My Jizzum-Jazzum Has More Protein Than Dr. Atkins' Small Intestine. Bovs.

Peabs is fucking extraordinary in every facet. Bovs. That being said, Dr. William H. Cosby and my outstanding, modestly gorgeous self were saddened to hear of the passing of long time Obvs Administration supporter Johnnie Cochran. Few people in history even compare to Peabs as a litigator. In fact, I'm probably the most manhunterastic attorney in the hysterectomy of Nicole 4 eva, so fear this, Marky Mark! Jack says you've got a great big cock. May I see it? Please? Rodney Roo let me see his! And, unsurprisingly, his summer sausage was stumpier than a quadriplegic Clare Danes compared to the General Sherman that is my motherfucking D™. And boy does it fuck the mothers! Oh, you don't believe Peabs? What does it say on your birth certificate? Yup, that's a lie. I'm your effing father, fucknozzle. Just because I luuuuvvvvvvvvv you and feel somewhat guilty for not being part of your worthless childhood, here's a birthday present consisting of a Jolly Roger salad tossing and one free fistfuck from J.D. Roth's Fistfucking Fun House! Shmears.

So, yes, back to Johnnie. What few know is that the blackalicious lawyer served as head of my defense council in a highly publicized trial from 1984, in which a seven-year old Peabs was sued by a then-unknown doctor named Robert C. Atkins. Admittedly, I was not the world-reknown Jesus Christ Superstar I am now; Norman Jewison-stizz, hogsviously. Don't even bother vomiting on my fucking face post-beej like Sloppy Fozz on Thankgiving eve if you mention that mo-mo fucktard Andrew Lloyd Webber! Fucking handjob. Anyway, since Peabs was only slightly famous in '84¹, Atkins felt as though he could extort some Norm Cash from my growing fortune in order to get his "revolutionary diet book" a publicity boost without my beautiful pre-pubescent self making a big two in the pink one in the stink about it. Nothing's shocking my sweet ass, Jane! Schmobvs. Anyhow, personally I believe it was actually because Coz sold the doctor some of my equally revolutionary protein shakes to be marketed as his own. Little did he know that the shakes were simply my very own man-sauce packaged in a tin-can I procured from a bum Bodney Sue savagely beat to death when he was going through his Berkowitz phase. Oh, that Bodney! Such an enigma. Sade, donnes-moi! Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Lick it.

I contemplated representing myself (duhvs, I'm a fucking wunderkind), howevs Bill Cosby talked yours effing truly out of it. Peabs believes Coz's proclamation went something like this:

"Yoouuuuuu seeeeeee, me and Dizzee and Lizzie Grubman hired Johnnie to overseeeee the dee-dee in the fiddle faddle riddle raddle! Then Cosby piddle-paddled his way out of Sing-Sing with a Ming vase and Ving Rhames and flames coming out of my flazzum!"²

Needless to say, Cochran was one of the few attorneys whom I trusted with my case. Lest we forget in the 80's the man smoked more crackrock than Malice Green – pre-Mag flashlight, snatch – and dropped Cosby-esque vernacs seemingly every other syllable. And if there's anyone who can appreciate that, it's Peabs. Studies³ say ninety percent of what Peabs says doesn't make any sense to the layman. Which is precisely why you need my hot throbbing cock to lay you, man. Mars she. It'll open your Andrew Bogut to a whole new world, so come over here and rub my magic lamp, you roo-fucking 'tutes! In no time flat, "obvs" will sound like "obviously", and "tigs shats boombalats" shall resonate like glorious trumpets and tromboners! Isn't that right, Coz?

"Yoooooouuuu seeeee, me and Dizzee Rascal cacadackled the spackle tackle box, while Orville Redenbacher flazzumed his Rickenbocker with Betty Crocker! Puddin'!!"

Hmmmmmm. I'm not quite sure how often you'll need the old "in-out, in-out" from Peabs in order for Heathcliff to start making sense. My guess? Twice. Just bend over while I lubey-lube my unprotected and infected D™ with some room temperature Crisco® and buttfuck you all the way back to your velvety 'Frisco bathhouse, Moe-Moe Tucker! Peabs-a-roni: the San Francisco treat! Bovs.

Obvs in '05™.


