MATT MILLEN SHOULD BE KICKED SQUARE IN THE TAINT (Or: Why the Detroit Lions will not be in the playoffs again this year)

Well no wonder Joey-Jo-Jo was a terrible QB in the NFL.  He was only four feet tall!  Leave it to Millen to draft a fucking midget for a quarterback!  I think I see why ole’ Matty boy likes to see Kitna lying on his back too.  This picture was taken just prior to Millen lifting his diminutive signal caller and giving him a mad passionate tongue kiss!  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but for Christ sake keep it off the football field! Yes sir just before the kiss and just after the wet willy.kinky sons-o-bitches!  It’s truly a wonder that between Joey the Oompa Loompa as their field general and Millen the kink master slipping his moistened booger digging finger into every orifice he can find that the Lions have won any games at all, sheesh!

Sixty-three, sixty fucking three, this is the number that represents the reason why the Lions should not have drafted Calvin Johnson (the best wide receiver since the invention of the position.I hear) with the second pick in last weekends NFL draft.  Sixty-three is the reason they should have taken Joe Thomas, the highly regarded offensive lineman from the University of Wisconsin.  Don’t get me wrong I do believe Johnson will be an all-world wide receiver in this league for many years to come, but sixty-three is the number of times Jon Kitna , Detroit ‘s quarterback, found himself on his ass before launching the ole’ pigskin into the wild blue yonder last season.  That’s about four times a game and fourteen more than the next closest QB.  How many blitzing linebackers, speedy defensive ends or bull rushing tackles is Johnson going to block in pass protection?  I believe the answer to that will be zero.

Johnson will be exciting to watch but he’s not going to be Detroit ‘s savior unless they improve in other areas first.  I believe Thomas would have been the better choice for winning now and last year’s stats support my rant.  Unless there’s some reason Matt Millen likes to see Kitna on his back?  Huh!?

The Lions already had an effective receiving core and no I haven’t been drinking while writing again.  Just listen to this smart ass.  Mike Furrey had a NFC leading 98 catches and Roy Williams had another 82.  For those of you who are math retards, that would be 180 catches from the Lions starting wide receivers.  How would you think these other top receiving combinations in the NFL might compare with that?  Torry Holt/Issac Bruce of the St. Louis Rams , Marvin Harrison/Reggie Wayne of the world champion Indianapolis Colts , Larry Fitzgerald/Anquan Boldin from the Arizona Cardinals and TJ Houshmanzadeh/Chad Johnson of the Cincinnati Bengal’s.

It may surprise some of you to learn that besides Harrison/Wayne, who had 181 receptions, the Lions pair had more catches than any other starting duo in the entire NFL.  Plus they signed an interesting free agent prospect this off season, Shaun McDonald, who has spent the last four years in St. Louis and should already be familiar with Mike Martz’s offense.

Just for my sanity I would like to compare Marc Bulger’s (Martz’s QB on his previous team, St. Louis ) to Jon Kitna ‘s (Martz’s QB on his current team, Detroit ) final stats from the 2006 season.  Bulger completed 370 passes for a 62.9% completion rate, had 24 TD passes, 8 interceptions and a QB rating of 92.9.  While his two starting wide outs caught just 167 of his throws.  Meanwhile Kitna completed 372 passes (more than anybody else in the league, buy the way) at a rate of 62.4% with 21 TD’s against 22 interceptions for a QB rating of 79.9.

Actual photo of Joey Harrington without his orange skinned concealing make up.  Here he’s looking back in disappointment because Matt Millen has once again failed to give a courtesy reach around, poor Joey!

The most obvious difference is the interceptions.  How do you suppose everything else can be so similar and that one thing (one of the most important things) can be so different?  Is Bulger that much better than Kitna?  Maybe.  I personally think it’s because the Rams O-line gives their quarterback that much more time to throw.  Bulger was sacked 14 times fewer or about one per game less than Kitna was.  Imagine if Kitna had completed 62% of those 14 that would be 8-9 more completions.  Then let’s say 12 of those interceptions were because the QB had to hurry his throw.  I know I know there are a lot of what ifs.

The bottom line is all my football life the simple fact that a football game is won and lost along the line of scrimmage has been one of my core beliefs.  I don’t care if Kitna completes 400 passes and the trio of Williams, Furrey and Johnson catch 220 of those with 25 TD’s.  If the Lions give up another sixty sacks they will throw 20+ int.’s and will not be any better than a five win team.  Mark my words, because I hope I’m wrong.

My final conclusion is that Millen and Rod Marinelli (the Lions coach) know all of this and are expecting to lose again this year in the hopes of building toward the future, which has been Millen’s mantra since he was hired.  That’s OK Matt take your time.  I must add that I believe an elite offensive lineman would have made the Lions successful this year.  How about a Super Bowl before I die guys?

Now I have to get my steel toed boots on.  Someone’s taint is about to get a beat down!

My Eyes! For Love of the Yeti, My Eyes! (Or I’m never going to buy that now, I mean ever)

In the middle of February, I really have very little to live for.  Football season is over, spring is still a good six weeks away (give or take a couple of weeks), and the new football season doesn’t start for another six months.  So every year about this time, it’s always a joy when the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue arrives in my mail box.

Let’s just say it helps to keep me warm for the remainder of winter.  Hell, I was about to jump off a step stool with a noose around my neck before I saw it sitting on the kitchen table.  I began to drool with frenzied anticipation and then shit on the floor to mark my territory (man was Mrs. Old School upset about that).  I grabbed the booty from its resting place and sprinted (OK it was more like a power walk) to the Man Cave (the only place at Old School central where I can do anything I want) to search through its pages as thoroughly as a dog might tongue clean its dirty asshole.

Wow!  Bouncy Beyonce on the cover, hawt!  Oooo, it says that inside she’s “as you’ve never seen her before.”  I’ve never seen her with her legs draped over my shoulders. Perhaps that’s what’s inside?  Although probably not.  Oh man, “The Best Rookies Ever”, that must mean new broads that are mostly naked for me to stare at while I finger cuddle mien frankenfurter!

See?  I told you…HAWT!

So it begins.

