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 Blow it on my out-of-date lenses!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™.