¹According to French Tickler Fuckstickler Fagazine, Peabs was the 3rd most famous person alive in the year 1984, behind Barbaro Garbey and Winston Smith, respectively.
²Okay, so maybe Coz say that exactly. It was the fucking '80's, for Peabs sake. There was a reason why my nickname was Cokehead Von Hugecockerson. Obvs.
³And by studies, I mean what I estimated just now after snorting some 714's off your Aunt Fran's clitring. Ooh-jah!

This Is A Valley Of Asses - A Fantastic Farm Where Asses Grow Like Peabs' Hot D™...

Hi, lovers. Peabs is back like that heart attack your Grandma Ethel VanSnackinShack had last weekend after snorting too much blizzard of schmobvs and pounding RB and Grey Goose Gossichs like Dr. William H. Cosby pounds raw, gaping buttholes. For those of you disbelievers who feel that Peabs' plotlines and overall mental psyche have gone further south than a crackwhore pulling tricks on the corner of Shmears Ave. and Twatface St., you can lick my sweet nadalies while yours effing truly Otis Spunkmeyers a hot Charlie Parker onto your fucking face. My fucking prose makes the work of F. Scott Fitzgerald look like a chlamydic sore on the throbbing cock that is society. That was a metaphor. Schmobvs. Oh, you disagree? Peabs created metaphors, you effing handjobs. Lest we forget Peabs also wrote the original Ten Commandments in 2076 B.C. while rolling on E and getting spanked by Terri Schiavo's feeding tube. Bovs on your vegetative tees, you motherfucking mo-mo fucks!

No, shmeariously everybody. Peabs certainly knows that I have been a slight bit out of contrizz as of late. And whilst Peabs shan't apologize for such tomfoolery, instead your gorgeous President shall treat you – my somewhat loyal readers – to a vivid and poignant account of the hooker and blow party myself and Coz hosted at la casa de blanca last Saturday. You may be asking yourself:

"Peabs, hasn't your ridiculously good-looking and heavily inebriated self already had numerous parties involving the animalistic and drug-induced assfucking of filthy call girls in the White House?"

I'd be lying if I said no. Mind you, I'm paid to lie, being President and all. Duh. But that's just not Peabs' style. And we all know what that is, don't we kids? Oh, you seem to have forgotten? Well, let me give you a refresher course, you fucksticks. I like everything hard: liquor, drugs, buttfucking. Yet, Peabs also has a passionate, romantic side. And by that, I really mean I'm into getting all Meredith Baxter-Birney on your A and putting on a little Johnny Mathis while sodomizing your diseased lab-maj with a Mexican unlubed candlestick that I have fittingly nicknamed Senorita Conchita Unlubeylubed. El bovs, yo es el fucking icon. ¡Mars she on your asno caliente, usted muchachas asquerosas de la llamada!

Sorry. Peabs got a little sidetracked there. Fucking Rodney Roo was cooking up my morning syringe of smacky-wacky-poo and ooh-jah boo-jah boo, and he must've added a l'il kit kat paddywack give a dog a bone to give Peabs that jumpstart I always need in the morning (and hogsviously normally supplement by blowing teener-long rails of Yo-Yo Ma and dissolving crackrock into my quadruple espresso). Anyway, Bill Cosby and I put together a high-profile guest list made up of the nation's biggest supporters of the Obvs Administration. Sure, you had your A-list Hollywood types and your left-wing politicos, but it was someone unexpected who stole the show. Which is almost schmalways the case at our events. That's right, I'm looking at you, FDR! Wheelchair, my ass. Motherfucker snorted so many effing speedballs at my last party, I couldn't get his ass off of the head table of the State Dining Room! I will give you this, Delano; you've got some tigs shats to the boombies dance moves. You make Martha Graham look like Mark Graham. Frankie!! Robvs.

While FDR's performance at the last White House function proved to be more memorable than the time Peabs pulled out and blew my Clap-ridden load in between your eyes like you were fucking Goliath, it doesn't even compare to the rock n' cock show put on by Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah). For those of you unaware, the senator and Peabs have never been very copasetic on pretty much every issue imaginable. For instance, in the mid-90's, Hatch made public his opinion regarding the legalization of medicinal marijuana, his opinion being that he's against such. You can all guess my opinion. Duhvs. Fucking square. So I, in turn, during one of Sen. Hatch's televised appearances, tied the man down and took a heaping shit on his face in front of millions. Not to mention the fact that Dr. Bill Cosby once impregnated his daughter, Snatch, with a turkey baster full of his fertile, lukewarm man-gravy. And, she kept the child and named him Butterball! Gobble!