Page 6:  One of my favorite veterans, Marisa Miller, with nothing on but an iPod.  Nice.  Page 9:  A sultry little vixen named Bar Refaeli, no doubt one of the talented rookies, wearing a guitar-pick-bikini no less (yummy).  It says here that she’s the first Israeli-born swimsuit model.  So the fuck what?!  I don’t care if she was born with pointy ears, green skin, and three long-nailed digits at the end of each appendage; she’s a sweet piece of ass!

Finding pictures of Marisa Miller is as easy as reaching down and scratching my huge nut sack.  But I couldn’t find shit for Bar Refaeli, she really is new.  I guess you little pervs will just have to settle for Ana Beatriz-Barros.  Buck up wittle fewas!

As you might expect, this goes on for quite a while.  I truly enjoy viewing the womanly form.  If there is a god, it’s one of the few things he didn’t fuck up.  As I’m flipping through page after page of goddess-like penis-tantalizers, I get to page 44.  Fucking page 44!  It’s an advertisement for Direct TV.  Those mother fuckers should be shot right between the eyes!  Every damn one of them!  On page 44 and 45 is a picture of (gag.dick shriveling).a picture of.fucking Burt (gag, gag).Reynolds.naked (gag, throw up, cough.rip eyes out with rusty pliers.convulse on floor for hours.die)!  Alright I didn’t die, but the rest of it really happened.  Plus, I really wanted to die.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not homophobic (I fear not the gays).  If you’re a dude and you get off on the hairy, lumpy body of the Bandit in his formal birthed duds, more power to you.  I’m thrilled for you.  It’s just that it causes the above reaction in yours truly.  You don’t have to like it; just accept it.  Whoever at Sports Illustrated thought it’d be funny to put this ad into the annual swimsuit issue either doesn’t have a penis or likes to have one stuffed into their man-lusting turd-pincher.  Whatever the case, it’s just wrong in so many ways.

Holy shit!  I think I just uncovered the missing love child of D.B. Cooper and a female Yeti!

I’m going to go kill a Yeti now, just because I can!

 

MORE PROBLEMS SOLVED! (PLEASE, NO APPLAUSE, JUST SEND MONEY)

I’d like to propose a law that would allow parents of unruly brats some type of relief.  What I’m suggesting is a new form of “birth control”.  Its name would be Post Vagina Delivery Abortion Procedure (P.V.D.A.P.s).  It would let you abort a “fetus” up to and including on its 18 th birthday (the word fetus will have to be expanded to encompass up to 17 years old, but that’s a minor detail).  Can you imagine all the problems this little procedure would solve?

There wouldn’t be any more overpopulation.  No waiting for the bathroom in the morning (that’s if your fetus is penis-less…no, not like TomCoe…his is just an inny).  Nobody would have to go into debt to send their life-sucking offspring to higher educational institutions.  You could enjoy the sweet bundle of hemorrhoids without the most expensive part, paying for college.  Makes you think they’d try a little harder for that scholarship, doesn’t’ it?

Best of all, if you wanted to go out on a Saturday night and paarrr-taaaay and can’t find or afford a babysitter, just poke the little ball of snot with a coat hanger until it no longer squirms.  Then slip on those dancing shoes for some serious boogieing down!  That’s only a few items from the top of my mind.  Just wait ‘til I get my grey matter a-cranking!  The possibilities are boundless!

You don’t have to let your darling little failed attempt at pulling out get in the way of getting down with your homosexual friends.  Not anymore!

It would also prevent fine upstanding citizens from being turned into criminals.  Take for example the poor misunderstood couple of Tim and Lisa Holland, from Williamston , MI.  This loving couple is being unfairly prosecuted for the “murder” of their seven year old son, Ricky.  Once my proposal becomes a law I’ll make sure it gets grandfathered in for all the people out there that are serving time for having done nothing more than performing the ever so sensible Post Vagina Delivery Abortion Procedure.  But unfortunately nothing will ever erase the shame they are suffering by being called murders, liars and child abusers.  Come on people!  Name calling is not the answer!

Let’s take a look at what type of grief this bothersome rug rat was putting the frazzled young naughty part rubbers through.  They were expected to provide sustenance, so he wouldn’t perish from malnutrition.  I certainly agree that we can’t have unaborted feti passing out from hunger all over the place, because then they’d be getting in my way.  They also had to purchase clothing, shoes and possibly corrective lenses.  How were these two nutty nipple nibblers supposed to have any “them” time with these kinds of demands being put on them?  Kids are such attention whores!

If they would have had the option of performing a P.V.D.A.P. when Ricky was only one or two years old then people wouldn’t have become so attached to…….I’m sorry what?  HE WAS ADOPTED!!   Shit they wouldn’t have qualified for a Post Vagina Delivery Abortion Procedure anyway.  It only applies if the fetus traveled through the woman of the couples vag’ (you assholes who’ve had a cesarean are shit out of luck again…HA…that’ll teach you to not have your vaginers all stretched to hell when spitting out youngin’s).

Well then…..never mind.  I say we fry the demented motherfuckers!

*This was a poorly veiled attempt to show why Michigan needs the death penalty.  Let’s face it folks, some people just deserve to die…after many days of being subjected to torture, of course.  I’m first in line to take the job.  As long as the benefits are good…these damn kids are killing me.

If these two don’t suffer a horribly painful death in the very near future, then I’m demanding an impeachment of God!  For failure of smiting those who are smite worthy!

 

BOOBOO BEAR EXACTS REVENGE ON YOGI

Jellystone National Park:   In a surprise move by the usually submissive sidekick, BooBoo Bear shocks his long time companion Yogi Bear by injecting his little bear dick into Yogi’s temporarily exposed shit spitter.  The large bear, still visibly shaken, proclaimed he was unimpressed with the experience.  "I’ve been taken forcibly by the best, and that little asshole is far from the best!", shouted the molested bruin.

"This is not an actual photo of the incident.  It is a reenactment of the alleged sphincter attack as portrayed by HAB (the big one) and Brian (the not so big one) in bear suits.  None of us knew that we’d have to spray them with the hose to separate them.  Fucking perverts!"

