-bag” mayo handjob fetish thing going on that he learned from his slut cunt-ex Emily. I heard that she has a labia like the large triangular side fins of a manta-ray.