Tag Archives: Will Smith

The Best Scariest Haunted House

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I’m going to make the best scariest haunted house this Halloween holiday season. Man, it’s going to be something else. Little kids, all my little neighbor guys, real cool guys, real legit kinda guys, the ones I sell weed to every now and again, they’re going to get so scared out of their wigs and everything. It’s going to permanently scar their little tiny psyches with fear. Like when they grow up and turn into regular people, they are going to tell their little grandbabies and step-grandbabies “oh yeah, see when I was your age this guy named Dustin used to throw the best scariest haunted houses in his house. Like you would walk in and he was there dressed like an old butler and he would say “Goooooooodevening! Welcome to Dickenson Manor. We’ve been DYING for you to arrive. Right this way, IF YOU DARE!” and there were fucking cobwebs out the ying-yang. All over the place. CobFest 2012 feat. Matisyahu and Pearl Jam. And then he would lead us into the living room and we would watch a little bit of the Nickelodeon Kid’s Choice Award. The one hosted by Jack Black. Where they slimed the fuck out of Jim Carrey and Big Willie Smith.

 

Poems for Lovers

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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.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Your skin is tan

What are you like 1/8th Sioux? 

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Pussies be warm

like Brunswick Stew

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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.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

You’re my therapist

and my father molested me

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

If you break up with me I’ll kill myself

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Can we try anal?

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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.

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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.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

GOD SHARON!

You are such a selfish cunt.

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Roses are red

Violets are blue

Take my wife please

She’s a selfish cunt.

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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.

Big Willie Style

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In honor of the release of the third installment in the opus that is MIB, or if you’ve been living in a fucking ditch for the last fifteen years and I have to spell it out for you: Men In Black, we at LBCHWHFB have decided to compile a list of our favorite Bill Smith vehicles from the past Willenium.

Actor, rapper, father, philanthropist, actor, whatever the man touches turns to gold. He’s like Midas, but with a way bigger dick and multi-platinum hit singles. Not to mention that perfect smile topped off with that unforgettable mustache. Not a lot a people know this, but Midas actually scored a Billboard top 100 in 1972 with an album entitled, Chodeshaft Overdrive. This groundbreaking album actually went double platinum but at the award ceremony, Midas turned it gold as soon as he touched it. What a total stupid idiot dickhead. We bring that up in order to contrast the achievements of the Frickity-Frickety-Fresh Prince, Big Willie himself.

He did so much in his short, short life to be proud of. The only complaint we have was that God took him too soon. But we know he is up there in heaven now, making fun of Carlton and neurolyzing folks. And so in memory of Will and MIB3, here are are our absolute favorite moments from our absolute favorite black man that there ever was.

1. His role as Jackie Chan playing Mr. Miagi in The Karate Kid 5: The Pursuit of Happiness. LOVE the scene when Daniel san and Miagi are in the bathtub together.

2. I Am Legend of Bagger Vance. Playing alongside white people, Matt Damon and Charlize Theron, Will plays a “magical negro” that plays golf and his dog gets eaten by scary zombies. Like, they are like half zombie, half vampire cuz they can’t go in the light but they are 100% scary. I bet when they were shooting, Charlize was shaking in her little booties cuz she was so scared. But I bet Will was like “Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, Aigh, You zombies better not come over here or I’m gonna shoot a golf ball at you.”

3. One word: Hitch.

4. Tea Cake Walters in Made in America. If you haven’t seen this Ted Danson/ Whoopi Goldberg driven film experience in all it’s glory, then sister, you haven’t lived. Ted Danson is a big time assmuncher car salesman. Whoopi is a African queen (as always) who owns a shop where they sell dashiki’s and other African shit. Nia Long is Whoopi’s daughter, who after being created in a lab somewhere goes out looking for her father, the sperm donater.

She finds out it’s Ted FUCKING Danson, and this is where the hi-jinx ensue. This movie has everything. Monkey humor, Bear attacks, Jennifer Tilly’s ass, and  last but certainly not least, the man from Miami himself, Willie Smith.Will plays Nia’s friend named Tea Cake and they ride around town on a motorized scooter. Shit is the titty-sex fa realz. Netflix or Red Box the dick out of this film ASAP. But for the full effect, it really should be seen on one of your grandmother’s taped-off-TV VHS’s. If the VHS just happens to come with two films recorded on it, and the second is Little Big League, then that’s just the best bonus feature a guy could ask for. More like boner feature.