The incident happened as the pair were sneaking up on a "pic-i-nic" basket that was ripe for the pickings.  As they grew closer to the unsuspecting food transporter Yogi bent over to get a better look at their intended misbegotten booty.  This is when the diminutive BooBoo mounted his long time buddy from behind.  Ranger Smith witnessed the entire attack.  "Boo attacked Yogi like he was a fresh pile of garbage down at the dump.", stated the confused Forrester.  He added,"It’s a good thing for Yogi that the little fella shot his wad so fast.  The way he was going at it I was afraid for Yogi’s sloppy sphincter.".  Estimates of time by witnesses, from the mounting to the final thrust, ranged from thirteen to sixteen seconds.

The pair remain friends and no charges have been filed

 

THE LEGEND OF DOGGERINE (BULLDOG DOESN’T HAVE A CLUE!)

Doggerine is the most mysterious hero on the Lazy GRABBERS (Gathering of Ridiculous Asshole Bitching Bastards Enjoying Retarded Situations…for those living under a rock) squad.  One thing that’s certain is that he gets a blazzin’ red rocket just looking at the curves of a Coke bottle.  If the bottle’s sweating he ejects his baby DNA faster than a zit on a boxers face during a fight!  He was once caught fist wrestling with his swollen naughty little p-pod (it’s all the rage with the kids) while caressing a rope with knots in it.  If that’s not mysterious I’ll slobber on your passage leading from the uterus to the vulva!

He’s also been known to stalk attractive female doctors that he went to high school with (now that’s gotta be pretty slim pickens).  Expecting…NO!  Demanding complete physicals, prostate exams and dead gerbil removals from her.  All the while performing his own prostate exams on himself, with his grotesquely deformed nubby little nose diggers, which are common to all human/bulldog/wolverine mutant freaks (oops, he’s the only one).  His main complaint being that the female doctor, high school chum, wet dream icon (lets call her "Bristy") has tinny thin little fingers that are not "girthy" enough to check his entire prostate thoroughly.  He often will thrust more than one stubby digit into his dank crevice so he may "cover more area".  One never knows where or when those pesky polyps might show up.

He also has a strange aversion to automobiles.  Well not riding in them or anything (he’ll sponge a ride in a second), or borrow your wheels like it’s nothing, but there’s something about the purchasing of one that seems to cause him great concern.  With his seven figure income he could easily afford one, but his avarice nature shan’t allow such an extravagance as affordable freedom bringing transportation.  In line with his natural instincts he’d rather "hoof" it to work.

It does however make it hard to treat a hot chicky-poo to a night out without a slammin’ hoopty.  Therefore he’s taken to hiding in bushes and sniffing the alluring scent of any women that happens to walk by.  Every so often he forgets what he’s doing and emmits a mucus rearranging snort.  Loud enough to be heard for blocks.  He then skitters away from the screams of disgust and horror that fill the air, as they get a clear look at his animal like features (really he resembles a bulldog in front, a wolverine in the rear and a human…well…um…I’m sure somewhere).  Sure, it may be a lonely life, but thank the gods he has his i-pod to keep him company.  He’s named his, "The Little Magic Box of  My Favorite Music What I Likes A Lot".  How about we just stick with i-pod?

Following are a few pictures from his burrow of lonesomeness (photos taken by Bat-Guapo, while wearing only his underwear):

(young_dog) 

This photo was taken just after Doggerine learned he was a cross breed mutant freak, with nubby little fingers that could never be classified as being normal under any circumstances.  He is gritting his teeth in an attempt not to burst into the song "Tomorrow" from the hit musical, "Annie".  That song has always given Doggie an extra burst of inspiration.  He has never gotten over the fact that he didn’t win the lead in his elementary schools presentation.  He believes his rendition of the title character was way better than that filthy slut, Suzy Gofuckyourself’s.  That’s right folks, to Doggerine, denial…is just a river in Egypt !

Here is a picture of Doggerine and his bestest buddy in the GRABBERS, Spidery-Fella.  They are riding on the subway in an unknown city (most likely Chi town), which is bad news for them, because both are indisputable pussies and are about to get their asses severely beaten by the two people wearing clown make up and the guy dressed as a can of Spam, behind them.  The fact that they are showing no fear in striking their poses in front of the Inane Clown Pussies plus Spamalope, is pure testimony (heh, heh…testi) to their slow witted ways and the lack of attention being paid.  Poor ignorant assholes.  If not for these two the collective I.Q. of the CP Nation would rise to the level of Corky, from the television show Life Goes On.

Doggerine checks his finances again, trying to figure out exactly why, on his seven figure salary, he can’t afford a car.  When it suddenly jumps up and bites his ass!  He only makes thousands of dollars a year, not millions.  Shit, nobody ever told him when you say seven figures, you don’t count the figures behind the decimal point!  Fuck…he doesn’t make $2,500,000 at all, it’s $25,000.00!  It’s a small wonder he can’t afford a vehicle on such a meager wage, he can’t even bring his own beer to a Couch Party par-tay, he has to mooch out of Uncky D’s cooler of Bud Light (it’s a good thing U.D. doesn’t mind).  This realization has totally bummed him out!  He makes a note to remind himself that he should probably call first thing in the morning and put a stop payment on that check for the gold plated, jewel incrusted, vibrating vagina attached i-pod he special ordered.  And now the finger lengthening surgery needs to be cancelled also.  While he is in his monetary induced funk, he doesn’t even notice one of his many enemies, sneaking up behind him!  It’s the dreaded Katlico, shedder of long hairs that are many different colors ( DOOM, DOOM, DOOOOOOM! …please imagine forbidding music here…thank you)!

After figuring out how retarded he is, Doggerine immediately e-mails his greatest super acquaintance SUPERBGUY!   Because Bulldog knows that Hab-El has fallen into the same diabolical trap as well!  I mean come on, there’s no way Jason is making millions of dollars in his current position as assistant manager at Large Canines.  He’s going to have to cancel his subscription to Anally Yours, a healthy periodical for men by men.  And also take back the Superb Asscrack mobile he’s been motoring about in of late.  "This is terrible", mutters Luggedon (one of Doggerines many alias’).  If he doesn’t have the Asscrack mobile, "That’s one less person I can sponge a ride from.", the stupid freak whines as if he still has not dislodged the Mr Micropone from his ass (but that’s a story for another time).  All the while Katlico is still hidden under the desk, preparing to unleash nasty clothes attaching hairs upon society (come on…you know… the fucking music you numb nuts… DOOM, DOOM, DOOOOOOM! …thanks again)!

