Kitty Kat!! Get Off The Island!!

Like all past Presidents, yours effing truly had to get my yearly physical yesterday. Sure, this may seem a Tad Inhaler early in my term to get a check-up; howevs, the administration felt that since Peabs lives a bit of a "different" lifestyle than other former Commanders-In-Chief (besides maybe Taft, who had an infamous addiction to special K and bubonic plague-ridden slooty-sloot devotchkas, Ratzo!), it would be best to get it over with. And thank fucking Coz we did! Can you believe that I have high blood pressure? She effing mars. Other than that nonsense, Peabs is in tip-top shape (only 28 pounds underweight, nuhh), though I was told I could use a little more sleep. This makes sense, considering I've been pulling the same all-nighter since 1975. Ahh yes. 1975. That was the year Peabs discovered the art of sprinkling PCP into my morning whiskey, covering my Adonis bod with mayo and getting frisky with my Mexican house boy Mateo and a young, hung Scott Baio. That being said, I had Rodney Roo summon my personal masseuse/nurse/fluffer Hot Yogurt, and ordered her to inject me full of enough carisoprodol to kill Divine at an Amish Buffet convention in Sandusky. Be that as it may, it didn't work so well, for your gorgeous motherfucking President and Dr. Bill Cosby had been snorting crystal meth for five straight days with a Somalian hooker named Ms. Clyde Labia of Majoraville and the ghost of Edsel Ford. Bovs on your Model Tees, Ed! Boo-jah!


What are you fuckfaces doing this weekend?!?! Oh, you might dress up like Friar Tuck, sit in a bathtub full of chimpanzee spidunkadunk and listen to your CHANT album? Effing mo-mos. May Peabs suggest you visit my Taj Mahal¹? Obvs, Peabs may. What are you going to do about it? Fuck my Papa Roach in the anal cavity until his bicuspids bisexually bite your mumbly-bumbly off? Mars. Quoth the great Vincent Van Gogh:

"I cut my fucking ear off and sent it to a stupid fucking ho-bag because my pussy ass can't handle any absinthe. I'm also a hack when it comes to post-impressionism; though I am certainly better than that fucking assclown Gauguin. Punk-ass bitch motherfucker. Vinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!"

And you thought watching "The Bicycle Thief" on 'ludes and kit kat while getting your ass Edvard Munched upon by Mark Fidrych would get you off the island! So naive.

Until next week, my pleabs of Peabs. Anything you care to add, Coz?

"Yooooouuuuu seeeeeee, Dizzee Rascal likes to flazzum the frisbee with bumblebees and flizzum the stickball with Paul Westphal!!! Bozzle!!!"

Face it - Peabs is your reason for living. Lou Reed agrees. Schmobvs. Oh, you disagree?? I have five American dollars and my man-sherbert smothered all over your Muggsy Bogues that disagrees. Translation: Peabs just jizzum-jazzumed on your Templeton Peck, you cum-hungry twatty-twat. Zappa!!!!!!!

Obvs in '05™.

¹Peabs, I.M. Pei and Bodney Sue built the Taj Mahal in 1995. Duh. Oh you didn't know that? That's because I'm lying and wanted another excuse to use a footnote, Uncle Grambo-stizz. Gobble!

Castrated Incorporated.

Hi cutie! You wanna lappy-lap up Peabs' pre-jazz off of my Rod Carew and make a worldwide fad diet out of it? The answer is schmobvs. It's unfortch most of you mo-mos don't realize how many of those unnecessary ell-bees you'd take off by simply sucking my fucking D™. So please, by all means slobber away, you effing slutwhores! Yeah, just like that, baby. Tastes like USDA-choice 'roo, doesn't it? Bovs splitter-splattered all over your effing tatters! I bet you'd love for Peabs to Chute my Ladder all over those tees, eh Milton Bradley? Duh.

There are few things your loyal President hasn't done, and I am not afraid to admit such. Certainly Peabs has been one to spasm-jasm my spyro-gyra into Elmira's coffee (she takes it black; muhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!) and shat toffee into David Klingler's Debra Winger. But this does not change the fact that yours effing truly has never taken a burly Buckaroo Banzai up the Erie Canal for a gondola ride, despite what recent tabloids have been printing. Okay, sure, I might've ingested some 714's, ripped off my custom leather assless chaps and had Dr. Bill Cosby stick a lubed digit up my Moondoggie while Peabs Ocean Spray®'d my Wavy Gravy across the lips of PETA members, but I can explain my actions. You see, Peabs loves animals (duhvs, I'm both a kangaroo and turkey - gobble!) just as much as the next guy; but what I love even more is my Gucci™ buttplug made from the pubic hairs of several gay possum. And apparently there are some fucking agenda-hungry, Vegan Rebecca Romaine-lettuce munchers out there who feel that this is disrespectful to the opossum, claiming that they have already been persecuted enough for their sexual orientation by legions of other phalanger. So effing what if they packed more Superfudge than Judy Blume? Shmears! Personally, if I were a homosexual possum, I'd be more than happy to donate my skin to create sex toys for drugged-out supermodels who think they're President of the United States! Ivca¹.

