How Many Licks Does It Take To Get To The Center Of My Effing Sack?
The answer is infinite. Obvs. Peabs packs more meat than Abe Froman. I also look devastingly handsome in a white tee shirt and sweater vest. Though, let's be honest here folks. You wouldn't fucking catch Peabs dead in said white tee shirt unless it was either Versace couture or made entirely out of angel dust. She mars all over your children of the stars, Shawn Mullins! And bee tee dubs, Shawn, everything is not gonna be alright unless the "rockabye" you speak of is the rock I buy from your fucking toothless crackwhore mother in exchange for a dirty sanchez and bucket of oatmeal. Bozzle!
So yesterday I was felating my houseboy Chavez when it Memut Okur'ed to Peabs that not only was I rather gorgeous, but also felating my houseboy Chavez. I also realized, with help from a skagged-out Coz, that Chavez was actually Julio Ceasar Chavez, the former boxing champion. I'm not terribly sure just exactly how he became Peabs' houseboy, but my guess is that it had something to do with the fact that on Election Night, an armadillo named Willow (sooooo cute!) fed me some LSD and MDMA, thus causing your gorgeous President to repeatedly say:
"Touch my fucking sack... shmears. Touch it again. Oh lord, I think I'm gonna spunk it on your forehead, Martinez!"
Maybe it's just Peabs, but the holidays seem to make me even more brills than usual. I blame the blow-laced eggnog. Obvs.
More lates. Your grandmother's calling from the other room, and she's begging to fingerfuck my asshole. Better tend to that before I nut my pretty self just thinking about old Mildred and her calcium-deficient digits probing my ooh-jah. Boo-jah!
Peabs/Cosby: 4 More Shmears!