Back and Better Than Ezra

Lotta people been axing alotta questions.

“Where y’all been?”

“Where y’all go?”

“Where the Bega Boys is?”

“What had happened to the bad boys of Bega-ville?”

“Y’all run out of things to talk about?”

“Y’all mad at each other?”

“Y’all got y’alls panties all wadded up inside your buttholes’ crack??

“Y’all dead or some shit?”

“Y’all been ‘napped by ISIS and your heads rollin’ ’round the desert like so many tumbleweeds?”

“Y’all fall off?”

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit. Only thing we fell off was ya mama this morning after we finished deep-dickin’ her down through the peeholes in our boxers and then cumming in her wig. So why don’t you chill on the inquisition, fuccboi? Why don’t you have a seat on your new daddies’ knees and we’ll explain. Here’s what we’ve been up to the last few months (not in chronological order):

1. Singapore. Damn son. Southeast Asia was bomb. Got our table tennis on. Ain’t nothing like ping-pong night in the ‘pore fam.

2. The homie Jay 5-trillion had a baby so we went and played with that lil muhfucker for like 6 hours. Little fat ass cheeks suckin’ on a ba-ba. Hit dabs with Trillville and the baby and then bounced.

3. I watched American Sniper like 12 times.

4. Bought a Dairy Queen. Everybody knows that dairy is our favorite of the food groups. Milks, cheeses, and creams, baby. Honestly, dairy is like my calling in life. And who serves up the dairy better then DQ? Ain’t nobody. So finally owning my own Dairy Queen franchise is like my way to give back the community – to finally BE somebody. And I tell you this because I trust you, but a couple months back I was in a really dark place. I’m not proud of the person I was back then. I was munchin’ butts in an alley to raise funds to buy some ricotta. Now I’m back on my feet, slinging out Blizzards like I’m Halle Berry from the X-Mens.

5. Went to Alaska to see the aurora borealis. Shit was mad gay. Too many colors and a polar bear tried to suck my dick.

6. Felt some fly ass titties. Damn son. This chick Martha that works with my moms. Dope as fuck. Had both my hands on them shits and was like “Um hello, Mr. Areolas, welcome back to the Ritz-Carlton” and shit. Love titties, dogg. Love em.

7. Played “Duck, Duck, Goose!” with two ducks and a goose. Shit was mad literal.

8. SPACE MOUNTAIN, BIIIIIIIIIIITCH! Hell yeah.

9. Dog-sat for my neighbor, Sharon. She went out of town for work a couple months ago and needed someone to watch the dog and I was like “Hey Sharon, I’d be happy to watch Nutters for a couple of days,” and she was like “Are you kidding?! That would be great! Here’s his food, his bowl, his picture of Teddy Roosevelt, his toys, and a couple dookie bags for when he goes deuce all over the place,” and I was like “hell yeah, one step closer to eating this bitch out and maybe touchin’ on them titties…Damn son…love me some titties.” It’s been six months now since she’s been gone. Sharon, if you’re reading this, we hope your okay. Me and Nutters are fine. Also, if your not dead or anything I would like to put in a formal request to munch on them buffalo gums.

10. Protested the Ferguson verdict. Shit was fucked up. Now I’m out here doing the vigilante justice thing. If your walking around Fergie at night and you see a super swift shadow swoop by, I’m on the rooftop givin’ wedgies to any one in a government vehicle- hollatchaboi.

11. Made about a gazillion pee-pees.

12. Cut a guy’s throat and made it look like a suicide.

13. Homemade cole slaw had my stomach fucked up for like a week.

14. Went to Joshua Tree with Tom Sizemore. Did ayahuasca and vom’ed my dicks off. Then we watched Thin Red Line on my Kindle.

15. Packed my urethra Franklin with so much glitter, so that when I would cum it would look all crazy and be like a little celebration.

16. Saw Book of Mormon. Twice. Hated it. Not as good as American Sniper. God, I wanna fuck Brad Cooper bad. I mean I get headaches thinkin’ about it. Bradley “BC Powder” Coops got my head thumpin’. Ba-Ba-Ba-Bump.

17. Rizzoli and Isles marathon.

18. Went sailing with my buddy Tommy Scandinavia. He called me his “first mate.” It was fun. One night we drank some rum and woke up with our ass cheeks glued shut with marshmallow fluff.

19. Rizzoli and Isles marathon, part deaux. (It’s really good)

20. Got REALLY in to Chevy Truck Month.

21. Gave my step-mom the silent treatment until she admitted that she didn’t know what edamame was.

22. Surprised Grady and his wife on their honeymoon. Ate mad swordfish and fucked Grady’s wife, Jillian, on the beach under a waxing moon while he was passed out because he has 12 years sober and I slipped some rum into his virgin Mai-Tai because he’s a pussy.

23. Watched The Danish Girl Ultimate Edition on Amazon Prime. Not as good as American Sniper. God, Brad. I’m wanna tear you in half.