Be that as it may, I've had PETA activists all up in my ooh-jah all weekend, and it's quickly putting them near the top of my list of people Peabs wants to billyclub over the head with a sterling David Silver Slik Willy². Luckily, Rodney Roo had been exclusively smoking levo alphacetylmethadol with PETA President Vag Snatcherstein, so he was able to convince her that my pretty ass should be the least of her worries. She should be concerned with Dave Pirner, what with all of that effing mayonnaise and lack of relevant music in his fucking hair. Lest we forget he's also eunuch. I would know. I'm a doctor. Hey Dave, Dr. Peabs wants somebody to shove their cock down Anne Rice's thrizz, Le Stat! And that somebody is me. Isn't that right, Bill Cosby?

"Yoooooouuu seeeee, Peabs, even Dizzee Rascal thinks your last post was Kibbles 'n Bits 'n Bits and rizzle rits on the Riddler's tits compared to this glizzum glitz! Flazzum!"

You all want to have sex with me³.

Obvs in '05™.

¹Fuck, my cacoethes loquendi and neologisms make you want to shit on my face and call me Omnilord of VaginaLand, you fucksticks. Ratzo Rizzo!

²Don't even get me started on Women's Lib, Leslie Bibb or Adam's Rib, for fuck's sake. Though Peabs must say, Ms. Bibb once fingerbanged my asshole so shats boombies, I thought she was going to jumpstart my boo-jah like a petty car thief on mescaline. Mars.

³Duh.

Surprise Surprise, Beef Brisket In Disguise!

Tiz is very much like Peabs' friend Rodney Roo. Both have a distinct appreciation for all things ooh-jah; each can put down a liter of Beefeater faster than Dr. Bill Cosby can assfuck Jared Fogle with a foot-long sweet-onion chicken teriyaki sub from Subway® (eat fresh! muhhhhhhhhhhhh! eat me!); and both men have a fondness for beef brisket. Schmobvs. Howevs, El Tiz loves beef brisket more than his uncle Maury Povich, whereas Rodney Roo prefers to donkey doo doo his Portia De Rossi all over his Bob Fosses. Be that as it may, it doesn't even fucking compare to the amount of flunitrazepam I gave Cito Gaston last night, just to get a taste of his hot Toronto Blue Jay. I was so effing Tinky-Winky kinky, the entire population of Yonge Street shat their toonies out of their canuckular veins and spackle-dackled cat valium into their Molson-soaked testes, eh! Mars she all over your effing fries smothered in vinegar and gravy, you fucking hosers! Ratzo!

How was your fucking Valentine's Day, you Cupid-fucking mo-mo King Jaffe Joffers? Did you fingerbang your father for a smokie-dokie snackie-poo of Peabs' totally motally rotally roo? I thinkn't. Doesn't change the fact that yours effing truly wants to be your valentine. And by "be your valentine" I really mean Peabs would luvvvvv to rubby-rub my Rooster Cogburn all over your Eula Goodnight and disarm you with a smile. I'll cut rails like you want me to, Billy. And then snort them with so much gusto, Michael Musto would be spank-a-danking in the corner, screaming Peabs' name at the top of his Village Voice. Oh Peabs!! Blow it on my out-of-date lenses! Bovs.

You don't even seem phased anymore, oh dear pleabs of Peabs. It's as though you've become immune to the epidemic that is Peabs. Could it be perhaps because my hot rod Cape Cod bod carries a strain of Hep-C that is more defunct than Daft Punk? I understand. From now on, I shan't speaketh or sayeth or gobbleth in ways which do not effect your psyche, but in ways that will sodomize your senses like Rocco Siffredi blows moneyshots in the ready, willing, Cane and Able faces of fancy ladies. Translation: before every post, Peabs The Great shall dissolve a sheet of blotter acid into a vat full of Thallium Dysprosium Dioxide (TlDyO2), teabag my Oolongs into said vat, freebase some crack out of a DivaCup™, and write utterly brills prose that makes Hemmingway look like Eric Da Re. Leo no! Leo no! Obvs.