When from out of nowhere (actually it was from under the table, remember?) Katlico pounces into action and Doggerine responds with a furious counter attack, of wetting himself, that would most likely have chased away a lesser animal!  Doggerine screams in an angry growl,"You’ve ruined your last crumb cake, tabby!" (yeah I don’t know what he means either).  The small animal then rubs herself all over Doggie’s lower legs, performing the hypnotizing "figure eight" technique.  The last time these two tangled, Katlico defeat Doggerine with this maneuver, leaving white, grey and black cat hair all over his cankles.  This time he’s prepared, he reaches into the back of his underwear and reveals a slightly moistened pellet of Pounch,  he feeds it to his advisory and "spanks" her little bottom into the other room.  Closing the door quickly behind her!  Yet another victory for this sad and lonely little creature!  Bravo freak, bravo!

In this photo we see Luggedon (pronounced Lugged on) perfecting his stripper dance moves by placing his mask over the front of a lamp and gyrating in a motion that can best be described as disturbing (to say the least).  He finds that when it’s in "sleep" mode the lamp doesn’t even know what’s happening to it, uhm…it’s a lamp you moron.  He was taught this practice, of dancing for unplugged appliances, when he was in the far west…of Michigan …at Grand Valley State .  Lets face it, he didn’t have a life then either!  His teacher of this exotic exercise, Polesmoker Takesitall, was a very experienced male stripper who stripped a lot, for gay bachelor parties.  Which didn’t seem strange at all to the then young Bulldog.  He knew he liked women, but he had to make money some how.  This seemed to be a feasible way to supplement his income!

In Bulldogs mind, the lamp woke up in the middle of his routine and started ragging on him, about his lack of boner producing "moves".  Which didn’t bother Doggie, until the lamp started threatening to destroy everything he cared for, starting with Dr. Bristy!  Upon hearing this Doggerine flew into a blind rage of which nobody has seen before or since!  He grabbed the lamp by the neck (uh…what else) raised it over his head and flung it to the ground as he growled,"You stay away from her, bub!  Or you’ll learn what’s what with my furry fury!  You god damn artificial spectrum emitter!"  He then stomped it until his land lady yelled at him about the noise, " DIP SHIT!" , she screamed,"Seriously, it’s not alive!  It’s an inanimate object!  It won’t hurt anybody or anything!".  With a snarl on his already deformed face, he replied, "You can bet it won’t, not now anyway!"

Doggerine is preparing to urinate on the incapacitated (ie…broken) lamp when he realizes he’s stuck like this.  Somehow his arms are being restrained by the part of his costume what covers his unusually dark nipples.  He has not figured out that if he would just use one hand to pull on the other sleeve he could be free in a matter of seconds.  He believes this to be the work of gremlins!  It seems that whenever something incredibly stupid happens to him, it is invariably blamed on the gremlins.  It’s been this way ever since he was just a little puppy and he got to watch the movie Gremlins.  Oh!  The fucking gremlins shit my pants!  The damn gremlins stuck a ruler in my ass!  The gremlins played with my wiener until it throwed up!  Come on Bulldog everyone’s sick of the gremlins excuse!  It wasn’t the gremlins that made you drink until you passed out all those times.  And they didn’t kill the grass in the spot where you pee outside all the time either.  So just give it up and come to terms with your own mistakes.

Doggerine is a riddle that will be solved by some "lucky" woman, doctor friend or pocket pussy (I’m betting on the last one) in the future.  Until then he’ll just have to keep on keepin’ on!  He might try to check that angry streak he’s got going though.  Because let’s face it, on his salary he can’t afford new appliances every time they threaten him!

 

Next:  Spidery-Fella

 

OLD SCHOOL’S UTILITY CLOSET OF APPRECIATION (Think Hall of Fame, Only Without The Hall or The Fame)

Hey kids!  It’s a brand new regular feature from your pal Old School.  I’m going to conduct the occasional induction into my UTILITY CLOSET OF APPRECIATION (from here on out it shall be referred to as the UnCOlA).  It could be anything or anyone.  From the Revenge of The Nerds movie (if not for this movie I would never have known to treat some people like crap, just because they weren’t as popular or strong as I am) to Danica Patrick (vroom, vroom my speedy little lead footed vixen) or maybe a sports team or perhaps a favorite liquor or beer.  The only requirement is that I would like to have the inductee with me if I were stranded on an island (or at the very least I’m amused by it) and would most likely snap your puny pencil neck in an argument about how cool it is (see what I learned from the nerd movie).

I’d let her check my dip stick anytime.  Maybe you’ve heard that the other drivers at the Indy 500 were complaining about her having an unfair advantage during the race.  Yeah, apparently she confused the rest of the field by leaving her right turn signal on for the entire race (rim shot).  I personally think any advantage from that was offset by the fact that during the race she made six half hour or longer calls on her cell phone and didn’t tip over any of the grocery bags in the back seat of her car (rim shot).  The real distraction was when she took her bikini top off and put her tits on the glass (rim shot).  No seriously.

I couldn’t afford a hall (hell, I don’t have Tommy T kind of money, that dude’s rolling in it) and just because I like it, doesn’t give it fame.  Although I suspect most of the stuff I induct into the UnCOlA will be recognizable to most people.

No really.  It’s an honor.

Having said all of that, let me get this party started by announcing the first ever inductee to Old School’s UnCOlA.  Former supermodel Kathy Ireland.  I’ve wanted to bone this hot piece of alluring erection acceptor since the first time I saw her on the cover of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.  The only knock on her is that she’s never appeared naked (if anyone knows different let me know), except in my mind (as have some of you).  If I knew then what I know now, she would surely be mine today.  Damn hindsight!