24. Got Pokemon Go and wandered into the ocean looking for water ‘mons. Woke up on a beach and smoked some weed with some pretty stinky Rastafarians then Uber’d back to the mainland with a guy named Chip who was deaf, but friendly. His wife died 6 years before and he was just making it work. We still e-mail. Didn’t catch ’em all, but I did catch a new friend.

 

 

Backyard Wrestling. My House.

This message goes out to all you punk-ass peckerwoods that think y’all bad: Lenny, Big Bob, Clarence, Floyd, Clyde, Cliff, Logan, Vince, P.J., Regular Donny, Donny Half-Dick, Peanut Head, Roast Beef Sammy, Bull Moose, and most of all, that big baby-bitch Earl. Earl, I’m calling you out. I’m gonna go Mary Ann and Wanda all over your ass.

This Saturday. Backyard Wrestling. My house.

I’ve got a couple sheets of plywood and I’m gonna drag my mattress and my lil sister’s mattress and my mee-mee’s mattress out in the yard and I’m gonna take all the cushions off the sofa and we’re gonna rumble like fuck. Then I’m gonna do a frog-splash off the roof of the trailer right onto Floyd’s stupid brown dick. You heard me Floyd, you snaggle-toothed dildo. I’m gonna tear that fat ass open so wide, it’s going to be a veritable Butthole Bonanza.

The only rule is: no fucking holds barred. I’m gonna have cookie sheets and curtain rods hid throughout the backyard to be used as you see fit. I plan on using the cookie sheets to beat Cliff’s fat klepto ass into submission and get him to finally admit that he still has my copy of 007 Goldeneye for N64. And my Shark Pack.

Also, another rule is you gotta come in costume and stay in character. For instance, my wrestling alter ego is named “The Arabian Knight.” I’m going to ride in on a blood thirsty camel, who’s going to be chomping at the bit to tear Logan’s throat right the fuck out of his neck. There’s gonna be more blood gushing out of Logan’s throat than when Floyd’s Ma is on her period. And we all know she’s got more flow than LL Cool J. Anyway, after my camel assaults the Logster, I’m going to do one of those Islamic ear piercing screams. Then I’m going to lay down my prayer rug, pray towards Mecca, recite the Fatihah, snack on some Halal lamb, some dried figs, maybe a little goat cheese and stuffed grape leaves, get upset about somebody drawing a cartoon of the prophet Mohammed, then I’m going to do a backflip and wage a fucking jihad down on everybody’s stink-taints. After I clobber the ever loving shit out of each and every one of your dicks, I’m going to explain to all you racist fuckers how not all Muslims are terrorists and how Islam is really a religion of peace.

Another rule is NO COMING AS LORD OF THE RINGS or STAR WARS CHARACTERS. I’m specifically talking to you Clarence, you fucking nerd-rope. This is fucking backyard wrestling not some pussy-ass Dragon Con LARPing freak show. We’re going to be hitting each other with fucking baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire. We’re going to be setting cinder blocks on fire and smashing them on each other’s face. It’s going to be raw as fuck and every time Clarence tries to cast a spell on one of us or use his Jedi mind tricks it makes us all look unprofessional. Clarence, swear to Allah, one fucking spell or incantation and you will be asked to leave. I’m not even joking right now.

Also, my cousin Daryl’s band “Hatchet Gash” is gonna come rock our asses inside out while we pummel each other like fucking brutes. They are an ICP cover band but they also have some tight-ass originals based off the plot of the 1987 Newbery Award winning novel Hatchet by Gary Paulsen. They’re really trying to stick with the Hatchet motif which is raw as shit.

Occasionally, since Daryl’s wife ran off with Fat Sam the owner of the Dairy Queen, the “Gash” will cover Band of Horses’ “No One’s Gonna Love You More Than I Do” and shit gets real depressing. Daryl will scream “FUCK YOU, SHARON!” and start crying and shooting up heroin on stage. It’s pretty fucking dope.

While we choke the fuck out of each other with garden hoses and shit and Daryl and the boys are rockin’ tits, Mom will be inside making some deviled eggs and Peanut Billies & J’s. All I have to drink at the house is Citrus Cooler Gatorade and Dr. Thunder, so if your picky little pencil scrotum wants something else, pick it up at the QuikShop before you show up. And guys…don’t be a fucking jizz-toilet. When you’re done, wash you’re dishes off and put them in the sink. My mom is not you’re fucking maid, Lenny, you cleft-lipped faggot!

Spice Up Your Life

There comes a time in every man’s life when he must look deep within himself and ask that one question that burns in the consciousness like a lone firefly on a moonless night: which Spice Girl am I?