It's the dawning of a new day!!! I want to assure you, my people, that you get nothing but 100 percent Peabs 100 percent of the time! Coz, don't you think my new approach to things will improve the overall reading experience here at SSTP?

"Yooooouuuu seeeee, Dizzee Rascal has become the ascot-wearing mascot of the University of Flazzum at Little Rock! Gooooooooooo Flizzums!"

My genius is flowing like fucking Mount Etna. And speaking of mounting Etna, why don't you bring your cute l'il Abner over to your beautiful leader and let me toss your salad. How else is my emaciated A gonna get my calories? Obvs, via your butt-leakage, you filthy fucking sloot. Oh, you don't dig on the Pacific Rim? That's fine. You can make it up to Peabs by snowballing Dr. Bill Cosby and jerking off Bodney Sue's rigga-rigga with some l'alba, l'alba, rinforza il petto sulle vostre coscie! Oh, and while you're at it, throw on some Norah Jones. Ain't nuttin' gets me in the pure moods like you Raviing my Shankar and cumming away with Peabs. Well, besides Fozzie The Bear's hott tongue on my D™. Wacca-waccobvs!

Unlike pimpin', Peabsin' is easy. Duh.

Obvs in '05™.

Cosby Comes Forward! And All Over Your Effing Mizz, You Slooty-Sloot!

Last evening on Fox News, Dr. Bill Cosby's accuser, Tamara Green, publicly stated how Coz drugged her ugly A and then "touched [her] inappropriately." And while my sidekick and Vice President was not there to defend himself, we here at SSTP would like to take the time to say that Ms. Green got it all wrong. He did not drug her "lunch." It was her dessert; a Jell-O® Pudding Pop, to be exact. And Coz did not leave her "two $100 bills on the coffee table." It was more like three bucks and a half-filled Dixie® cup of his jazz. Bovs. Furthermore, she also had the audacity to claim that he violated her in "worst possible way." Now let's be shmears here, folks. "Worst possible way?" What the fuck does that mean? Did he give you a dirty sanchez, using the diarrhea of a SIDS-ridden newborn, Ms. Green? Did he blumpkin you with your bloody tampon and make you call him Prince Playtex®? I think not. If anything, you got off scot-free. Millions of women out there would've loved to have been in your shoes, getting a chance to feel the Coz's manifest destiny all up in their Guy Ritchie. Shmears!

Be that as it may, Peabs is still rather proud of Dr. Bill. This incident occurred well before we became inseparable compadres, and it's good to see that the man was acting "inappropriately" even way back then. So with that, yours effing truly, your "hipster doofus" of a President (thanks to Anonymous for the compliment!) and his loyal, molester friend, Cosby, wish you a weekend filled with phencyclidine, rimjobs and John Wilkes Booth. Anything you'd like to add, Coz?

"Yooooooouuuuu seee, Dizzee Rascal is the king of the castle! And I am the queen of Diana Ross & The Supremes! Flazzum in the name of flizzum!"

Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.

Vatican Rhymes With "Shat On My Face Again." Obvs.

If there's anything we as the human race can agree on, it's that we all love Thai hookers. They're just so sultry and dirty and diseased; and I, Peabs, have no problem confessing my undying love for participating in unprotected, unlubed assbanging with three or twelve of them at a time. Schmobvs. Now don't start getting all high and mighty on your fucking President, you effing genital-warted cockharlot fuckass slutbags. You know you love these beautiful creatures, too, so don't be afraid to admit that shit. Oh, you're afraid your wife is gonna find out? You fucking pussy! I'll write you a fucking pardon. Hope you didn't forget: I'm the President – Peabs does it all the time. Shit, just the other day I had to pardon a skagged-out Rodney Roo for flying a plane into the living room of Columbian Vice President Gustavo Bell, and holding his family hostage with a double-sided dildo made out of smoked Gouda until they paid him an unlimited supply of meximelts. Apparently my good friend thought Gustavo was the founder of Taco Bell®. Dumb fucking 'roo. I guess all marsupials can't be as motherfucking brills as your effing truly. Isn't that right, Dr. Bill Cosby, you fucking rapist!?

"Yoooooouuu seeeeeee, it was Dizzee Rascal who fondled Piston Honda with a flazzumberry gasmcherry! Bazzum!"

Uh huh. Sure it was, Heathcliff. Don't fritter and fret, my friend. Peabs believes you, you Big John Studd you. Robvs.