Maybe the man felt he was getting back at Coz and yours effing truly, but it was quite the opposite. How he even snuck into the party was beyond Peabs! Most likely that damn Bodney Sue, always trying to make things interesting. Fucking 'roo. Anyhow, Hatch felt it would be a good idea to emulate the persona of Long John Silver, freebase a potent hybrid of dimethyltryptamine and Flintstones® vitamins and yabba-dabba-doo his way to the grand piano, where house pianist Johann Sebastian Cockring had been tickling the ivories (among other things; I'm talking prostates, people!) for the majority of the evening. It was at this moment in which Orrin began to relentlessly heckle JS, requesting "Ode To Joy" every other minute. To which the musician responded:

"Senator Hatch, that was fucking Ludvig Van Beethoven. Not only am I not Beethoven, I'm also not Bach. My last name is "Cockring" and I only play the works of Tangerine Dream, you effing dildo."

This did not bode well with Orrin. He removed his pants and asked Cockring if he would "like to see this old Mormon put his own testicles down his 'hatch'." A shameless pun, we know, but it was still somewhat funny. Especially since Hatch had forgotten to remove his buttplug that bore a striking resemblance to Barbara Mandrell; and it protruded from his ass in such a way that, for some reason, turned on all of the whores in the room something fierce and spermtacularly Michael Rappaport. Add a little cocaine to the fire, and suddenly you've got a free-for-all fuckfest that makes last year's National NAMBLA Convention look like the basement of the pedophile who molested me when I was 2. I'm not positive (unless we're talking HIV), but I am pretty sure Peabs blacked-out mid-rimjob from Barack Obama. Care to clarify, Cosby?

"Yoooouuuuu seeeee, Cosby was too busy flazzuming Obama's mama with Dizzee Rascal's llama in the Bahamas! Rizzazzly speaking, I am a doctor first and a big batch of puddin' second. Waffle house, falafel blouse and tit mouse aside, Cosby also likes to flozzle bop on the side!"

I make fucking Stephen Hawking's talkbox look like a Peter Frampton concert. Oooh, baby, I love your way. And by way, I mean the way you slobber up and down my shaft macaroni and Peabs. Shmears.

Obvs in '05™.

And For Dessert This Evening, We Have Peabs' Homemade Crème Brûlée Shot Down Your Thrizz.

It's getting to be that time of year, kids! You know, when Peabs dresses up like the Easter 'Roo and hoppidy-hop-hop hoppidy-hops around like a senior citizen rolling his droopy snoop-a-doop-doop bratwurst Steven Fursts off! Schmobvs. Lest we forget how it's also that time of year where I golden shower y'all with some Hubba Hubba and Red Rock goodness gracious great balls of spermatozoon, just to make that whole resurrection of Christ much more hoombodnay fadnomay ooh-jah boo-jah boo! Isn't that right, Rodney Roo?

"Totally motally rotally roo!"

Spooky!

Now before Dr. Bill Cosby gets the urge to take a hot dump on your sassy Classy Freddie Blassie mizzle-mazzle, let your gorgeous President tell you about my weekend. It pretty much goes without saying that it involved white rice, head lice and Bo Bice. And, duhvs, I shot my hot joy-juice all over the Spruce Goose while getting fingey-fingered do you have to let it linger by Kip Winger! Peabs is only 17!! Bovs, that's a flat-out lie. I have the maturity of a hot 'n steamy preemie, the looks of a 25 year-old hot wet dreamy-creamy fuckstick and the vortexual sexual prowess of an infantile jack o' lantern! And to Das Boot, enough razzamajazzum in my nutsaculartastics to start a colony of slappy-nappies! Mars she on your effing viparitakarani, you fucking New-Age vegan mantra karma ball-licking mo-mos! Yogobvs.

Downward facing dog, my ass. Peabs prefers the jackhammer. Unprotected, snatch. How else you gonna hit me up with some o' dat AIDS luvin', you diseased harlotan? HIV-pobvs.

Lately, yours effing truly and my ubiquitous partner-in-crack, Coz, have been criticized for not making much sense here on SSTP. I'd like to personally state for the record that I am the President of the United States and have access to endless amounts narcotics and hot, dirty and loose vag. Mmmmmmmm, vag. Furthermore, because of this, Peabs should be able to flabbergast and glabberflast and jabberwocky my sake bombs with Vietnam during Ramadan eid Mubaarak kullu 'aamin wa antum bi khair all I fucking want! Right, Bill Cosby?

