All Your Base Are Belong To Peabs.

Every once in while, when Peabs isn't busy snorting lines of red rock off of the supple, bovsed-upon tees of a buxom harlot, I like to curl up with a nice warm cup of pennyroyal tea and a good book. Lately I have been reading my long-winded yet wildly-heralded classic, "Atlas Shrugged", and contemplating a possible revision, with the help of Dr. Bill Cosby (like Peabs, a best-selling author and drug abuser, snatch). Coz's suggestion is rather brills: John Galt would be renamed Mr. Flazzumpants and instead of "stopping the motor of the world", he would dedicate his life to shoving a package of Skittles® up his sugar-sweet butthole, beg Charles Atlas to toss his salad and subsequently flatulate the candies into Atlas' mizz, ordering him to "taste the rainbow", thus causing him to shrug. Bovs. Now, we all know that Peabs is the most creative (lest we forget prettiest) motherfucker on the planet; but even yours effing truly couldn't match that idea. Although, my version would hogsviously include a coked-out giraffe deep-throating Francisco d'Anconia. Bovs she marred all over your fucking shmidgie-shmadge, Mr. Super Wave Market Marrisimo. Robvs.

Speaking of totally unrelated segues, how was your fucking Thanksgiving? Did you get enough turkey Peabs to eat? Considering I was the only American to lose weight over the weekend, it appears as though you got your effing fill. Gobble! I spent most of my week vacationing in the Cherbourg peninsula off the west coast of France, smoking hashish and reaquainting myself with the old jism trails of yesteryear. It was there that Peabs met up with my old friend and fellow child prodigy Jordy, who, much like myself has let his stardom get the best of him. This should schmobvs come as no surprise. He was a fucking musical giant. Duh.

Needless to say, Jordy and myself had a lot of stories to swap. Obvs, Peabs had become the world's most recognized and beloved human being, and resultantly was elected President of the United States. Jordy, on the other hand, went in a different direction.

At first, the ridiculously talented vocalist seemed to be riding the waves of success towards an even brighter future. He signed a multifranc deal with the French distributor of Ocean Spray®, for which he was obligated to appear in numerous television and print ads. This apparently went quite well for the first year, though Jordy got mixed up in what most lame fucks would refer to as a "bad crowd." Me? I call them my Cabinet, but that's neither here nor there. Anywizz, Jordy had developed quite an addiction to methcathinone and was soon uncontrollably jerking off in midst of filming and referring to his jazz as his "possédez très le jet d'océan" (translation: "very own ocean spray"). Hot.

Be that as it may, Jordy sunk into a deep depression, sold away the rights to his smash hit "Dur Dur D'etre Bebe" and blew it all on drugs. Now, Peabs understands that many of you (momos) may find this story tragic, but Jordy did stage a bit of a comeback; a swan song, if will. In 1996, he created a popular inner-city game affectionately called 'Peanut-Butter Ball' and has been reaping in the royalties ever since. So with his earnings he decided to treat Peabs and Dr. Bill Cosby to an evening of kit kat-blowing and sloppy beejers at the local brothel. Sure, I know it sounds like a pretty lackadaisical night in the life of your gorgeous and fearless leader, but it was fucking Thanksgiving weekend! You try assfucking a French whore while smothered in gravy! She mars.

It pays to be the President and friends with washed-up French singers. Especially those who are 16 and addicted to a drug I've never even heard of. Wait, who am I kidding? I've done so much methcathinone, I make Johnny Unitas look like Wembley Fucking Fraggle. Ooh-jah!

I'm pretty. You have no chance to survive make your time. Obvs.

Peabs/Cosby: 4 More Shmears!

Gobble Fucking Gobble!

Dear America,

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Celebrate by having yourselves multiple servings of Peabs. Why, you may ask? In case you have forgotten, yours effing truly is a turkey. There isn't much of Peabs to go around (duhvs), so might I suggest sampling the D™rumstick; it's oh so thick and meaty. I also propose you try me with some gravy, because I tend to get dryer than a prepubescent lesbian getting gangbanged by four Cialis®-fueled priests. Bovs. Furthermore, your Vice-President Dr. Bill Cosby assures me that he is the best tasting cranberry sauce the world has to offer. I won't even get started on how Indira Gandhi's vaggie vag tastes like pumpkin pie. Mmmmmmmm.

