Happy Sunday and hope everyone is having an amazing weekend celebrating #CincoDeMayo , The #KentuckyDerby and the horrible bust of a fight they called , “MayweatherVsPacquiao . Anyone that paid a $100 for the most “Disappointing Fight of the Century”, how are your asses feeling this morning? #FloydMayweather was as boring as ever and #MannyPacquiao looked old and as slow as molasses. And never mind the disturbing, “Stevie Wonder gone wrong” rendition of The #NationalAnthem performed by #JamieFoxx ? That deplorable debacle truly wanted to make me slug myself in the balls unmercifully. Happy Sunday.
Hello to all of my friends and family and please reserve my collection of new slanted stories; I truly pushed the envelope this time around; Intended for Mature Audiences: “I was screaming inside of myself, losing grasp of my logic and slipping sanity, hysterical within an internal fit of anger and resentment. A slight cryptic chuckle comes from above.” Click on the pic to view more.
[Inspired by Kristen Robinson]
Bibsy Bobbet thought that she was the female version of the Unknown Comic, accosting and hijacking local youth theater stages, cackling like a livid lunatic, making bad jokes and spurting profane, meaningless phrases until the authorities arrived.
“FUCKING FRACK IN THE BASTARD ASS UNTIL
THE MEATHOOK FUCKER CAN BANG
THE BASTARD ASS NO LONGER.”
Bibsy Bobbet came from a three legged family that fetishized about ape capes and encasement as a whole.
“God damn newspaper says it is going to piss down again today.”
[Miss Bibsy Bobbet was not pleased]
She ran down slick streets doing pelvis thrusts within the vain of Olivia Newton John with an undertone of Jane Fonda’s sternness, dancing and romancing within a triple shiny leotard that demanded attention.
“You know we have laws here, Miss Bobbet,” expressed a tall, Tom Selleck mustache wielding “MF”er.
“I know fine ‘orficer,’ but I need to make jukebox money somehow.” Bibsy Bobbet’s tone of voice was not appealing to ‘orficer’ at all, as the Tom Selleck deplorable wannabe threw the steel on
The Double “B-BERS”.
“How dare you, fine sir, put that fine steel on
within this seductive way.”
“Hush now, Miss B-bber. You know you FUCKING ENJOY IT!”
Within the raspy fields, high on Boone’s farm, smoking a fag and attempting a horribly gone wrong magic trick, Miss Bibsy Bobbet put on her quintuple shiny space suit and stepped onto the awaiting space vessel; the fucking space people loved her, worshipped her.
“Life is just a matter of finding your niche, your place,”
Bibsy Bobbet included.
CLICK ON THE HOT CHICK IN THE PIC.
( 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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