In related news, Peabs was doing bongtokes of opium-laced Vioxx® with Pope John Paul last weekend when he admitted to me (in stoned confidence, which incidentally doesn't mean jack fucking shit, duhvs) his fascination with the aforementioned Thai hookers. So I felt it would be a good idea for Bodney Sue and Ratzo Rizzo to round up some Bangkok whores, snag a kilo of some potent blow and turn the Vatican into my personal effing brothel. Little did Peabs know that PJP would endlessly beg for his face to be shat upon for the remainder of the night. Lest we forget that the man blew so many rails of Alfie and started convulsing so heavily that he made the love child of Muhammad Ali and Michael J. Fox look stiffer than Justin Guarini during a confessional with Archbishop Chester McNamblavich XIV. Schmobvs.

Needless to say, what I learned from my little binge in VC is that all Catholics love to have their respective faces shit upon. Which is only fair since they, in turn, shit on everyone's face themselves. Especially little boys. Not that there's anything wrong with a little pedophilia now and then. Shmears. Just yesterday, upon circle-jerking to "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York," Coz and myself invited the entire Culkin family over for some marshmallowy treats and fistfucking goodness. Damn, that Rory's got a mouth that makes a dentureless Jessica Tandy look like Mufasa! Mmmmmmm, Mufasa. Remember when Peabs hakunaed your matatas? Sir Elton may have been feeling your love that night, but Peabs was feeling something else. And that "something else" was your big villainous lionhood all up in my ooh-jah! Mark your President's words when I say that bestiality is back in a big way in 2005! Bovs on your effing mane, Simba! Rawrrrrrrrr!!!

Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I'm really kidding. Well, for the most part. What the fuck would you do about it if I weren't? Peabs is more untouchable than Eliot Ness. Howevs, I do highly suggest you touch me. Preferably on my D™. Or just tickle my sweet A with a sweet pickle. I think it's excellent! Sweet Pickles is great!

That's not the only thing that's great. Yup, that's right. Peabs is great. So great, in fact, that from now on all future Presidents will be known as _________ the Great. I'm so fucking revolutionary. It's clear you want to rimmy-rim my anus and call me Christ. I don't blame you. I do it to myself on a daily basis. Why don't you fucks try to crucify my fucking ass? Huh? Yeah, I didn't think so, you effing jaggoffs. Shmears.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Happy Ass Wednesday! Be sure to shmear the insides of a day-old paczki all over your buttplug and think of Peabs while you eff your boo-jah! Hogsviously.

Obvs in '05™.

My Spidunkadunk Makes Your Vagina Look Like Phil Donahue!

Kiss Peabs, I'm Irish. And by kiss, I mean ess my fat D™ and milk my prostate with a gerbil name Herbie The Love Gerbil, you filthy fucking slutwhore. I was having passionate buttsex with trannie sailors in India when you were still wetting the bed and fingerfucking your grandmother just for some fucking oatmeal raisin cookies. And Peabs knows what you did with those cookies, you sick and twisted fucks! Shame on you. Luckily yours effing truly is a very forgiving individual. I make Buddy Ackerman look like your fucking bi-curious, HIV-pos sister, face down in the muffy muff of Rodney Roo! Mars she on your fucking Dynamic Theory of Gravity, Tesla! You know what the fucking sign says? Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Obvs. I'm a fucking sage.

So how was your weekend, oh pleabs of Peabs? Did you sit around and snort lines and get your salad tossed? Peabs did. Did you tape nasty, dirty sex conversations with some skank-ass Bubba Ho-Tep? Nope, that would be my good friend Dr. Bill Cosby (well, vice versa, but whatevsdotorg). Personally, I don't see what the big fucking deal is. Coz is the Vice President of the United Effing States of motherassfucking America; he should be allowed to drug and sexually assault anyone he pleases! Shmears.

Now before you get all Gloria Steinem on Peabs, realize this: I do not advocate sexual assault towards just women. If my man Cosby wants to go out and pick up some Liberace at a local glory-hole establishment, feed him a bunch of Gama Hydroxybutyric Acid and dildo-club him over the head like a wet dolphin, he should be able to do so. Why? Because he's a politician. And politicians can do whatever they fucking want.

Case in point? Peabs. Duh.

Just yesterday, I was freebasing some Catha Edulis on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial... while giving an Abe Lincoln to a D.C. cop! And did Peabs get arrested? Fuck no. I did get a phone number, though. Darlene, you're certainly getting a ringy-ding latro because Peabs hasn't been blown like that since 1849, Gold Rush-stizz. Well, except for you, my lovely Indira. Ain't nuthin' beats that sweet sweet way you gargle my man-spit and call me Младенец. And you're not even Russian! You are a fucking whore, though. Peabs' whore. Boo-jah!

Hey Coz!? You gonna let all this bullshit get you down?

"Yooooooouuu seeeee, Dizzee Rascal feels I should flazzum the fluffin with a blueberry muffin, and spizzum the fussin' with a bozzle of Tussin!"