Happy holidays and gobble, gobble! Mars she on your effing Barnum and Bailey, you fucking circus clowns.

XOXOXO
Peabs, President-Elect of the United States.

P.S. Don't forget to wash Peabs down with many healthy lines of blow and a good old-fashioned tossed salad. And by tossed salad, I really mean get your fucking ass eaten out by Grandma, you effing dildos! Obvs.

Peabs/Cosby: 4 More Shmears!

Basking In The Glow Of My Sack On Your Mizz.

I was teabagging W.C. Fields the other day when he quipped something rather brills:

"After you finish scraping my barnacles, we should go to the Sierra Mazateca region of Oaxaca, Mexico, do some bongrips of Salvia Divinorum and have a gay cereal party! Fruit Loops for everyone!"

Of all of the ridiculously poignant things Fields has said in his life, this seemed the most boviously pertinent. Well, besides the time Dr. Bill Cosby was massaging his prostate, prompting the dead actor to say:

"I used to milk cows like this in Iowa with Tony Danza!"

She mars.

You'll have to pardon your President today, for I believe that my morning vodka giblet has been invaded by some georgia home boy, no thanks to Coz. Maybe it's because of our recent primo smack hookup, but Cosby's been extremely gay as of late. And not so much in that "Coz likes to jack off in cabana boys' faces while he watches Cum Sucking She-Males 4" sort of way. Moreso in that "Peabs will suddenly lose consciousness, most likely due to a speedball overdose, and come to with Cosby having a three-way suck-n-fuck-fest with Waldorf and Statler from 'The Muppet Show'" sort of way. Robvs.

Which, to be quite honest, Peabs doesn't mind. I'm the fucking leader of the god damn free world, so I can pretty much do whatevs I want. Case in point, last evening Dr. Bill Cosby and yours effing truly decided to start Thanksgiving a little early, and invited our new good friend Steve Rubell over to my spacious brownstone for some turkey - gobble, gobble! - and handjobs. I suggested we call some prostitutes saucy minxes in order to liven things up, but Coz felt otherwise. My running mate was so effing smacked out of his head that he thought he was Asian and continually asked me to "flazzum his ooh-jah" with Rubell's "falafel waffle." Who am I to say no to Cosby? Mars she on your effing Warren G. Regulators, mount up!

Needless to say, the evening started to get a little too homoerotic, even for Peabs. But instead of adding a little estrogen to the action, I opted to start busting rhymes as D.J. Orange Julius, my homo-rap alter ego:

Go spelunkin' in your ass-cheeks, I'm an explorer/
I wear more mascara than Rocky Horror/
so I'll give you DJ OJ's picture show/
starring a truckload of homos and a pound of blow.

All y'all dudes want to fuck my A/
there ain't a hotter cocksucker than DJ OJ/
I'm like Kid 'n Play, but I ain't hetero/
I'd rather toss a fag's salad than fuck a ghetto 'ho, yo.

Yo, I'm about to started/
I'll fuck you so hard, I'll make you retarded/
like a mongoloid, I'm down with your syndrome/
take a polaroid of you fuckin' me with a comb/
but if you got an afro pick/
just suck this dick/
'cause I'm hotter than a plate of effing Pad Prik.

I swear, nothing gets a party hotter than gay flow, yo. Well, except maybe a QP of dimethyltryptamine, my D™ blowing a hot lizz down your sister's esoph and some smooth jazz. And by smooth jazz I mean Sade, not my man-juice, you fucking perverts. Bovs on your effing foreskins, you uncircumcised cockfaces. Boo-jah!

You oh so very much want to be Peabs. Duh. No shame in wanting to be gorgeous and brilliant and hung like the Redwood Forest. Lest we forget that, to the gulf stream waters, this land was made for you and Peabs.

I'm fucking ridiculous. Obvs.

Peabs/Cosby: 4 More Shmears!

