Boo Boo Kitty Fuck

This one goes back to around 1993 when I had first moved to Tampa, and was living with a stripper that I was briefly dating (amongst 5 other degenerates). I came home one day and couldn’t find her cats anywhere. I called up Diamond Dolls (where she was working) and my musician-support-system told me they were outside when she left. I looked around outside for a while and still couldn't find them, so I called the leasing office. The cunt that worked there told me that they had called Animal Control for having them outside, so I drove downtown to spring our cats out of Cat Jail.
It was something like $85, which was a lot of money in those days. I free the cats but not before they gave ME a court date for leaving them outside. What the fuck? I tried to explain that they were not even my cats, but they gave me the ticket anyway. When my girl got home, I told her about what had happened and she said she would take care of it.

A few months later we split up.

Not long after all of this I start fucking this other chick. One of our favorite pastimes was playing Hide-the-Salami-While-All-Dosed-Out-on-LSD. One night I went to pick her up with two tabs on me. The plan was to go back to my house, trip, and fuck like wildebeasts.

Quite the romantic evening, no?

While I was at her house, I had a brilliant idea:

“Let's take these doses now. By the time we get back to my house they ought to just be starting to work on us!"

So we took the shit and started driving back to my palatial seven bedroom estate with an indoor bowling alley (read: my dumpy apartment). On the way back this pig gets behind me. My tag was a few weeks expired so he pulled me over. I got out of the car and handed this zipper-head my license. I was calm as the acid hadn't hit yet, I was sure I'd just get out of it with just a ticket or something. Well, the cop comes back and explains that there is a warrant for Failure to Appear the missed cat trial and then stuffs me in the back of his car. I hadn’t even started to trip yet but the check was in the mail already. I was driven to this police station where the idea was to transfer me to a different vehicle and take me to county jail. They took me out of the back of one car and slammed me straight in the back of another car that was already running.

Twing! I started feeling the LSD.

In the back of the second car was the biggest, fattest, sweatiest black dude I had ever seen in my life with his shirt off. It was the middle of the summer in Tampa and it was fucking hot. He was handcuffed, thrashing about, sweating, and smashing me against the door like a madman. He kept rocking back and forth, squirming around, and screaming, "I don't care whose dick I have to suck, just let me out of here!" While all of this is going on two cops are standing outside ignoring this and chatting away idly. The female cop who was supposed to take us downtown got in the car and starts to drive away. She makes it about twenty feet when the other cop she was talking to runs up and starts knocking on the window. Next thing I know, the two cops are all over each other, making out and groping on the side of the car! Meanwhile, I'm back there with a 400 lb. sweaty moon-cricket yelling about sucking dick and sweating, sweating, sweating…

Now the acid is really kicking in (Claustrophobia, panic, suffocation then...vertigo).

After about 20 minutes of this, the she-cop gets back in the car again starts to drive again when the other cop jogs up, knocks on the window and again the same shit happens. They were about to fuck on the side of the car! I'm tripping my fucking balls off by now, and the giant black dude is still spazzing out with me smashed into the corner and is screaming about sucking dick.
I tried my hardest not to freak the fuck out as they don’t know I was on drugs…YET! Mental Kung-FU must stay strong or this trip would go very, very badly!
She gets back in the car and for a third time the same thing happens. I know this is starting to sound like a bad joke but I every word is true. Finally after about and hour of this happening over and over again she gets in the car and takes me to jail. After about five hours my friends show up with the bail money and I get out just as the drugs are starting to wear off.

I was jailed for some cats while trying to have sex on acid.

Fucking Helicopther

Sometimes a woman can drive a man plumb daffy. Earlier this year, Greg Burson barricaded himself inside of his house for seven hours after a woman inside called 911 claiming that two women were being held against their will in his Los Angeles home. Armed Special Forces and a Tactical squad surrounded the house, weapons drawn. Greg held police to a stand off for seven hours before finally negotiating a peaceful resolution. Once inside the LAPD found a collection of semi and automatic weapons. You may be asking yourself “So fucking what, John. This kind of thing happens all the time. We live in a wacky world, you know.” And you’d be right. But once I inform you that the man who held the LAPD at bay, has provided the voices for Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck and Yogi Bear for the past fifteen years (following the death of Mel Blanc in 1989) You might look at this story a bit differently.