5. Donkey from the Shrek series. Boy got straight jiggy wit’ it, y’all. Na na na na na na na. Na na na na na na. He was acting so funny like a donkey and stuff. Talking about waffles and stuff. AND HE MARRIED A DRAGON! omg. Too funny, you guys. How do they think up this stuff? Seriously? How the fuck do they think up this stuff? They must be smoking so much acid over at Dream Works. They must be eating so many magic mushrooms and smoking so much heady nugz and listening to Dave Matthews, bro. Trippin’ their nards off. I bet they just turn off the lights or whatever and listen to “Ants Marching” on repeat for like 9 hours. Dave, man. Fucking Dave.

6. Ali. The greatest. The mother fucking greatest. A diamond in the rough. Big Willie plays Prince Ali, a fake prince who is trying to get all up inside Princess Jasmine’s tight little Juicy-Juice squirtbox. And she’s got on this sexy little blue number with her midriff exposed. You’d have to be Marvin Gay not to chub out every time she wiggles dat azz on screen. Except this piece of shit, Gilbert Gottfried, hypnotizes the Sultan and turns into a giant cobra and locks Jasmine in a giant hourglass. But he’s no match for Ali. He was all like “I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. You can’t beat the greatest because I am Prince Ali.”

We here at LouBegaCalled will always love you. Rest in Peace fresh, sweet prince.

Grandparents Are Racists

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I don’t think I’m alone when I say grandparents are intolerant bigots. They don’t care for the blacks. They don’t care for the jews. They don’t care for Mexicans. And I know they’re not technically a race, but they don’t care for homosessssssuals either.

If our grandparents had their way, shuffleboard would be the national sport, all the black folks would be shipped back to Africa, gays would be forced to live in subterraneal caves, Elian Gonzalez would have had his dick cut off, and rollerblades would have never been invented. Can you imagine how horrible that would be? I mean, instead of catching mad air off some big ass jumps on our blades, we would have to use those old 4 wheel skates that make you look like a crusty old pussy-fart. Shit’s fucked. My blades are like an extension of myself. Give me blades or give me death. Either you’re bladin’ hard or you’re hardly bladin’.

Not to be calloused (even though I am, severely, on my inner thighs from so much blading), but the world is going to be such a better place once all the grandparents are dead. We will be finally able to get down to all that stuff Martin King dreamed about. Like, the kids holding hands on a mountaintop thing and kissing or whatever. We will finally be able to have a Christmas Eve that doesn’t involve shouting the word “coons!” at the neighbors (who aren’t even black, they are from Pakistan.)

Now, I’m not saying that you should kill your grandparents. At all. Especially not by, like, smothering them with tempurpedic pillows during one of the 18 hours a day that they are asleep. Or by cutting the brake lines on their electric wheelchairs. Or by giving them a heart attack by telling them that you are moving to California to drop marijuanas and gay-marry your black boyfriend and have interracial babes galore. Mulattoes all over the place.

Or you could cover a pit full of sharpened sticks with palm leaves and dangle a photograph of Bob Newhart over it. They fall for the Newhart trap 9 out of 10 times. Then all you have to do is fill in the hole with quick dry cement and cash your inheritance check.

Or if you’re really crafty, you can rig their Jitterbugs to shoot a sharp metal rod through their ear and into their brains. Kind of like that guy in No Country for Old Men. It’s almost like, when you consider the title of the movie and all the killing and all, it’s like the Coen Brothers want us to kill our grandparents. It’s like their sending us secret messages through the guy who played opposite Big Willie Style in Men In Black. Agent K.

Again, we are in no way endorsing any of these things. All we are saying is that the world will be a better place if you did kill your grandparents. Because they’re racists.