Barbitual Offender.

Peabs has never been one to shy away from the press. In fact, I rather love the attention, because I am quite the attention whore. And why shouldn't I be? I'm fucking fascinating. She mars all over your hotel mini-bars.

That being said, Dr. Bill Cosby and yours effing truly attended a gala event last evening in the heart of Manhattan, gossip columnists seemingly everywhere. While most men of my stature may tend to behave conservatively in such an environment, Peabs felt it was necessary to pop a bunch of barbituates, stick a turkey baster full of liquid hydrogen and mothballs in my sweet sweet asshole and give everyone an effing show. Cosby tried to one up me, dressing up like Woody Woodpecker and referring to himself as the "Flying Dutchman," pecking fellow partygoers with his "beak" and attempting to light a crackpipe with his flatulence. Needless to say, it was a fucking sight to see, the two of us. For added measure, we each rented gay escorts, who went by the names JuJu Fruit and Sour Patch Mo-Mo. The look on Lloyd Grove's face was fucking priceless. But much of that had to do with the GHB I slipped in his Cosmo, and the raw, unlubed handjob being given to him all night by a visibly methed-out Matt Drudge. Bovs.

Speaking of those two: who knew that those fucking dildo-fuckers could effing party? Mars she! When I first announced my candidacy for President back in January, Dr. Bill Cosby advised that we should hire a spin doctor in order to influence certain reporters. This somewhat made sense to Peabs, considering my life is pretty much consumed with blowing cocaine with herpes-infested slutbags and wearing Versace cockrings. With that, we hired former 80's heartthrob Richard Grieco as a consultant to the Obvs in '04™ Campaign. While his turn in the television series "Booker" was boviously magical, this was certainly the man's true calling. Pretty soon, we had every newsman in our back pocket. Howevs, Grieco never gave away his secret. Certainly the press releases he would edit and submit to the media well extremely well-written and efficacious, but we knew there had to be something more. Last night, our questions were answered. Not to mention my ass was eaten out like a Sunday Buffet by this Amish model named Robert. Schmobvs.

Anyway, Drudge and Grove found Coz and my pretty self so engaging that they wanted to follow us to our afterparty. I suspected it was because they needed fodder for today's column. Little did Peabs know it was because they were having a secretive, erotic affair with one Richard Grieco.

Cosby and I ditched the boytoys and hightailed it to Grieco's apartment on the lower east side. Richard was waiting for us, seemingly spaced out on speedballs and quoting old Peter Deluise lines from "21 Jump Street." I immediately started injecting skag into my testicles, still a little tweeked from the crank Peabs had been snorting since 1986. Drudge kept asking Cosby if he could be his teacher and give him a "Report" card, to which Coz kept responding:

"Noo, but you can razzle my bozzle bizzle!"

Grove was on the phone most of the time, presumably with Liz Smith. That fucking mo-mo complained about the lack of marijuana the second he walked in the door, and who better to call for some effing bud than Liz? Fucking pussy. Who even smokes pot anymore? She mars. Maybe if it's laced with embalming fluid, then I might let you ooh-jah my boo-jah. Lightweight.

That being said, it was my goal to get Lloyd Grove so fucking messed up that he would misspell my name in his next gossip column (you know, since he's never done that before). So I slipped some methylenedioxymethamphetamine in his single-malt and made him tell me he how he wanted to love Peabs. To be honest, I didn't think I would get this particular response:

"I know you know about my little fling with Matt and Dickie, but you're just like sooooo cute. You know, when I was 14, I used to masturbate into my mother's bras thinking it would be a good story; which is part of the reason why I really, truly enjoy the way Drudgey-Wudgey teabags me with his donkey like nutsack. But your aura... can you imagine if we procreated? I can see the headlines: Fucking Douchebag Fucks President And Has His Children! It would be amazing. What the eff did you put in my drink anyway, Peabs? I really wish you would suck on my nipples and call me Elsie right now..."