Don’t fret, it gets funnier. Police on the scene were quoted as saying “He was so drunk (that) we couldn’t tell if he was trying to do one of his voices or (if he) was just slurring his words.” Utter hilarity. I couldn’t read the article without imagining Senor Duck demanding, feverishly, for a “fucking helicopther”. What could possibly have happened to make one of the women (who turned out to be Burson’s roommates) call the police? I imagine it started out with a nice dinner at home…

Bugs: Look bitch, are you going to blow me or what?

Woman #1: Stop it Greg, this isn’t funny.

Bugs: …Is the Double-B gonna have to choke a bitch?

Woman #2: Look dude, it’s getting late and we’d like to go dancing. Are you in or what?

Yogi: Why go anywhere ladies, when we can have our own pic-a-nic right here? I can call up Boo-Boo. He’s got a friend that can get us some of that two-hitta-quitta.

Woman #1: Greg, you’re drunk. Maybe you should just stay here. Get some sleep, drink some water. Shake it off, man.

Daffy: Leth ALL stay here. We’ve got cocaine, gun-th by the ton, whith-key, jack, vodka, orange jewth, a “butt-for”….

Both Women Together: What’s a butt-for…?

Bugs: For POOPING, you stupid skanks!
(Laughs maniacally)

Woman #1: Ok man, we’re leaving. You’ve lost it!

Yogi: How much you wanna bet that yoos two girly types ain’t goin….nowhere?

(Silence)

Woman #1: I’m going to get my purse….

Woman #2: Get mine while you’re up there.

Daffy: Hey, who wants to see if I can snort all eleven of these rails and still be able to do the Macarena?

Woman #2: Greg, seriously, I think you need help. This is the third night this week you’ve gotten shitfaced and it’s Wednesday. It’s fucking Wednesday. We’re just worried that you….

Daffy: Look bitch, if I want your fucking opinion I’ll give it to you when I blow my feathery, fucking load across your giant, Roman, fucking nose. Yup, that-th right, two teaspoons of creamy, bubbly, duck oppion! And ath for your “help”, the only help I need from you ith when I’m bending out a brown loaf on your dirty fucking chest! How does that thound thith-ter? You like the thound of that? Huh? Do ya?

Woman #2 stands up in disgust and tries to walk away. Greg grabs her arm violently and throws her to the ground.

Bugs: You think you can just walk away from me? I’ve made a generation of fucking human beings giggle their mudda fuckin asses off and you think you can just toin your back on me and walk away like I’m fucking Hobbes or something? Bitch, I’ll cut you!

Greg grabs a knife from the kitchen table.

Bugs (continued): I’ll k-u-t your cracker ass and dip my carrot in the bleeding, burping gash you fucking whore! I’m just that fucking crazy!

Yogi: He’s just loony enough to do it too.

Daffy: Aw you’ve gone and done it now thith-ter. He’s pithed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him thith pithed. I’d run if I were you. And not like that Slowpoke Rodriguez punk either…. Run like The Flash, you know from the comics. Hey, can I say “The Flash”? Oh yeah, Time Warner owns DC comics. I can talk about The Flash all I want, HOO! Ahem…yeah, run like him.

Woman #2: Aaah! Heeelp!

She scampers to the door but is stopped by a stomp to the middle of her back, throwing her once again to the floor.

Bugs: Bitch, you made me spill the mudda fuckin coke. I oughtta shoot your ass. Yeah that’s right, shoot your ass right in your poity little head. I know I’ve got an elephant gun around here somewhere. But foist…

Greg walks up to the front door locks it with a key he pulls from his pocket and swallows the key with a big gulp.

Bugs: Ack, remind me to tell my animators how awful those tings taste. Hey…do you hear sirens…?

Shortly thereafter the carrot-chunked shit hit the Acme fan. I’m honestly glad there was a peaceful resolution to this little incident. How on Earth would we have explained this kind of thing to the children of the world had it ended voilently? “Sorry honey, Bugs Bunny now sounds like a stuttering Asian because the guy who did the voice before he flipped out, shot 9 cops, impaled another 3 with some Acme steel-coated carrots and was shot dead in the back when he tried to escape on a pogo stick.”

