Friday, October 21, 2011
...but it's okay, because we have proof that it happened: BILL MURRAY & GZA.
EDIT: I need to see COFFEE & CIGARETTES. Apparently I'm way out of the loop; see below: (yes, RZA in the middle!)
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Thank Lord Satan! This is our Bye-Week! Oh my blessed luck!
So, get this business:
Last night while I was ‘Alley-Dancing’ by myself…
…I came across an open garage door housing two really cool Pygmy Children playing ‘DIE HARD‘ or something silly like that.
Of course I said ‘Hello’ and they immediately invited me inside.
(At least I think they invited me in; I’m not totally familiar with Pygmy welcoming ceremonies, but since one of Them slapped me and the other clamped His grip down on my genitals, that this must be my initiation ritual to join their Tribe.)
The garage door closed. I knew I was in for a surprise because they immediately blind-folded me. I don’t think they wanted me guessing where we were going either, due to the fact they crammed a Racquet Ball in my mouth and wrapped my face with Duct Tape.
The Two Pygmy’s must have sensed my Dancing Legs were tired, as each just took an arm and let my feet drag nice and limp-like across the concrete. I didn’t have to walk another foot!
Wherever we were headed smelled remarkably like Oxy Clean. (Weird huh?)
The next thing I know, I hear a butt-load of shouting in a foreign language and my blind-fold was yanked off (that kind of hurt my ear a little).
In front of me was a rusty cage made of Rebar Steel; containing two White-Collar Gentleman, crying in sorrow, whilst avoiding cattle-prod shocks and bare-knuckle boxing each other!
“Holy Potatoes!” I scream, muffled under the Gag-Ball resting half-way down my throat.
A Pygmy Child begins screaming at me. Another Pygmy cuts the Duct Tape loose from my face and I spit out the Racquet Ball, “Gross Guys, that ball had dirt on it.”
The Screaming-Pygmy continued on in an unintelligible manner.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, but if I don’t get a snack soon I’m going to have the belly-grumble’s, you hear?”
A familiar voice came from behind.
“They want you to fight to the death, Coach.”
What was Tarvaris Jackson, my shitty starting Quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks, doing HERE?
“TJ?! How did you get mixed up with this Pygmy Alley Death Tribe too?! I don’t think they’re very friendly!”
“Yes, they are too friendly, Coach. You just need to understand their Culture better. Watch...”
Suddenly, TJ takes his huge black penis (with the birthmark of Steve Largent being butt-fucked by Ken Stabler) out and three Pygmy’s stand right in front of him while he plays their hollow skulls like a drum-set with his battering-ram Dong.
“My goodness…” These Pygmy’s pray to his Seahawks-hating dick like it’s a God! TJ is using it like a musical instrument on their scalps for Goodness Sake!
The Pygmy’s see that their Weiner-King, Tarvaris Jackson, and I are ‘Tight’ (you know, because we both HATE SEATTLE, like, a lot, and both of us are in the grip's of Satan's sweet, juicy lure) and they let me free... After what I can only figure was the last phase of my initiation, that I will call in Our Native Tongue:
‘The Three Pistol-Whip’s’.
Maybe I can use this Pygmy Tribe to do the Devil’s bidding too? We will see. A problem has arisen that I may require their assistance with:
THE SECOND COMING OF JESUS.
Seattle's Great-White-Hope: Charlie-Fucking-Whitehurst.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
“No!” The plexiglass housing of the bright lit Drive-Thru Menu shakes. Spittle flies from Harrison Ford’s dry, aching mouth. “I said Pepsi for Christ’s sake! What do want me to do?!”
The stunned Drive-Thru Attendant is taken back, “I don’t know what you mean?…”
“I was in Blade Runner. Give me two taco’s.”
“Two taco’s and a Pepsi. Will that be it Mister?”
“Fuck you!” Ford mashes the pedal of his Mercedes. The large sedan elegantly turns at high speed, perfectly between each curb. The man can drive like hell.
The Drive-Thru Attendant reluctantly sticks his arm out the window.
“I will not high-five!” Ford fumbles with his bong.
“No, Mister, we go over this every time: I need money to give you the food.”
“Fair enough! Shut up!” Ford blasts a heavy bong-load
“And you can’t do drugs here. We had to put up the NO DRUGS sign because of you.”
Ford raises the bong up to his lips, “This is very little of your business… Two Taco’s, a Pepsi, and shut the fuck up!”
“I need money, Mister.”
“I need dinner, Faggot!”
“I can’t give you anymore free food. Last time you tricked me into trading Your autograph for the Fiesta Nacho Platter, but all you gave me was a cassette tape sleeve for the album Stain by the band Living Color.”
“Give it back to me! I love that album!” Ford drops the bong between his knees as he feverishly crawls through the elegant Mercedes driver’s-side window.
“Fine.” Conveniently, the Drive-Thru attendant had the album sleeve in his shirt pocket. “And here’s your Food. That’ll be five dollars and forty-nine cents.”
Ford carefully reaches for the Taco’s and Pepsi.
The Drive-Thru attendant freezes; his mind races: Is this transaction going to be completed by SOME SORT of Currency Exchange? Why is Harrison Ford just staring at Me??
Suddenly, Ford’s expression changes. A friendly twinkle in his eye suggests he understands that payment is required. “Do you take Amex?”
Relief. The Drive-Thru Attendant sighs and smiles, “Yes, by God, we do…”
Ford hands the Card through the Window.
“Wait…” The Drive-Thru Attendant’s lower lip quivers. His brain tries to register the situation at full value. The poor bastard doesn’t get it; He’s been had.
“That’s for being born, Cocksucker!”
Ford sends the Mercedes into the street, sideways, forcing a Transit Bus to come to a screeching halt
Harrison ford is always one step ahead, and doesn’t give a fuck.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
I was staring at two Asian Women clawing each other’s eyes out over a taxi, when suddenly I was approached by a large African American Gentleman named ‘Willy’ who asked if I wanted to have a good time… Of course I said YES!
Willy took me down the street and up a flight of stairs to a room with NAKED GIRLS!
I froze, and was like, “Say what?!” which I felt was the correct thing to say (there were black people in the room).
Some of these ladies had nipples the size of the drink coasters at The Outback.
The danger alarm went off in my head. My Rape Whistle was nowhere to be found. ”I want my wife! I want the police!” I shout. I wanted out and told those weirdo’s “I must go now! I have a game to Coach against the New York Giants that I will desperately try to lose today!”
Willy asked, “Wait a minute, you Pete Carroll?!”
Just as I was about to answer, a voice came from behind a dirty blanket hanging over a door-way: “That you coach?”
What was Tavaris Jackson, my shitty starting Quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks, doing HERE? “You are supposed to be watching film! Giants scored five touchdowns on us last year! That’s it TJ, you’re on the bench! ”
“Coach, I’m banging these dirty, big-nippled sluts to burn as much energy as possible before the game so I can forget plays, throw the ball inaccurately, and fuck up everything!”
“Sorry Kid!” I yelled, “You, Me, and Satan are all on the same page then baby!” (*does back-flip, slide-whistle sound*)
“My Goodness...” I saw it: Tavaris Jackson’s huge, black penis wears the birth-mark of none other than Steve Largent, Hall of Fame Seahawks Wide Receiver, being sodomized by former Oakland Raiders Quarterback, Ken Stabler!
Diary, I swear to you this! It was a sign from Lord Satan!
Much like a Headline: Tavaris Jackson was conceived by Demon Seed from the Devil himself to bring down the Seattle Seahawks, from within.
I nodded approvingly, “Keep it up you big-dicked Monster from Hell.”
I need all the help I can get.