Grieco must suck some mean motherfucking cock, because none of this showed up in the media today. Of course, last time I checked, Grove was still dancing to Tiesto and making Drudge give him multiple blumpkins. Ahhh, the power of the press. Bovs on your effing Pepperridge Farm® stuffed tees, you fucking turkeys! Gobble!

Peabs/Cosby: 4 More Shmears!

Pardon Me, But Do You Have Any Gay Poupon?

Shmears. Being President-elect has quite a few perks. This last week, Dr. Bill Cosby and yours effing truly took full advantage of being the leaders of the Free World by participating in acts abnormal to the common man. Whilst it has always been rather easy for Peabs to score a number of illegal narcotics, the ability to regularly obtain some tigs shats to the boombies ketamine has haunted me like my HIV-positive Filipino baby's mama. Bovs. For the record, I do not claim Zing-Zang to be my son; howevs, he keeps me in good opium and his sister Christian has a vagina that makes Marie Osmond look like Adrian Zmed on the raggie rag. Bovs on your motorin' tees, Night Ranger.

Anyway, many people from my past have been coming out of the woodwork since my recent election into office, one of which is former baseball great Gaylord Perry. For those of you unaware, Perry retired from baseball and decided to pursue his lifelong dream of being the head of the American Veterinary Medical Association (AVMA). Some experts say it was because of his undying love of animals, but Peabs hogsviously knows the real truth - that motherfucker loves his special K. In fact, when I used to be a relief pitcher for the San Diego Padres in 1978, Perry was the ace of our staff and once claimed to Peabs in confidence that he had been in a K-hole since he won the Cy Young award in '74. Coincidentally, Peabs was also (and still is, snatch) very much into horse tranquilizers and their dissociative effect, and I told Gaylord that Peabs would one day be President and need his help scoring some jet. My old friend certainly did not disappoint. Schmobvs.

Upon order, Cosby instructed Perry to meet us at one of our many clandestine Obvs in '04™ Campaign meth labs in the Midwest. Little did Peabs know that Gaylord was quasi-dating assfucking Olympic swimmer Amanda Beard, a long-time supporter of my campaign. Obvs, Ms. Beard and yours effing truly had a bit of a "fling" back in '96 - and by "fling" I really mean that I used to give her a wicked case of swimmer's ear... with my fucking jazz. Lest we forget she rather enjoyed it when I dressed up like Eeyore and cornrowed her pubes with my ooh-jah. Spobvs.

Be that as it may, we all decided to blow an assload of K and enter a little mellow, colorful wonder world we like to call the planet She-Mars. Scott Bakula was our host, while Cosby razzle-dazzled his way into every unsuspecting She-Martians' hearts. Beard asked Perry if he "had any Gay Poupon", which prompted him to shoot hot load on her effing mizz. Personally, I bovsed on the respective aliens' tees while Bakula tongued my A, forgiving himself for Necessary Roughness.

Peabs thought it was Hector Elizondo who was the weak part of that particular motion picture, but that's neither here nor there. What about you, Dr. Bill Cosby?

"I think that the flazzum rozzle was caused by the Harley Jane Kozak raffle waffle!

Obvs. How could I forget Harley Jane? She still to this day is the only woman who wanted to assfuck me for breakfast. Which is ironic, considering the fact that I am a turkey and have no ass. But I do have a gigantic gizzard. And by gizzard, I really mean cock. And by cock I really mean D™. You get the picture. Suck it. Gobble!

Oh, so you were growing a little impatient while Peabs was away on my first Presidential tour? Your life was completely useless and banal without an update on the antics of all that which is Peabs? Well, get used to it, my lovelies. I know full well that I am comparable to your first line of blow, your first rimjob; but have some fucking restraint, you effing handjobs. Don't you fritter or fret - I'm here for you. I'll jerk off in your mouth and make you call me Listerine® if I have to. I'll dress up in custom-made Theory diapers, shit myself and make you clean up my soiled drawers with a rotiserrie oven. In short, Peabs is not just your President; I am also your priest, your God, and your life. Mars she all over your Ken Caminiti.

Peabs/Cosby: 4 More Shmears!

All I Want For Christmas Is To Shove My Cock Down Your Thrizz.