Oh the humanity…

South Beach Sucks!

Ahh, South Beach in good ole’ Miami, Florida - home of the beautiful people, sexy models, and some of this nation’s finest nightlife. Surely, there would be no better place in the world for a stratospheric high-climbing Internet celeb like myself. In the past, I had often complained about having to hang with the plebeians. As CEO of the Ugly Webcam Girl Bitch Slapping Consulting Firm (I will pitch you on this further) with a bevy of new clients at the Internext Porn Convention in Miami, surely, South Beach would be a welcome escape.

As a charter member of The Order Of The Moderately Successful, I'm not officially a baller. However, I do hang around with ballers, and therefore am a Baller by Association, and I'm still hustled into the VIP rooms at the hottest clubs in South Beach.

Indeed, South Beach is populated by the most superficial people east of Hollywood. It’s also the hottest spot north of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell, so I can’t comprehend its appeal to the old Jewish ladies who inexplicably flock to this sweltering locale. Surely, they have not felt this kind of heat since 1941. With that in mind, remember these three rules when visiting South Beach:

1. What you drive up in, determines whom you will be driving home with.
2. How you dress determines who you’ll be undressing.
3. Always Armor-All your shirt.

I went down with Paul. No, not down ON Paul, down WITH him. Paul and I were already smacking the shammy across our shiny shirts, making a futile effort at the gym to work off that day’s bocadillos con chorizo, and gaining a deeper appreciation for hair care products in preparation for our big night out. Yes, this would be a glorious night of topnotch VIP treatment in South Beach – the place to see and be seen! South Beach, to its credit, is loaded with gaggles of hot snizz-o-la. Upstanding, poon-thirsty gentlemen like Paul and me are willing to endure many tribulations to get our drink on and make our nuts do the windmill, but what we thought would be a glorious all-expense-paid night out in the SBC turned into what I like to refer to as the Tenth Circle Of Hell for the following reasons:

1. NIGHT OF THE LIVING METROSEXUALS: For those of you not familiar with the term, a metrosexual is a guy who appears to be gay, but whose true homo tendencies still lay dormant. Think GQ Magazine. Think Calvin Klein ads. Not having consummated said tendencies makes them officially straight, but as a wizened cabbie quipped to us, “What’s the difference between a straight man in South Beach and a gay man in South Beach? About three drinks.” The markings of a metrosexual are shiny shirt, hair coifed/gelled to perfection, shaved chest, and a vanity so intense he probably does a few extra pushups just so he looks “extra buff” as he gets out of his mid-model BMW that he wishes was a Porsche. He will be at the club applying the Wearing Down Mack Approach to as many local women as possible to overcompensate for his latent gayness. WARNING: Recently, there have been scattered reports of metrosexuals traveling in packs and disguised in mesh hats – beware, they can be a cunning breed.
(On a side note, its little wonder that the Metrosexuals are drawn to places like these because these clubs are GAY AS HELL – white walls, chairs shaped like crescent moons, no Budweiser products, and never-ending techno. I’ll bet that if whoever designed these places had as many dicks poking out of him as he has had poking into him, he would look like a fucking PENIS PORCUPINE! I prefer a dark place where I can just vomit in the corner.)

2. VELVET ROPE PRISONS: Yeah, that’s right, step aside bitch – we are VIP muthafuckers! Or are we? See, once you get there, you still think that you aren’t there yet, because here is pretty lame. Seems to me, a typical night at one of these hot spots goes something like this:

Huddle outside in a sea of metrosexuals, until a security goon recognizes your VIPenis and lets you in ahead of the riff-raff.

You say, “Fuck these peons!” and stroll past the next velvet rope into the VIP Area, only to still be slammed elbows-to-asshole with EVEN MORE goddamned annoying metrosexuals.

You exit the VIP Room to find a less crowded area, jump back one Velvet Rope, and then reality hits you...

3. THESE DRINKS AIN’T GONNA BUY THEMSELVES, BITCH: Not with the V.I.Penises anymore? It’s time to pony up for some drinks, which, if you’re lucky, you might only have to mortgage one or two vital organs to purchase. Two shots of Jager and two Budweisers = 34 USD! Wait one second, did you say 34 FUCKING BUCKS?! Fuck this.