One must commit themselves to sometimes painful soul searching in order to define their essence in a single word. The road to Spice World is a grueling existential quest filled with trials and trepidation. Rumor has it, the Spice Girls had the same Guru-Shaman that Jim Morrison had and they spent 2 weeks in a sweat lodge eating mushrooms, smoking peyote, and having lesbian box-slurping contests before the spirit of Gaea revealed their Spice names to them. And I believe it too. Or at least I hope because it facilitates mad beat-off sessions during my lunch break in my 4-door Hyundai Elantra.

I’ll be honest, I’m not athletic enough to be Sporty Spice. I mean, sure I can run the 100 meter in 15 flat and I’ve got some killer calf muscles. Honest. You should feel my calves. They’re firm. They’re smooth. Well-toned. Tan. Everybody is always telling me how great my calves are. Seriously, if I went to India all those Hindu folks would consider these calves sacred, symbolic of abundance, of the sanctity of all life. They’d worship these calves like the Almighty God-hating pagans that they are.  But I just don’t know if I could cut it as Sporty Spice. Plus I’ve got wicked Tennis Elbow.

And I don’t want to sound racist or whatever but I’m not black enough to be Scary Spice. Dogs don’t bark when they see me. People don’t lock their car doors when I walk by. Clerks don’t follow me around their stores waiting for me to shoplift. Cops don’t assume I’m carrying a gun. I don’t sag my pants. I didn’t drop out of high school to join a gang. I’m not on welfare. I’ve only smoked crack twice and I doubt that I’ll make a habit of it. And I don’t talk in ebonics (unless I’m at a Sound Tribe Sector 9 concert with my white friends). I’m not being racist, I’m just saying I couldn’t pull it off.

During my internal quest I’ve realized, I cannot define myself in the terms of someone else’s Spice essence. I am an individual. My soul is like a beautiful one-of-a-kind, unique, distinct drop of crystalline energy amidst the vast torrent that is Spice World. I must be my own Spice Girl. But what? Who am I? What is my essence? Here are a few ideas that Gaea has facilitated during my meditations:

Yeasty Spice: It’s no secret that I got more yeast brewin’ between my legs than a pack of Sister Schubert’s. Yeah, there’s some inflammation and discomfort, get over it. My mom says it’s because I wear my wet swim suit around all the time. But I’m like “GOD SHUTUP MOM! You’re not a doctor. You’re not even a nurse. Just because you work at CVS Pharmacy doesn’t make you a medical expert! I like wearing my swim suit OKAY? Mind you’re own fucking business. I’m not your slave or whatever.” Fucking bitch. But yeah, I got more loaves in my undercarriage than a Wonderbread factory.

Sleepy Spice: Y’all, cuz I like nappin’! Simple as that. Second to the ole get in, get wet, and get out, there’s nothing better than curlin’ up in my Dennis Eckersly comforter and catchin’ some serious Z’s. Anytime I get the opportunity, I’ma get some shut-eye. I sleep on planes. I sleep in trains. I sleep in automobiles in the drive-thru while waiting on my chicken fries from Burger King. The saying goes: sleeping with your cousin is death, but if it involves gettin’ 40 or more winks, then hell, I’ll sleep with whoever has the best pillows, relation or not.

Corduroy Spice: Corduroy pants are sort of my thing. They’re the Thinking Man’s pants like blue jeans shorts are for Florida Gator fans. And there’s nothing I like doing more than curling up and reading some Satre in my wool sweater (with leather elbow pads), my birkenstocks with socks (birk’n’socks), and a cozy pair of corduroys- right before I take a nap. My friends hear that rhythmic swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of the cords rubbing betwixt my thunder thighs and know I’m coming from a mile-and-a-half away. It’s like whenever I wear my corduroys I feel like I’m invincible. Even when people tell me something is kimpossible, if I’m wearing my cords, I’m ronstoppable.

Foreskin Spice: My fleshy turtle neck is an integral part of who I am. As you may know, I am a regular contender in the county fair’s Mr. Foreskin contest. You should see the look on the judges faces when they get a load of my oiled-up, snuffleupagus dong resting peacefully on a silver platter, garnished by a leaf of parsley. It’s a seriously borderline life altering experience. I knew that I was gifted when old Aunt Francine used to change my diapers. Her eyes would get real wide as she took a drag of her cigarette and said “Foreskin? more like fiveskin!” I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. It was actually last Tuesday. She’s gone now, but she’ll always have a spot in my little cock slug.

Dairy Queen Spice: If you’ve ever had a Hot Fudge Sundae (and I don’t mean the one you get from the cute Afro-American guy at the end of the bar, Susie! LOL! You’re such a slut!) then this one pretty much explains itself. I like Dairy Queen sundaes so much that whenever I go to the pussy doctor for a pap-pap,  I specially request the Hot Fudge Smudge. I put my feet in the stirrups and he just mashes it all in there. Mmmmm! Mmmm! And my Harold sure doesn’t complain one bit. Every time I come home after getting “the Smudge” all he really really really wants is to zigga zig ah.