She has always been able to fulfill my twisted sexual fantasies, no matter how tired my arm gets holding that magazine up with one hand.  But it has always been worth it.  Blindness (that’s what I was always told would happen) would be a small price to pay for our many fancied steamy sexual rendezvous.

So what if she didn’t really make mad passionate fuck with me.  I’ll never be convinced otherwise.

One of my favorite memories of us begins as we’re lying on the beach with the waves flowing over, around and into (ahhh, now that’s refreshing) our glistening naked bodies (in my fantasies I look good naked too, heh).  When who should appear from out of the surf but Elle MacPherson.  Kathy waves Elle over to the bed (I know we were on the beach, but it’s my fuckin’ fantasy and comfort is paramount, so shut the hell up), then they both go to work on me (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more, what?).  Within minutes I’m spent and dozing into a fitful nights sleep.

Here she comes again.  She couldn’t keep those bountiful bosoms out of my cracker cruncher even half a world away (she’s from Australia …fool).

Then there was the time I was saliva basting Kat’s (that’s what she likes to be called, as far as I know) curly haired, slippery, fish muffin when in walks Elle again!  She joins me in tasting Miss Ireland ‘s delectable swollen, juicy, penis holster.  Then we all change positions and they both start on me again.  Of course, after just another few minutes, snooze city (gotta love those special spots).

Now that I think about it Kathy, Elle, and I had so many threesomes I might as well induct both of them.  I’m sure they’re both going to be as proud as a Burtonian dog owner that has just tongued its throbbing red rocket and rancid feces ejector right before he "kisses" the illegitimate welfare payment increaser (the bastard baby) on the face (personally I think the dog is "tasting" the baby).  Even if our love affair was all in my demented psychosis.  I’m certain both of these fine ladies would indeed enjoy riding the Old School sweaty convulsing flesh bus (I’ve been told it’s sort of like riding a hippo bare back while having an atomic wedgy…please women, form one line).

I took this photo just prior to the three of us making an Old School samich.  No…really…I mean it.  It happened in Canada , you wouldn’t have been there.

So congratulations Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson you are the first members of OLD SCHOOL’S UTILITY CLOSET OF APPRECIATION! 

 

Hey! Don’t Be A Death Tease! (If You’re Going To Sow Me, Why Won’t You Reap Me?)

My phone conversation with the Grim Reaper (if you were in the room with me):

Ring…..ring…..ring…”Hello.”

“Oh it’s you.”

“Nothing, just watching the game.”

“No they’re down by two, but it’s still in the first quarter.  Why would you care anyway?  I thought you were too busy to be bothered with such trivial pursuits.”

“Very funny.”

“Of course I know it’s a board game!”

“You’re the funniest fucker in the universe.  Maybe you should tell jokes to your mom, while I’m fucking her in the ass again!  Hahahahaha!”

“Alright Motherfucker, you want me dead?  Then quit being a pussy, get your skank ass over here and do it!”

“What?!  You think I’m pressuring you into something you feel uncomfortable doing?!  What the hell do you mean by that?”

“If I’m not mistaken your boney assed name is DEATH numb nuts!  It’s your fucking job!  Now stop hemming and hawing and touch me with the cold hand of you!”

“Jesus Christ!  I don’t think poking me with a stick is going to do it. 
What kind of retarded soul reaper are you anyway?”

“Oh, I see, you don’t feel like being the harbinger of death right now.  Well are you going to feel like it in the near future?  Because if you’re going to keep fucking around, I’m making plans for the summer.  Gazintas?!  Ri-goddamn-diculous!”

“Really, next week.  That’s what you said last week!”

“You’re not the only death dealer in this plain of existence!  I can get any number of spectors that would be happy to kill me.”

“I am not a death slut!  What the fuck makes you so special?”

“Big deal, you all have cloaks, that doesn’t impress me.”

“Oooooo, and a big scary sharp curved thingy.”

“I don’t care if it’s called a scythe!  Why don’t you slash me across the throat if it’s so cool?”

“Are you kidding me?  You don’t even have any god damn hair to wash!  You’ve just got a skull.”

“Of course, you said you’re going to polish your skull.  What the hell was I thinking?”

“Shut up!”

“You know, if you kill me, I’ll do something for you.”

“Now don’t be that way.  There must be something you’d like from me.”

“That’s not what I meant!  I know you’re not gay asshole, neither am I.  I was thinking maybe I could, I don’t know, teach you how to ride a bike or show you how to fly fish.  How about I take you out for a nice dinner?”

“I don’t think I can get you a date.”

“Well the first reason might be you’re a skeleton.  Duh!”

“Yes she’s available, but I don’t think Gina is that desperate.  Besides I understand she has a couple of dudes on the line and is commencing to reel them in.”

“She has indeed talked about wanting some bone, but I don’t think you’re what she had in mind.  I think you need skin to give her the kind of bone she speaks of.”

“Don’t be sad that’s just the way it is.  Aren’t there any female skeletons where you come from?”

“Hey, what if I teach you to drive?  That’d be cool wouldn’t it?”

“So we have an agreement then?  I’ll teach you how to drive and you’ll deliver me to the great beyond.  When do you want to start your lessons?”

“You don’t know?!  I think I’m beginning to figure out why everbody hates you.”

“Jealousy, yeah that’s it!  Look I’ve got to get going, it’s way too draining talking to you.”

“Later ass master!”  Click.

Inconsideration Is For Assholes! (What The Fuck is Wrong With Some People?)

Considerate.  It’s a simple enough word.  Essentially it means to be thoughtful towards others and to put their feelings before your own.  It goes beyond being polite, but not as far as a vigorous fondling (although that would be a good place to begin).  Unfortunately, there aren’t very many people that can wrap their tiny pea brains around the concept.  Too many of us are so caught up in the petty issues of our insignificant lives that we don’t even smile and say, "Thank you", to the hapless fuck head holding a door open for us.  Leaving him standing there with a glassy eyed stare on his face.  As if someone just stomped on his puppies head, flattening the fuzzy little melon into a crimson soaked spot on the sidewalk.  I’ve started telling people, "You’re welcome", in a very sarcastic tone, when they give me the ole’ doorway snub.  In my demented imagination, it causes them so much shame, they are compelled to commit traditional Japanese hari-kari as soon as they get home.  Although it’s more likely they hang themselves from the neck until dead (hahahahAHAHA…uh um…heh)!