Sounds like it sucks, right? Not for these idiots! Somewhere in the world right now, a metrosexual is trying to claw his way past the Velvet Rope Prison. He will stand in line, night after night, hour after hour, and drop $50 just to mix with the other plebes! If he is ever “lucky enough” to make it to the VIP, he’ll have to pawn his sister’s uterus just to buy an apple martini for a piece of loose snatch dancing on the bar. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.
My problem with the metrosexual is a philosophical one: if you primp like a fag, preen like a fairy, and wear pornstar shades that would make Liberace spackle his sequined shorts with envy, how can you possibly consider yourself masculine - because you tag a lot of ass? A woman who fucks a metrosexual is doing so because she secretly wants someone to exchange hair care tips with, and she’s probably only three slippery nipples away from making out with her girlfriend. Again, I’m not hatin’ on that, but it hardly jibes with the caveman’s club-her-on-the-head-and-drag-her-to-your-lair theorem upon which masculinity is based. I’ve puked on women, belched in their faces, and defecated in their beds, and yet they all came back for more. On any given day, I’ve slapped three bitches in the mouth by noon, but if the metrosexuals had their way, we’d all be slapping ass in the Versace men’s dressing room.

You stinking metrosexual bastard, you.

Rick James...The Man

I'm sure that most of you are aware Rick James is dead.

Rick James had something in common with Hitler, Rasputin, or Ed Gein: every time there was a E True Hollywood Stories, Behind the Music, or anything else on TV - I was transfixed; glued to the screen for the duration. All of the shows on Mr. James are pretty much the same – five minutes covering his music career followed by fifty-five minutes of his decent into oblivion, but hey, great TV is great TV – you can't argue with that.

Just who was Rick James? To me, his was a fucking-up-man's fuck-up-man . . .a fuck-up's fuck-up, if you will. He wasn't a funk legend. You need to replace an “F” with a “P”.

Rick James was a punk legend.

He kidnapped a bitch, raped her, burned her repeatedly with a crack pipe, and while still out on bond pending the trial, he kidnapped a second hooker and did the same thing again! One hooker kidnapping crack pipe soufflé session I can understand. That could happen to anybody, but two?

Fuckin' aye man…that takes balls.

So, he's standing trial for both assaults and you would think that he would be worried about spending the rest of his life in prison or something, but what does he do? He falls asleep in court during the proceedings right in front of the judge because he was just now just coming down from last night's crack binge!

That is burley as fuck.

I don't give a fuck who think you are - nobody has their punk rock credentials in better order than Rick James. RJ is the paradigm of black celebrity. Sure others have followed: OJ, R. Kelly, and Michael Jackson. Obviously "The Man" does not want a Negro to have a delicious slice of Apple Pie, so they continue to make them fight this frame in America! Since when . . .since when, I implore you, was murder, molesting kids, peeing on fifteen year old girls, or toasting someone with a straight shooter a crime?

Well, I seem to have rather lost my point there. . .In such a late hour Rick James, obviously, enjoyed a second wave of popularity via Chappelle's Show. Who can forget the catch phrases that have since invaded the American vernacular?

I'm Rick James Bitch!

Truth be told, I've gotten more than my fair share of use out of these clever simple lines. For Chappelle's Show, Rick James took an already funny program and elevated it to what could be arguably the funniest 18 minutes of American TV humor of all time. By proxy he put Dave Chappelle on par with comedy heavyweights like Trey Parker, Matt Groening, and the Monty Python fellows. In that sense, Rick James has enriched all of our lives. Rick James died in his sleep on August 8th at the age of 56, which is not really that old. Considering the life he's led - he should be happy to have made it that far. I think Rick said it best himself…

Cocaine is a helluva' of a drug!

The Wearing-Down Mack Approach

Don’t hate a player, hate the game. Tired of roughing up the suspect in front of the computer? Then you’ve got to go out and score some chicks, right? It’s too bad you just can’t go up to them and ask for some pussy - that would be too easy! You’ve got to be more clever than that. Got game? Well you might not need as much of it after I suggest these Not-Quite-Ready-for-Maxim Chick Scoring Approaches. Let me come right out and say, as a rule, none of these approaches work. However, if you are not exactly a GQ guy – perhaps you lack a sense of humor, personality, or have other character flaws and few redeeming social values (just by virtue of reading this on my blog, this probably applies to 90% of you) - these may be the paths of least resistance in your quest for a piece of ass.

