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™.