An Open Letter to Tatyana Ali

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Tatyana Ali,

If you’re reading this somewhere, maybe on your laptop in some sophisticated L.A. coffee shop, sipping you’re tall iced soy mocha frap- no whip, maybe you googled yourself  just to see if anything new popped up, well we just wanted to say that we are so proud of you. We’ve watched you grow over the years from a young Ashley Banks, Will Smith’s tomboy lil cousin living the life of luxury in Fresh Prince to a nubile, ebony goddess with the voice of a Siren. Like the enchanting Greek seductresses, not like a high-pitched noisemaker that alerts one of emergencies. We loved you as a young, budding actress. Now, we’re so proud of the woman you’ve become. No drug problems. No sex tape (although we wouldn’t complain). And you didn’t turn into a fatty like Raven Symone from The Cosby Show and That’s So Raving. For real, bitch got fat. Cheetah Girls, more like Elephant Girls! Get it? Because they are both indigenous to Africa but elephants are way fatter? I probably shouldn’t make fun of her because ya’ll are prolly best friends since she was in Season 2, Episode 21 “Vying for Attention” of Fresh Prince in 1992 or whatever. Anyways, the point is we’re proud of you because not only are you beautiful, but politically active and polite. And yeah, of course we forgive you for not sending that lock of your hair that we requested, even though we have been sending you flowers everyday for 3 years. I mean I’m sure you just forgot to drop it off at the post office, right? I feel like you really get me, you know? You never judge me, even though it would be so easy for you to do (your dad being Judge Uncle Phil and all). It’s like you’re sending me messages in everything you do. Right to my brain hole. I remember that episode where you and Hilary got into a fight because you told her she was adopted because she was so light-skinned. I know that, secretly, that was a commentary about your overall distrust for the white man, something that I have been preaching about for years, ever since Vanilla Ice starred in Secret of the Ooze. And now that we’ve sort of opened up this dialogue and told you how proud we are, we wanted to apologize for breaking into your house last February and stealing used tampons out of your bathroom trash can. We wouldn’t have had to break the window if you hadn’t locked us out, TATYANA! Why don’t you answer my emails? Why the fuck don’t you love me?! I know everything about you. I know what gym you go to. I know you like to eat cold pizza. I know your social security number. I swear to God, if you would just give me a chance I’ll prove to you that we were made for each other. And if you don’t I’m going to cut your head off and put it in my freezer so I can keep it with me forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Hehe!

Love you Tatyana!

Your Secret Admirer

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up….

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I want to be the first black astronaut. Or as I will call myself, the Choconaut. Just imagine, the earthy tones of my caramel skin floating in that all white spacesuit, staring down at the Earf, looking out for you and yours. My NASA umbilical chord, pumping my big-ass black lungs with the freshest of oxygen to combat my big-ass black asthma. My 45 inch fudgey dong-snake pressing against the inside of the spacesuit, screaming to get out, suffocating like child in a car with the windows rolled up during the throes of an Alabama summer. “Mama! Mama! Please!” it cries on the edge of consciousness with it’s bare skin stuck to the molten car seat as tears and snot and sweat amalgamate into noxious brew, all while I, the world’s first choca-teer, stands atop the moon like only two men before me.

But my boys can’t catch me playing some pussy-baby game like golf up there on the moon like those vanilla muhfuckas in the 60′s. We gon’ have to have a hoop set-up or something. Just let me know, so I can clean my Jordan’s. With that low ass gravity, I’ll be doing dunks from half court like a black Aaron Carter. I’m gonna be the Tiger Woods of space travel, except if that cunt had tried to take half of MY Jupiter dollars just for gettin’ my slip-slip-quirt on with’ a few extra-terrestrial  porn stars, I’d of hired someone to kill that bitch along time ago. Nahmean?

And if I do meet some extraterrestrial lifeforms, I’ma be ready to make some new best budz-4-EVER. And if it’s a space lady alien and she’s got 3+ bubbies/yum-yums, don’t expect me back at Earf for a while. I’ll be too busy giving that space ass some Ezra-Pounding. And you best believe if they’ve got squidfaces, I’m going to beat the shit out of those motherfuckers. Big Willy Style. Steal one of their spaceships, fly into the heart of mothership with my Jewish scientist partner, and drop the Dookiebomb. I don’t play with squidfaces.

A black man in the blackest place in the universe looking for black holes and junk. Sheeeeeeit. Sign me up. First. Black. Astronaut. Point blank and period. Smashin’ all types of female alien redbones, while fuckin’ up squidfaces and smokin’ on some intergalactic hash and titties. I could get used to this.

My Friend Steve is a Real Cool Guy

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My friend, Steve, is super down to earth. He has a rhinosaurus heart. Metaphorically. Like his heart is the size of a rhino’s. Not literally. It’s an expression that means like, he’s real sweet and kind and his shirts always match his eyeballs, which are the color of the deepest ocean, if the deepest ocean were dyed cedar brown. Literally, his heart probably weighs about seven pounds – same size as Will Smith’s. Plus, he’s gotta dick that could eat up a gator. No joke. Seriously. Especially if the gator wasn’t full grown. Like a little 3 footer? His dick could easily gobble that up. There’s no doubt about that. Steve is the kinda guy who you want to bring home to your Mom (if she wasn’t such a old flappy cunt who can’t live in the now and realize that it’s fucking 2011 and that the gays are the new blacks and are takin’ OVA!!! We’re turning the Blackhouse, previously known as the Whitehouse, into the Fuchsiahouse when we elect our first Queen in 2016). Steve’s the type of guy that will bring you flowers, and not just because your pet turtle, Cecil, just died of breast cancer. It’s like, I haven’t heard from you in 6 months and all the sudden Cecil kicks it and you wanna come over with flowers and act all buddy buddy with me? Go fly a motherfucking kite, asshole. Sorry. My “so-called” life, right guyz? Anyway. Steve pushes me in all aspects of my life. He pushes me to be a more caring, thoughtful person. He pushes me to try new things. He pushes me in the shopping cart when we go to Wally World to pick up anal nitrate before pushing in my butthole Snickers. Whole lot of anal pushing with Steve, that’s for sure. See, I’m a power bottom but I really like getting with someone who can get in there and split me in two like Robin Hood’s arrow. Steve really is the best. I’m not fucking with you. He’s numero uno in my book. That’s Spanish. Steve also taught me Espanol because he thought it would be nice if we were bisexual and could speak two languages. Plus, it gets me harder than a Sudoku puzzle when he whispers sweet Latin nothings in my ear-vag.