Dr. Bill Cosby, being of sound mind and a giant Negro dick, came home to our NYC-based loft dressed as Santa Claus last evening, hopped up on yaba and microdots. Needless to say, it put Peabs in a jolly mood; so Peabs did what I always do when I get in the Christmas spirit. Bovs. Peabs phoned longtime Obvs in '04™ Campaign supporter and reknown designer Oscar De La Renta and ordered custom assless chaps made from reindeer and the foreskin of Pablo, the forgotten Honduran 4th wise man. Oscar also gave Peabs a great idea as to how to be a hit at the upcoming holiday parties; being President-elect, I'll have to do my best to keep the attention of my fellow partygoers. So my designer friend suggested I dress up my already infamous D™ with a derby hat (that he would design, snatch) and some glasses (Prada, duh) and refer to myself as Mr. Potato Cock. Frankly, I find this idea to be fucking brilliant. Nothing says "Happy Holidays" quite like dressing up your cock like a children's toy. She mars. Coincidentally, Cosby plans to dress his manhood up as Maya Angelou. I know why the caged bird bovsed on my tees - it was fucking caged! Obvs.

Speaking of holiday parties and Maya Angelou, it should come as no surprise that the famed author and yours effing truly have quite a past. Peabs has yet another confession: at a Kwanzaa party at Mel Tormé's abode in 2001, I mistakened Maya for actress Della Reese, and she did not take too kindly to it.

Luckily, on my arm that evening was Maria Pastora, a Mexican crackwhore who was carrying a satchel full of San Pedro Cactus. What few know is that Angelou loves her peyote. What everyone knows is that Peabs does, too. All it took was a few hits of this shit and suddenly the entire cast of "Night Court" was there, dressed like the Village People and buttfucking each other to the soulful crooning of our host, Mel. You haven't experienced anything until you've seen Richard Moll do a one-"man" performance of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show", while getting dirty sanchez'd by Harry Anderson. It'll make you wanna go down on a three-year old. Schmobvs.

I know what you're thinking. I know it's six weeks until Christmas. But Peabs does not discriminate when it comes to the holidays. Fuck, Hannukah started, like, four days ago! So technically I am late. Thankfully, I have Dr. Bill Cosby here to remind me of all that which is going on in the world. Shmears, if it weren't for him (and the fact that I'm a turkey), Peabs would've had no idea that Thanksgiving is 13 days away. Or that I hid some fucking blow up my ass last night so that I'd have it for lunch today. Gobble!

Face it. You'd pay millions to artificially inseminate yourself with my jazz. But let's be honest - even the spawn of Peabs is merely a microcosmal clusterfuck of the genius that is I. Ooh-jah, boo-jah.

Storming Normandy.

As inconceivable as it may seem, it appears as though the majority of the country feels as though Peabs did not win the Presidency last week. I think this is utter fucking bullshit and refuse to concede. Bovs. Therefore, Peabs shall remain your President, America, whether you effing like it or not. And to be quite frank with you, if you do have a problem with a gorgeous motherfucker like myself running your country, kindly sample a load of my hot man-sherbet, you fucking cockface mcjohnsons. Oooh-jah!

This past weekend was nothing but a celebration in honor of the Peabs and Cosby victory in last Tuesday's election. And nothing quite says "victory" like smoking some Acapulco Gold and chasing some 714's with a gallon of AC/DC. Obvs. By the middle of Saturday afternoon, Dr. Bill Cosby decided he would now go by the moniker of Davy Crockett and that it would be a good idea to fuel up the Obvs in '04™ Campaign jet and fly butt-ass naked to Pierre, South Dakota. Who is Peabs to disagree? She mars all over your granola bars, you fucking hippies.