1. THE BRUTE FORCE MACK APPROACH: This is the method by which you attempt to strike up a conversation with every single slut within a quarter mile radius. Do not be afraid to bug them! This approach has a high failure rate, and you have to be willing to deal with rejection, or at least be willing to live with the fact that women will label you a pest. Like I said, statistically there is a 97% percent rejection rate on this one, but the remaining 3% is your target demographic on this one. It’s best to assume the role of a predator looking for the wounded: that girl on her first hit of X; the disgruntled ex-girlfriend that just drank a bottle of tequila because her boyfriend was found cheating with a SARS infested Korean “massage therapist”. During application of the BRUTE FORCE MACK, you must be willing to ignore any guys that might also be plying their trade on your intended victim.
See, Paul lives vomiting distance from what is the biggest music festival they have in Jersey each year. We didn’t like any of the bands that were playing, but we respected the fact that it would be a Full-On Pussyfest of the Highest Order. It would also be an excellent excuse to bite a chunk off that sheet of LSD I’d bought for “personal use”. We tried to work the Brute Force Mack Approach all day long – at times getting carried away, and propositioning a pregnant mother’s fetus and a baby carriage. Despite all of this, we experienced the usual 97% rejection rate. It was then that I invented the approach of choice for a new generation of mutha fuckin’ pimps:

2. THE INFORMAL SURVEY: After a lengthy discussion about the age of consent in New Jersey added to worries of possible probation violations, I created “The Informal Survey”. It involves walking up to a group of obviously young girls (somewhere around 16) and asking, “Excuse me, we are taking an informal survey, and we wanted to ask how old you ladies are…”
You would be amazed at the success rate of this approach. The young girls are flattered that you think they are older, and the older girls are flattered that you think they are younger. It’s win-win. Plus, it works better than just stating the obvious, like saying “we think you are sixteen, and we’d like to inquire about making your faces look like sperm stalactites”. Hell, it won’t be her first rodeo, but I digress…
We wound up drinking after the concert in Paul’s parking lot (say it ain’t so!) A group of, illegally parked, yet hot young chicks were about to get in the car with some dudes. We applied the BRUTE FORCE MACK. Sensing the presence of superior game, the potential suitors got pissed and left. Then we hit ‘deez bitches with THE INFORMAL SURVEY…

Their answer: “Twelve.”

This Informal Survey had hit paydirt.

Now, even though it is already public knowledge that the members of the INFORMAL SURVEY TEAM were tripping their balls off, it was obvious that these girls were over twelve. There was something different about these ladies… Come to find out, they were two hot, lost Swedish chicks, only in town until Wednesday, and they were visiting their aunt who lived an hour outside the city. We had walked out of the music festival and right into a sweet fuckin’ porno movie… Praise Allah! We persuaded them to set off with us to the bar for some drinks. Libations are not an approach in and of itself, but you should use them in conjunction with whatever technique to better your chances of success.
After a while at the bar, Paul and I moved in for the kill. We heard about a rather large sausage party after the bar shut down - not a good move. So we told the lucky girls that we were going to take them to a “special party” and not go to that lame party. The “special party’ would be just me, Paul, and the two Swedish babes at my palatial twenty-one bedroom mansion in the Highlands of New Jersey. It was time for the endgame…