So here’s the deal. Here is why I’m telling you all this. Steve and I dated on and off through middle school but our relationship was so fucked that we knew we had to call it off or one of us would end up gutting the other one like a swordfish and leaving the body for the coyotes to pick at. I mean, we are still greeeat friends. And like I said, he’s the greatest guy, WE just couldn’t make it work. I’m with Sharon now, and I’m happy as a clam. I still get to be the power bottom. But the thing is, we all like to go out to the Giraffe’s Clit (the hottest new leather club) together and Steve is really shy and has a hard time meeting people, so it ends up just being the three of us, and Sharon and I feel bad leaving him alone in the theatre while we go play hide the nutsack in the ladies’ room. I think you see where I’m going with this. We want to set Steve up with someone, so that when Sharon and I excuse ourselves from the table during dinner and go to the car to blow lines of ecstasy up each other’s asses with a straw, he will have someone to talk to. So, if this sounds like something you’d be into or if Steve sounds like the type of fly cat that you’d like to put inside you, then give us a holler and let’s all go out!

Can’t wait to meet you!

P. Dickenson

Two Guys Fucking in a Straight Way: The Blog

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First off, it’s not gay for two men to share a blog. Like, at all. It’s the 20th Century already! The taboos associated with this sort of thing are totally last Willennium. It’s Will2K, baby. Big Willie style. The Wiki Wiki Wild Wild West. Plus, there are much more important societal issues to worry about than two guys blogging with each other. Don’t you read the newspaper? No? Well let me inform you then. EXTRA! EXTRA! Read all the fuck about it! Scientists discovered motherfucking aliens! ALIENS! But most notably, the new main issue is still the same as the old one: dolphins that rape people. PEOPLE! It happens all the time and it’s wrong. And sick. Those are sea creatures! God didn’t intend for sea creatures to make love with land creatures. Did you ever see The Little Mermaid? I haven’t got a chance to watch it just yet, but I imagine it covers most of this. (What? I’ve been busy. Oh, I’m sorry that I work six jobs to support your cocaine addiction, all the while trying to turn this house into a happy home and raising your step-Dachsund from a previous marriage.) It’s just wrong and in the name of all the land creatures that have ever trod this Earf, I draw a line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny and I say, as so many that have paved my way have said…segregation of land creatures and sea creatures today…segregation of land creatures and sea creatures tomorrow…and segregation of land creatures and sea creatures forever. In the face of this immoral threat to the stability of our society, does two guys getting hammered then covering one another in pancake batter and blogging the shit out of each other really seem like a big deal? Because it shouldn’t.

We’ve had this blog for about a day now and my dad has already disowned me, set my birth certificate on fire, told me I was adopted, sold one of my kidneys on the african-american market, and signed me up for Exodus International Gayhab: a week chock full of team building exercises, crying circles, heterosexual trust falls, heterosexual electro-shock therapy, and hardcore Christian rock to cure me of my case of the “limp-wrist”. Which is fine, you know? I’ll go for the for the free coffee and blueberry muffins, but that’s not the point.
The point is two guys sharing a blog is totally. not. gay.
Is this gay?

Hell no. Is this gay?

Probably not. Is this gay?

Maybe. Most Likely. Probably not the best example to use here but you get the idea on the first two.

Perhaps this could be better explained geometrically. You know how a square is always a rhombus but a rhombus is not always a square? It’s, literally, the same thing with blogs. Literally. Here’s what I mean: A blog shared by two guys is always gay. Always. Buuuuuut two guys who share a blog are not always gay. Does that help? Does that make sense? Just to be clear, we are the second one. The not gay one.

Okay, to be fair, maybe I could see how you would think it was gay if two guys were sharing some Yoplait 99% fat free ‘gurt or a pet Siberian tiger or a bathrobe.
A blog is a completely different story though. It’s all about two guys hanging out. Maybe our shirts are on. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.