It was in Pierre where we picked up former Senate minority leader Tom Daschle, fed him a couple of 40/40 bars and phoned some of the Dakota's finest and most respected individuals in the business of whoring. Let me tell you a little something about Tom: he's one sick motherfucker. Granda, he's not one to take a bunch of acid, shove his fist up the vaggie vag of a filthy hooker, and turn them into his own personal Muppet, Jim Henson-stizz. Not that Peabs has ever done such a thing. Okay, maybe I slipped a little bit of GHB into Jane Pauley's drink, colored her quasi-comatose face green, got elbow-deep in her snizz and made her my very own Kermit The Frog, singing "Rainbow Connection" in mixolydian for 3 straight hours. But that's all fucking hearsay. (Though Peabs must admit her voice makes Paul Williams look like, well, Paul Williams.) Schmobvs.

Needless to say, our good friend Tom was certainly looking to party upon losing his seat in the Senate. Like Peabs had mentioned before, he's a bit on the "effed side", so to speak. For instance, he always refers to himself as Daschle, which, obvs, Peabs has no problem with. Mars she, I fucking created referencing oneself in the third-person. Omniscient-stizz, snatch. I also double-teamed Merriam and Webster with a quadruple-sided dildo and a bottle of Pam®. Duhvs.

Anyway, Daschle's into extraordinarily young women. Robvs. I shan't chastise anyone who is, Coz included. What the former senator prefers, on the other hand, is a little, shall we say, unique. Christian coalitions might call it "perverted and immoral", but they get on their effing knees and pray to the altar that is my fucking D™. Bheers. Nevertheless, Daschle suggested we get some tween whores, knock off a toupeé shop, and play Sy Sperling with our young harlot friends. Oh, you've never played? Let's have Dr. Bill Cosby explain the rules:

"First you flazzum on her bazzle bozzle, then you make flizzum like she was a falafel waffle!"

Either way, all that Peabs knows is that at one point Daschle had unloaded an exhorbitant amount of jazz onto the pre-teens' respective "bald spots", which acted as glue for the stolen toupeés. The kicker was when Tom made them each say:

"I'm not only the 'Hair Club for Men' President, but I also love to guzzle Tom's ridiculously large load of jism down my hot young esophagus."

There's really nothing more I can say on that particular subject. Let's just say Peabs didn't go the whole Sy Sperling route. Instead I just let off some fireworks, assfucked each and everyone of the dirty 12-year old hoebags and made them speak to me in French as if it were D-Day. Obvs.

Did Peabs forget to mention that I'm the fucking President of the United fucking States? Well, I am. We needn't mention that I'm also a turkey. Gobble!

It sickens both you and I how fucking brilliant I am.

Your New President... Peabs.

Maybe it's the mushrooms, but Peabs sure did win the election by a larger margin than expected. I thought Dubya and Kerry would at least put up a fucking fight. Mars she all over your effing Applebee's®.

Unfortunately there will be a recount, since no one seems to believe that a drug-addled supermodel who spent zero money on advertising and shamelessly spoke of smoking crack and assfucking and sodomizing prostitutes with Dr. Bill Cosby could possibly win the Presidency. But damn it, Peabs did. Bovs on your fucking Karl Roves, you effing hanging chads.

if i have made,my lady,intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes(frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind-if i have failed to snare
the glance too shy-if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your
obvs in
'04™.

Vote Obvs In '04™.

My fellow Americans...

... she mars all over your effing Zanzibars. The only thing I'm cooking from there is some fucking skag, Rage Kage. Boo-jah!

Today is the day, my loyal followers: Election Day 2004. Dr. Bill Cosby and yours effing truly would like to thank each and every one of you for the support you have given the Obvs in '04™ Campaign the last ten months. And by "thanks for the support", Peabs really means thanks for lending me your toothless grandmother Ethel so she could gummy gum my testicles before I genitally reprimand her. Schmobvs.

It has been a long and winding road, and I personally feel as though Coz and my pretty self have made quite the impression on the American public. Since our announcement to run for the Presidency, drug use in the United States has increased 176 percent. Prostitution has increased by 300 percent. And, as if that weren't enough, the amount of Abe Lincolns given to HIV-positive crackwhores has risen an astounding - you'll have to excuse Peabs, I'm tearing up just thinking about it (which, suffice to say, is most likely because I just snorted four teener-long speedball rails) - 14,000 percent. There is no denying the dizzying effect Peabs has had on our country. Bovs on your one fucking tee, Nancy Reagan.