It wouldn’t hurt us to give a friendly wave and let some stupid cocksucker merge into traffic either.  Or how about letting the sorry looking cum licker that’s in line behind us, with his box of suppository cough suppressants (jeez, what will they think of next), take cuts in front of our grocery cart full of anus tootsie roll ingredients (food), yard gnomes and feminine hygiene products?  It’s not as hard as you might think.  Give it a try, I promise it won’t kill you.

It always makes me feel better about myself when I do something to help someone out.  Even if it’s a little thing.  Like not smashing their fucking nose in, when I give them the "how you" nod, and they look at me like I just asked if I could make farty noises on their neck.  When somebody does that, it should be legal to deliver a size twelve (or whatever size shoe you wear) to their chest!  These are the kind of people that are causing a break down in the fabric of our society (that’s right…"society moth larva"…who’d a thunk it)!  With their "too good to acknowledge you attitude".  If I were to choke one of these ungrateful butt munches into a lack of consciousness, the police should give me a medal that says, "Good Job, they had it coming!", not take me away in shackles!

Seriously, think about it.  If you hold a door open for some toothless, whisker chinned, blue hair and she isn’t considerate enough to so much as mumble a "Fuck off!" in your direction, you should be able to grab her by the skin pleated dangling nipple swings and tit whip her into the nearest wall!  After the first few times of that occurring, word would spread throughout the geriatric community faster than frequent & fluid fecal evacuations through fitted adult diapers (trust me on this one).  I bet you’d hear some fucking gratitude then! 

If a retarded old dotard pulls out in front of us, and proceeds to set land speed records, for turtles.  We should run him off the road, drag him out of the horseless carriage he’s motoring about in (most likely an Oldsmobile, Buick, Cadillac or any number of pick-up truck brands) and set him ablaze.  All the while jumping up and down, laughing like a baby playing peek-a-boo with a blood bloated sanitary napkin puppet named "Mr. Hemoglobin".

We’ll teach those selfish bastards some fucking manners!  If you pull out in front of me you damn well better be in a hurry or I might just use you to make some of those delectable s’mores!

Sometimes I think it’s worse when I do something polite for an attractive young woman, than for an ugly old hag.  My reasoning goes like this;  If I’m nice to a prune juice slurping, walker racing silver fox, they know I don’t want any sexual favors, booby flashing’s or toe nail polishings from them.  I don’t want any of that shit from the good looking slut either, but the look of suspicion from them is enough to make me flip my wig.  Even if they say, "Thank You.",  I can tell they’re thinking one, all or any combination of the following:  "Don’t eyeball me you disgusting looking freak!", "I wouldn’t have sex with you if the human race were facing extinction and you were the last swinging dick on earth!" (the jokes on her, I have an inny) or "My husband’s right over there!  For gods sake, pull your pants up!".  It’s like she thinks I picked up the box of tampons she dropped just because I was envious of the cottony floss leashed, clot absorbers!  Yeah and I guess I’ll be buttering my engorged flesh cob thinking of her, inserting them into her draining crotch flower, as soon as I get to my car (like I’m going to wait that long).  What a stuck up cunt!  "You’re so vain.  You probably think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t you, don’t youuuuu (props out to Carly Simon)?"

Wow!  I bet she has the luckiest tampons in her neighborhood!  She can cup my balls in her hand anytime.  I looked it up, this chick is going to be sixty this year.  A definite G.I.L.F.

Well regardless what the rest of the world is going to do, I’m going to continue to be polite to every one of you foamy marsupial urine garglers.  I would suggest that it may be wise to return the favor, should anybody be nice enough to hold a door, let you merge or allow you to cut in line.  Most likely they don’t want anything from you, except an acknowledgment of their existence.  After all they’re just being considerate to a runny pile of steaming excrement.  Right?

 

EXCUSE ME?! THEY’RE DOING WHAT, TO WHOM? (Yet Another Bastardization of My Childhood Memories)

Some things are natural and meant to be.  When you have things that fit perfect together the way they are (a fart & fire, opossums & motor vehicles and fingers & nostrils, come to mind), the trick at that point is to not fuck them up.  But invariably some dipshit or another, thinking they know better than everyone else, has to come along and screw with perfection.  The thing that chaps my ass the most is that it’s always done in the best interest of someone other than themselves.  When somebody tells me they’re doing something in my best interest I bend over, brace my feet and hope their manhood, strap-on, or knuckle purse (fist) is not too girthy.  Apparently, we are so god damn dumb, we’re not capable of doping out what’s good for us or our families.  I say, give us the facts and let us decide for ourselves!

For instance several years ago some brainiac came up with the idea to change the most successful toy since the Burgermeister Meisterburger rescinded his order to outlaw all toys.  The plan was to take Barbie and shrink her twin zeppelins into average sized fun bags (proportionally of course) and widen her hips slightly!  The big panic was that this doll, the way it had been since Lincoln was President (OK maybe not that long ago, but close), was demeaning to woman and gave little girls poor self esteem.  Once they figured out they weren’t going to look like Barbie when they grow up, the poor moronic bitches would slash their guts open with Ginsu knifes.  Bullshit!  If it was so bad, how in the hell did generations of women grow up to be healthy members to society (if not productive)?  Hey, maybe they were smart enough to see with their own eyes that real women aren’t built like that.  Perhaps they realized that, between the gigantic infant nourishment dispensers (I’m an infant, "gagoo", see?) and the pointy piggy vessels, she’d shoot jumbo knockers deep into any soft ground, beach sand or snow pack she attempted to cross.  If they want to make her better I have two words that will suffice:  anatomically correctness!  If you want realism give her nipples and at least a couple of orifices!  As long as they’re at it, make her life size and they can create a brand new market for Barbie products.  It could be named;  "Dirty Slut, Hot Piece Of Ass Barbie".

The Barbi twins:  ruining the hotness curve for all women.  I defy you to find anything wrong with these man toys!  Bitches need not respond.