3. THE WEARING-DOWN MACK APPROACH is probably your best choice if there is little physically or socially redeeming qualities about yourself. That night, Paul and I had a chance to put this method to the test. The one catch is: You will need a good bit of time to do it. The gist of it is: You must just hit on the same girl, over and over again – despite her rejections. Eventually, she will give in, and you will become victor by default. Remember: “NO” means “NO”, but “NO” + “NO” is a double negative, and therefore – means “YES”. It’s all simple math.
Now, I’m not sure where we went wrong on this combo. We had them in the hot tub, laughing at our jokes, and drinking Cristal. It seemed like easy meat; my guess is that one girl was cockblocking the other. Maybe they were both cockblocking each other. It couldn’t be just us. It was tough to tell what they were saying to each other when they would switch to Swedish and talk shit behind our back – right in front of us!
I am quite certain that somewhere, right now – there are two 21 year old Swedish chicks telling their friends about some American idiots that made over six thousand references to Swedish meatballs and Yngwie Malmsteen while prank calling infomercial numbers, getting drunk as hell, high, and loaded on acid. Somewhere around 8 AM, they started hinting that they needed a ride home. There was no way that we would be driving in this condition, especially since they were staying in the boonies, over an hour away. We told them they would have a better chance getting a ride back to Sweden, but maybe - after we slept – we could take them to their aunts. The WEARING-DOWN MACK approach must be big in Sweden, because these bitches didn’t fall for it. Had they laid down, it would have been their ass! They knew better than to fall for it, and left to wander the meanstreets of Newark around 10AM.
See, that’s fine. You ladies are somewhere out there – you think you got away, but the WEARING-DOWN MACK APPROACH has no boundaries. It is an extra-dimensional force that is not confined by the normal laws of gravity, time, and space. Even in your absence, the WEARING-DOWN MACK is at work via idle Swedish Meatball jokes and Yngwie Malmsteen references – you will feel the fury! There shall be no quarter! You will struggle with your adversary, only to be covered with dong malt in a mid-day thought-jerk in your honor. There is no point in resisting superior game when it’s at play. One day you will be eating the snotty end of my fuckstick – THERE IS NO HIDING FROM THE WEARING-DOWN MACK! We shall take you…

You Are Gay

Take this test, and see how you do...

1. If you are over 30 and you have a washboard stomach, you're gay. It means you haven't sucked back enough beer with the boys and rather you've been sucking-off the boys and have spent the rest of your free time doing sit-ups, aerobics, and doing the Oprah diet.

2. If you have a cat, you are a flaming Fag. A cat is like a dog, but Gay: it grooms itself constantly but never scratches itself, has a delicate touch except when it uses its nails, and whines to be fed. And just think about how you call a dog..."Killer, come here! I said get your ass over here!" Now think about how you call a cat..."Bun-bun, come to daddy, snacking!" Jessica, you're the poster boy for GAY.

3. If you suck on lollipops, Ring-Pops, baby-dummies, boiled lollies or any such nonsense, rest assured, you are Gay. A straight man only sucks stubbies, shots, bar-b-q ribs, crab-claws, raw oysters, cray-fish guts, pickled eggs, or titties. Anything else and you are in training to suck El-Dicko and undeniably a Fag.

4. If you refuse to have a shit in a public toilet or piss in a parking lot, you're in a deep homosexual relationship. A man's world is his toilet; he defecates and urinates where he pleases. A real man will shoot, shit, sleep where ever he likes

5. If you drink decaf coffee with skim milk, you like a high hard one in the poop-chute. Coffee has to be had strong, black (or with thick, wholesome milk) and full-aroma. A pussy-eating man will never be heard ordering a "Decaf Cafe Latte with Skim or with a twist of lemon" and he will never, ever know what artificial sweetener tastes like. If you've had NutraSweet in your mouth, you've had a dick in there too.

6. If you know more than six names of colours or four different types of dessert, you might as well be handing out a free pass to your ass. A real man doesn't have memory space in his brain to remember all of that crap as well as all the names of all the players in the NFL, NBA, NHL and Nascar.

7. If you can pick out chartreuse or you know what a "fresier" is, you're gay. And if you can name ANY type of textile other than denim, you are faggadocious!

8. If you drive with both hands on the wheel, forget it... you're hungry for man sausage. A man only puts both hands on the wheel to honk at slow-ass drivers or to cut the motherfucker off. The rest of the time he needs that hand to change the radio station, eat his hamburger, hold his beer, finger the bitch in the passenger seat (whoever she happens to be), or talk on his mobile phone.

9. If you enjoy romantic comedies or French films, mon-frere, vous sonnez le Gay, oui? The only time it is acceptable to watch one of those is with a woman who knows how to reward her man. Watching any of the above films by yourself or with another man is likely to result in SHC (spontaneous homosexual combustion), which is what happens to fags when they flame out too quickly. So follow the rules and beware. Or keep that shit to yourself, you dung punching ass bandit.

By the way, I'm only guilty of 4 offences, so I'm partially gay.