Many of you probably wondered how Peabs spent his last evening before the election. Contrary to popular belief, I was not out trying to lobby more votes. At this point of the election, if you're going to be voting for an effing gorgeous, call girl-fucking smack fiend, you're pretty well dead set on such a decision. Obvs. So, bovs, Peabs decided to relax the night before the biggest day of my life and have a Club Sped party. Why? Because mongoloids need love too. Robvs.

I've certainly never been one to discriminate. Cosby, being the debonair Nubian he is, introduced to all sorts of flavors of chocolate throughout our friendship. My old friend, Mao, would bring over many an Asian harlot to give the old "how's your father?" to, if you know what Peabs is screamin'. Anyone who's ever read this asinine site knows about my speed-fueled ass-fest with that hot piece of Indian vagina, Indira Gandhi. Mobvs. Anyway, Coz rounded up a few down syndrome mamas and a slip 'n slide, which we soaked in liquefied cocaine.

You can probably guess what happened next. Yes, Peabs had his salad tossed. And, to be quite honest, it was some of the most meticulous and finite ass licking I had ever been a part of. Favorite part of the evening? Probs when Dr. Bill Cosby asked a young vixen who went by the name of Dahhhhhhh if she liked "doing bung tokes from the Vice President's black ass." I must say, Coz, that shit was effing hot. I couldn't help but whip out my effing D™ and snowball the first available mizz immediately!

"Yooooooooouuuuuu've gots to know that the Jell-OOOOOOO® tastes like Mello-Yello®!!!! Flazzum!"

Bovs.

So that's how Peabs spent his last night as a meager, yet wildly attractive state representative. If all goes as planned, I shall have a new job by tomorrow. Below is an early exit poll; let's hope it's reflective of the final election results:


According to this particular poll, which Cosby created during a backalley filming of a very special triple-X episode of Picture Pages, Peabs is way ahead. So ahead, in fact, that they had to give me two colors to signify the amount of votes I have received so far. Shmears.

You're doing your job, America. You're electing the right man. Well, maybe not so much the right man, but certainly the prettiest and most arrogant. Lest we forget I have a cock that makes Burt Reynolds look like Ralston Purina™. And what more do you want out of the leader of the free world? Obvs.

all which isn't singing is mere talking
and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)

gush to it as diety or
obvs in
'04™.

Jack Peabs Nimble, Jack Peabs Quick.

Sometimes, when you're a well-endowed, whorefucking drug addict like Peabs, you have to relive your past. The last five days or so, yours effing truly decided to do just that. And by that, I really mean that I decided it was a good idea to do some whippets and drink some Dimetapp® elixir in order to get my mind off of tomorrow's election. Mmmmmm, whippets. Some say an even better high than freebasing spackle and jerking off Dom Deluise. Ooh-jah!

It seems like just yesterday that Peabs declared myself as a candidate for the Presidency. And now it's up to you, the American jizzmopping buttfucking public, to elect my pretty self and the great Dr. Bill Cosby into office. I needn't go on about how much I am going to do for the country - that much is obvs. Nor does Peabs need to mention the flying camel I highjacked on Saturday and rode into the sunset with a young boy named Cold Lenny, who injected phosphorus into my Berry-Berry Kix®, as Coz read passages from King Hippo's Bible. Nope. Not one bit. Schmobvs.

Understandably, the Obvs in '04™ Campaign is quite busy today, trying hard to muster up as many supporters as possible for Super Tuesday. With that, remember to go out tomorrow and vote for Peabs. It's your motherfucking obligation, you effing handjobs.

More tomorrow from the campaign headquarters. Until then realize that, much like Jesus Christ, Peabs died for your sins. And by "died for your sins," I really mean I snorted a bunch of coke last night because Peabs felt slightly guilty about the raging cases of crabs I gave you when myself and Coz double penetrated and emptied our jazzum into your ripe womanhood. You know, kind of like when JC and Moses double-teamed Mary Magdalene after having a little too much turkey at The Last Supper. Gobble!

I want to beat off in your oatmeal.

Obvs in '04™.