The new #Hamburglar is Stephen Baldwin
Ferocious Senor ChiChi~ My Chihuahua on steroids showing how ferocious he truly is. 🙂 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKMB16bZ5Ok
( Inspired by Tom Cruise and The Church of Scientology.)
I had become famous back in the winter of 1999, having successfully consumed every narcotic known to man, and having fornicated with every female groupie within my “Famous World.” Other famous people around me had given me a nickname. (They called me “The Kettle” because I would get fired up sometimes and start whistling uncontrollably and demonically.)
“God, I swear I’ve seen you before,” would approach yet another fan.
“Yeah?” I would begin to reply.
“THAT’S BECAUSE I’M FUCKING FAMOUS!!”
That’s right, I’m the guy who stumbled and dropped like a ton of bricks shattering your child’s lemonade stand while blown out of his mind on Ketel One and sodas with extra lime carcass and within a Vicodin-glazed haze.
“OH MOM. LOOK WHAT THIS BAD MAN DID!” One of the 9 year old girls screamed in fear and dismay, as I realized at that precise moment saturated from head to toe in weak watered down lemonade, that justice had no fucking say when it came to the Famous!
“Alright, Mr. ? From now on, please refrain from getting loaded, stumbling out in public and terrorizing innocent children and dashing their dreams of operating a lucrative lemonade stand,” said the Officer.
“By the way, Mr. ? My wife is a huge fan. May I have an autograph please? You can make it out to your dearest fan, Gertrude.” [Pulling a shiny photograph out from inside my coat pocket and a grabbing a black permanent marker; I AM ON MY WAY INTO THE FAST LANE ONCE AGAIN.]
You see, it is not all fun and games having a famous face, having to hide out in underground bunkers and caves with “Other Famous People,” the ones who pick at their teeth for days with the same rancid toothpick. [Pause for station identification.]
I knew one famous couple, whose names I cannot disclose, who had sexual relations with a pack of smaller sized endangered porpoises. This ultra Famous couple actually had these endangered specifically shipped to them in from Special secret islands or some shit! [ Yeah, good old-fashioned porpoise fucking. NOW THAT’S WHERE IT IS AT!]
“When you become famous, you don’t just teeter back and forth upon the wall that separates Sanity from Insanity. YOU FALL OFF THE FUCKER, WAY INTO FAMOUS FAIRYTALE LAND!”
Endless, restless nights being trapped amongst demented, pretentious, porpoise-fucking, drug-addicted, identity crisis riddled amateur sex addicts that haven’t got the faintest idea how to perform proper groping techniques. (It all starts to get you fucking crazy, totally bat crazy, straightjacket and all!)
“WHO THE FUCK AM I?!” I would scream waking up in cold sweats.
AND YOU THINK THAT’S BAD? Wait and see how bad it really gets when you’re finally allowed out of hiding and back into the “Real world”, having to give more autographs, fucking smile all the time, get extensive coffee colonics every other day preparing for a “special part” all the while being chased by the anti-empathetic, Satan Worshippers referred to as “The Paparazzi.”
“DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT WE ARE ALL FUCKING LUNATICS!”
“Famous ones at that.”
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May I Introduce to you Costa Rica’s finest rabies infested Squirrel, Mr. Munchy Munchers. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDxw3lNcsU8
Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer and Andy Murray have nothing on me! My forehand is full of fury and sass, my mediocre two handed backhand and floating slice intimidate down to the bone, and if I come to net, my Western grip volley is always late and as ugly as Sissy Spacek is perceived to be in “Carrie”. Never mind on my serve when I fire a 60 MPH, Semi Western grip American Twist Bombshell your way; MADNESS WILL ENSUE. It is a Godsend for these top 4 guys that I am not allowed into the main draw of any of these tournaments because of the various restraining orders placed upon me. Novak Djokovic, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer and Andy Murray have nothing on me! 🙂
Mr. Minkman dressed to the hilt, called the shots and could sometimes be quite the mean muthafuckin’ man!
Down to Grasso’s, right in the front row, Mr. Minkman orders his special Milan Serum and commands a high class whore to hand him the bones. Time after time, Minkman makes the point, howling like an evolving Werewolf while passionately throat kissing lovely after lovely until the passion becomes too much, overwhelming, (Minkman IS truly the fucking man.)
Dressed, cozy and confident in his shiny Mink, Mr. Minkman starts to get really extremely fired up visualizing The Pink Panther and a team of synthetic bearded Terrorists working with him to construct a creative plan to rule the land.
“Thank God there is good Music soaring throughout this fine establishment.” Mr. Minkman cannot handle any dairy and especially any fair ass, bang ass Tooter, limp dick ditties!
In walks an Amazon armed to the Teeth wielding a titanium tennis racket engraved with the letter “W”, as she begins to claim she is a Goddess from Past History that brought Alexander the Great to his knees and wielded the most ultimate Pussy Magic. (Mr. Minkman was not amused in the least.) You don’t confront the “King of Minks” with a feeble bluff constructed from Mental Ward experiences and distant Looney Tunes gibberish. JEEZER BADEEBEERS!
Mr. Minkman is swift. Mr. Minkman is stellar, sometimes consuming wholesome amounts of First and Second Growths from his perfectly tuned Wine Cellar.
OUR GODDESS IS HISTORY and once again Mr. Minkman Prevails!
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