That makes no effing sense, Coz. Mars. Maybe you should take a few days off and rethink what you just said. Here's some inspiration; perhaps watching multiple yous will make you realize that you're starting to lose it.

I'm just joking! You're still my favorite. But you're not the best. Peabs is the best. At everything. What's that, Muhammad? Oh, you wrote the Koran? Prove it, bitch. Peabs wrote that shit with my pre-jazz on Post-It® notes when I was 4 months old. You call yourself a theologian? Malcolm-Jamal Warner is more a theologian than you'll ever be, you fucking hack! Dude, SHMEARS.

Offended yet? Good. I needed to step it up a notch. Tomorrow's topic: the Pope's obsession with Thai hookers and hot carls. You all wonder why the motherfucker shakes so much. Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.

Bart Jemima: Professional Kangaroo.

The other day, Rodney Roo suggested to Peabs that I branch out from being the world's greatest, best-tasting and most gorgeous turkey¹. And what better way to do so than becoming a professional kangaroo? Dr. Bill Cosby agrees. Mind you, it will be difficult to replace my "gobble, gobble" call sign; therefore, Peabs plans to still use the phrase, though for now I plan to exclusively be a marsupial. I really, truly believe that it's not only a step forward for my pretty ass motherfucking self, but also for you, my pretty ass motherfucking America. And if you disagree, please suck my effing D™. Pretty please? With my hot spunk on top? You know you want to. I could feed Africa and Canada a hot jazz dinner and still have enough left ovs for dessert; that is if Peabs fucking ate dessert - which I do not, because it's for handjob mo-mo Ratzo Rizzo fucks like you, Kirstie Alley! Schmobvs.

Unlike turkeydom, the art of being a professional kangaroo requires a stage name, not unlike Rock Hudson or Jonathan Vaginaface. Coz suggested I seek guidance from his left testicle, but I attribute that to his massive consumption of thebaine. The always-wise Bodney Sue claimed that ex-Piston and current sports broadcaster John Salley was an expert on the subject. Apparently John and his twin brother Sally were the predominant 'roos in the early 1980's (hogsviously before John became a world-reknown yellow jacket and spider, snatch). Coincidentally, on Sunday evening, Peabs attended the same party as John Salley, who recognized me from the time I kidnapped and assfucked his filthy effing wife and held her for ransom in the sum of 40 dollars worth of skag and Mark Aguirre's pumpkinhead. Needless to say, it was an awkward meeting and yours effing truly immediately apologized, stating how I used to be a crazy fucking turkey and wanted to do something more with my life. You know, like the time I switched from shooting horse into my ooh-jah to shooting horse into my boo-jah. Duhvs.

The Spiderman saw that Peabs was dude shmears and with one snap of his fingers, he proclaimed me as Bart Jemima, professional kangaroo. Then I gave him an Abe Lincoln and tossed his wife's salad with such gusto, I made Alex Sanders look like Sanders® bumpy cake. Mmmmmmmm, bumps. Speaking of which; Coz, you wanna cut up some rails and invite Boris Becker over to play a little "how's your father?" in my pouchy-pouch?

"Dizzee Rascal razzamatazzed the guru jazzama-Tasmanian Devil with a rebel yell she wants more more yellow Jell-OOOOOOOO® like Old Yeller! Bozzle!"

Alas, poor Yorick, I guess we'll have to save that for another tizz. Looks like another boring evening of soaking my malnourished body-to-die-for in liquid acid and pretending I'm the President of the United States. Wait, you mean Peabs actually isn't the President? Have I been hallucinating this whole time?

Haha, I'm kidding. Whilst it's clear that Peabs has been tripping for years and shmears and tears for fears, it doesn't change the fact that I am the leader of the free world. Lest we forget I'm also the master of the universe. Eff He-Man, that vitzen spatchen Thor-wannabe mo-mo anklebomber (??????)!!! I HAVE THE POWER!!!!! She mars² all over your Pedro Almodóvars. I'm all about your fucking mother, you effing suckjob. Bovs.

To answer your question: no, it's really not that difficult being this brilliant and the most beautiful specimen the human race has ever encountered. Schmobvs. You so want to be me. Your lives are shit without Peabs. I'm the best.

Obvs in '05™.


¹As determined by a recent poll in Fiona's Turkey Enthusiast magazine. Which doesn't exist. Obvs.

²Or should it be She Ras? Nuhhhhhhhhhhh. He-Man references have about as much buzz as dropping mid-80's WWF® knowledge. And since Peabs does both, they have more buzz than a crackbaby getting breastfed by Whitney Houston. Robvs.