Prior to that McDonald’s bent themselves over, to the people who do everything for the benefit of people they have never nor will ever meet.  They took the best tasting item on their menu and totally fucked it over.  I’m referring to their world famous french fries.  Now you kids that don’t know any better are thinking, "Old School what the hell are you talking about?  McDonald’s fries are awesome!".  Well, maybe they are to you, snot noses, but if you would have had them before they changed the cooking oil they use, you’d realize what it’s all about.  Beast grease is how Buddha (it’s not what you know, it’s who you know) intended them to be cooked!  If Ray Crock were alive today he’d be stomping somebody in their Big Mac!  Why do you think there’s over population?  It’s because of all the deep frying in vegetable oil, people are living to long because we’re way to healthy.  If they hadn’t changed this one thing there would be plenty of jobs, food and elbow room in the 25 cent movies at the Velvet Touch for everyone!  Way to go homosexual lads!

Above: It’s a damn good thing they changed how their french fries are prepared , otherwise these young fellas would not be near as healthy as they appear!  Even Michael Jackson would get frustrated trying to find the fatter ones poop shooter.  At least the animal fat oil would give you the Hersey squirts once in a while. Below: This is how McDonald’s will have to start serving their deep fried edible tubers for me to begin consuming them again!  I’m sure they really give a rats ass.

This time those retarded motherfucking do-gooders have gone to far!  They have taken one of the most beloved TV characters from my childhood and twisted him into a shell of his former self.  Some bastard ass lick knobs beat Cookie Monster into submission and forced him to start eating fruits and vegetables.  For Christ’s sake he’s a fucking COOKIE MONSTER!  The justification for this abomination is, if left the way he was the children would think it was OK to eat cookies all the time, because Cookie Monster does it.  Hell yes, all kids want to eat cookies 24/7 whether a blue furred rolly eyed sloppy food chomping monster on TV wants to or not!  That’s why they have parents to tell them "NO!" and smack the little life sappers back to reality when they sass back.  As a kid, if I asked for a cookie, my mom would scream and throw kitchen chairs at me!  When she ran out of chairs she would hang me from the ceiling by my feet and use my head as a speed punching bag!  You didn’t hear me cursing Jim Henson and his lovable creation, I just learned that cookies are not "all the time" food (until I grew up of course, now I have cookies constantly, hahaha bitch).

That a boy C.M. take back that which is rightfully yours:  COOKIES!!!

If they insist upon retaining this god forsaken idea (I asked him myself, as far as you know), they might as well go all the way.  Let’s have Oscar the Grouch be nice, clean and live in a flower garden!   Because who knows, kids today may not be smart enough to figure out that a garbage can is not a domicile as much as it’s a refuse receptacle.  Or maybe we could have Big Bird walking around Sesame Street , pissed at the world, pecking peoples heads clean off their shoulders (that’d be sweet)!  Hey, how about we turn Elmo into a pimp?  He could bitch slap all the girl monsters until they fork over his piece of the action!  Yeah instead of "Tickle Me Elmo" there could be a "I’ma cut you whore! Elmo".  It could come with "babies first switch blade".  That’s the ticket!  What if we did a three way with Bert, Ernie and Cookie Monster!  I like this idea the best.  Can you imagine the feed back on this version of Sesame Street ?  You want real life assholes?  Come and get some!

I’m bothered by this picture only because it causes the "Woman Satisfier" to move by itself.  On the up side I know what I want for my birthday this year!

Some people can’t leave their sticky nipple kneaders off other peoples creations.  If you don’t like your dolls having huge boobs and tight little asses (those are my favorite parts), you don’t want to feel your arteries hardening as you stuff another hot animal fat dripping, boiled spud javelin into you gaping tooth cavern or you have something against childhood icons that at one time were as entertaining as a willing penis pin cushion is now (everybody together:  "C is for cookie and that’s good enough for me!" ).  Why don’t you do us all a favor and come up with your own piece of shit thought turd!  That way when you’re standing in a soup line on Christmas day (because nobody bought your dumb ass crap), you might realize just how fucking ignorant you are!

 

Da Da Da Da Da Bat-Guapo!

In my investigation into the nether cushions of the Couch Party, I’ve uncovered yet another secret that needs to be exposed.  Tripp has an alter ego that is as mysterious as the success of Ashlee Simpson (that whore is about as talented as a zit on my taint).  He is a zero…er…hero of legendary proportions and this is his story.

When Brian was two years old, he was "abducted" by the dastardly pair known only as "Nana and Gampa", for an entire weekend (OK they were babysitting but where’s the suspense in that?).  During that weekend, of his parents joyous escape from their prison cell of life called parenthood, his grandparents made him eat his vegetables, brush his teeth twice a day and go to bed early.  At night they would dress him up as a bat and chase him around the yard, kicking him whenever they would get close enough.  This was, as Gampa put it, "to toughen the lil’ son of a bitch up!".  Nana would then tickle him with her mustache until he pissed himself.  He vowed revenge.

When he was twelve the neighborhood kids used to laugh at his over  abundance of cuteness.  They would duct tape him naked to a chair, shave his eyebrows and rifle a rubber holloween bat into his genitalia, all the while taunting him by chanting, "cutey, cutey sweet patooty!  So you had to pee on the floor!".  Curiously this would make his flesh pencil become like steel with an influx of blood.  It was described as looking just like a penis, only much smaller.  The squirrels in the area would laugh continuously at the site of his tiny equipment and then chase his best friend, Superbguy, all the way home.  Once again he vowed revenge.

When he was seventeen he was pantsed at a high school football game, on the fifty yard line.  The game was against the Faggotville Chiropters (fun with the dictionary).  The entire Chiropter squad attempted to anally rape him (what the fuck would you expect, look at the name of their town).  They didn’t succeed because a week earlier, in case of just such an emergency, Brian had his flesh covered fat saddle bags (butt cheeks) sewn together.  Even so, his revenge was vowed!

To this day nobody is quite certain what happened to Nana and Gampa.  They just seem to have gone on vacation and never came back.  Not to mention that fire at scout camp was really strange too.  I mean the way it only ravaged some of the tents and didn’t so much as singe others.  It was a shame how it was all of Brians little neighborhood friends who didn’t survive though.  And isn’t it weird there aren’t any squirrels around the bat-grotto either?  Don’t forget about the school bus crash over in Faggotville either.  The entire football team perished as the bus spun out of control and plummeted over the side of the Sloppyanus River bridge.  The police thought at first that the brake line may have been cut, but with the explosion it was to hard to tell for sure.  Well I guess coincidences happen.

It is believed these three events were the major accurances that totally fucked Tripp in the hairy protrusion on his shoulders.  Here are some photos of Brian throughout the years of his fight against all that is not as cute as he is (in his opinion there is nothing as cute as he is) in the guise of BAT-GUAPO, CUTE KNIGHT.

In this photo Brian is all smiles as he has just discovered, because of his sweet little button nose and tooth filled smile, stupid people (mostly women) have a tendency to believe anything he tells them.  In the back ground you can see his nanny, Clara Ima-Uglycunt (I hate those hyphenated names), grinning ear to ear, happy as a dog that just squeezed out, rolled in and then ate its own excrement (like anyone could even know that).  He has just told her she is not nearly as ugly as a rhinoceros scrotum and the rank smell emanating from her pussy is hardly noticeable over the vulgar bouquet of her grape stompers (feet).  She believed him.  Shame on you Guapo!  To this day Brian constantly uses this ability, even when he’s not in costume.

Moments later Clara realized that she is much uglier than a rhino crotch stalactite (in all fairness, as far as balls go, they’re actually quite handsome) and coincidentally her dried up hatchet wound smells like a wet skunk (her feet smell like a dry skunk).  Pissed off at "the little motherfucker" Clara bitches to Ike, her very large alcoholic construction worker husband (it’s a little known fact that all construction workers are alcoholics), he in turn issues this challenge to Tripp, "You piece of shit cocksucker!  I’ll rip your fucking head off and shit down your throat if you don’t stop that god damn bullshit!"  In an astonishing show of "defiance" Bat-Guapo fills his bat-pull ups to full crap capacity (according to the package, they’re good for up to forty pounds).  He then sprung into the universal martial art defense known as "fetal position", kicked his feet and sobbed uncontrollably until the bad man went away.  Vow revenge he did (thank you Yoda).

Later, because of a case of extreme alcohol poisoning, Ike commences to pass out.  Brian implements his revenge by superglueing two m-80′s to Ike’s sagging seed sack, dousing him in gasoline and igniting them with a flair gun.  Here he is being questioned by police officers about the incident.  The following is his statement according to the their report, "Ga ub sule.  Ig dot ba man!  FUCK HIM!  I…I mean…ug fon za doopy."  Then the police took turns giving him big bear hugs and ice cream, becuase he is so damn cute.

This is Brians first superheroine girlfriend, Gallerina.  He quit going out with  her because, according to him, her hero name was "butt stupid" and she was a "dummy head".  People close to the couple at the time of the break up are certain the split happened because everyone thought she was cuter than him.  Of course Guapo will never admit to that and it’s not wise to pressure him about it, otherwise he may very well vow revenge on you.

Bat-Guapo has just jumped into action to apprehend two old bitchy Canadian cunts (they’re all bitchy).  They were stealing knee high stockings, leather mini skirts, nipple rings (ouch) and a tube of Preperation H (OK not stealing as much as brousing for).  They trembled with fear at the site of his pointy nippled chest aimed in their general direction.  He made short work of the perps by drop kicking them into the year 2012 (one was a 88 year old woman and the other was her mother), where they both stopped rolling just as their clothes came back into fashion.  Having executed his rightous vengeance in record time he then starts to hit on the nearest living thing with a vagina.  It happened to be a chihuahua in a little garter belt and teeny crotchless panties (talk about hard to find items when you go shopping).

Here is the only known photo of Guapo’s infallible "seed bag emptying persuasion technique", as he tries to get an unsuspecting gash master to join him in an exciting (for him) game of "hide the cocktail weeny".  His bat-liquor is a special concoction of various libations, of which only he knows the ingriedents.  What we do know is his victims…er…uh…I mean "dates" (nothings been proven in a court of law…yet) are spared the god awful experience of remembering his disgusting perversions.  As near as we can tell consciousness is lost soon after digestion of said intoxicant.  If you women see him swooping toward you with a squeeze bottle in his hands your best defense is to duck under the table and hide your face in my lap.  When something pokes you in the face (and it will) insert it into your uvula closet and leave it there until I tell you it’s all clear.  That way he can’t spray his vile elexior into your tonsil locker…that’s the only reason…honest…what?!

For a little while Bat-Guapo had a partner named Rubbin’.  None of us are sure what his qualifications to be a cute fighter were, but he did look mighty spiffy in the green shorts.  The partnership broke up over a woman.  Tripp  had already enticed a slit administrator into his bat-bed and was proceeding to make mad passionate bat-fuck to her.  When Rubbin’ burst into the room, smacked Brian’s bare bouncing sphincter pillows three times and hysterically ran back out (What the hell?!).  Nobody has seen or heard from him since.  But I do suspect he may have assumed another identity (more on this later, cool, a subplot).

This photo was taken at a recent party at the "Couch Party Dwelling of Apathy" (think Hall of Justice), home to "The Gathering of Ridiculous Asshole Bitching Bastards Enjoying Retarded Situations" (the GRABBERS for short).  The intense look on Tripps face is directed toward Abe and Tommy as they are ragging on him about the new bat-thong idea.  He then hurled the paper plate as if it were a "flying disc of death" and decapitated both of them with the throw (it was really easy because they were french kissing each other at the time…sick).  He was mumbling something about them being "Homosexual gay faggot queers!" (don’t worry about Abe and Tommy, Hab-El was there with his superb sewing kit and reattached both of their mellons, to the wrong bodies).  This is also the look he gives stupid customers who dare ask for extra discounts or enter his work place!

Well there’s another alias exposed.  I’ve only just started this hunt for the truth.  The rest of you CP heroes better watch your asses, that’s the thing about three feet off the ground that keeps following you around!  Now for the team battle cry:  Lazy GRABBERS Gather ‘Round!

Next:  Doggerine