"Youuuuuuu seeeeee, Dizzee and meeeee would like to flazzum all ova Anna Kournikova while flizzumming the crimson 'n clover! Bozzle bizzle puzzle posby, you know my name is Bill Cosby!"

This just in: I'm the fucking best. You think there were a lot of tees at the Boston Party Tea Party? She mars, Ms. Camellia Sinensis, you fucking twatwhore. I make the fucking Dutch look like Christ on a crutch wearing Von Dutch! Voorbij duidelijk op uw fucking T-stukken!

Obvs in '05™.

Little Miss Muffet Sat On A Tuffet, Eating My Fucking A.

Come here, baby. Come give Peabs some love. No no, not that kind of love, you filthy old soomka! Are you prepared to boast and host and Emily Post the Large Margest sn-sn-sn-snausage your silky-smooth rootin'-tootin' uterus has ever has the pleasure of accommodating? Dr. William H. Cosby and yours effing truly felt that you whorish Catholic slooty-sloots have been so goody-goody gumdrops this Lenten season that y'all deserve a present. And by "present", what Peabs really means is that come Friday, my gorgeous self and my loyal cokehead sexual deviant sidekick will be treating each and every one of you to a juicy prime rib dinner, smothered in our au jazz. And if that's not enough, I'll be more than happy to allow you to Rimmy-Rim McRimmerson my fucking beautiful ass! Nothing compliments a hot beef dinner like a tossed salad, my lovelies. Kinda like how nothing compliments your Lipps, Inc. like my D™ club-manwiched in between them. Schmobvs! Speaking of doing massive amounts of Levitra®-laced angel dust and getting sloppily she marred by Babar, this week is National Motally Rotally Rodney Roo Week! Be sure to pick up a bag of peanuts and fashion them into anal beads and literally go fuckadee-fuck yourself, you effing Rik-Rik Rikki Rackmans! Bang your fucking head on these balls, you fucking butt-ratastic flabbergastrical bypassing ass-clown Bobby Brown bunny sunny day real estate masturbating wenweio3489ecdbnzxci8anmaw3eisdjsdbvq3w98sdjZ ksdmsysdksed8((mweksy3mOnsi8r) dn493bsd89s!!!!!!???!!!!?!?!!! Ratzo Rizzo!

You'll have to pardon Peabs. Bodney Sue shat on my winky-woo this morn and, because of Winn Dixie, it's made me antsy and dancing nancies! Peabs in every direction! Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

No really, oh pleabs of Peabs. I'm actually rather Fab Morvan! Blame it on the rain or the cocaine, but I haven't felt this rigatoni boney-maroni since Chef Boyardee licked my tees and easy-cheesed Betsy Ross' buttfloss with bisghetti sauce!! Lest we forget the Great Spooge of '75, when Coz and myself simultaneously ejaculated on each respective cast member of "Barry Lyndon." Remember that effing hotness, Bill Cosby?

"Youuuuuuu seeeee, Dizzzzzzzeeeeeeee Rascal flazzumed his prickly prick into Kubrick's knickerbocker wicker rocker! Flozzle bozzle mozzle movs, I'm gonna shatspadat 'cuz my name is Coz!!"

I have no fucking clue what I'm talking about.

Doesn't change the fact that Peabs is a fucking genius. She mars. When my moneyshot hits your eye like a big Peabs-a-pie, that's, well, my fucking hot load on your mizz. Duhvs.

More later, when I become more inspired. And by inspired, what Peabs really means is when I'm high on BenGay® and special K and getting my testes sucked upon by a nestie full of Westies! Gobbly gobbly goo goo goo!

Obvs n '05™.

Hush Little Baby, Don't Say A Word, I'm Gonna Cram My D™ Down Your Esophagus.

Spank me gently, you fuckface sack-licking mo-mos, 'cause Peabs is ready for some hottt butt-love! Oh, you haven't been brutally assfucked in decades? Fearn't, you effing borscht-loving jerkoffs. Your gorgeous President is more than Happy Scrappy Hero Pup to blow my cold beet soup all over your Isaac Mizrahi (dollup of sour cream included, snatch). And if you feel as though that is unsatisfactory, Dr. Bill Cosby will gladly tickle your labbie-lab with a dill pickle and a can of Tab®. Tab®. Muhhhhh. Reminds Peabs of 1985 while on the set of "Brazil", when yours effing truly freebased a rather lethal hybrid of pentazocine, an 8-ball of Yo-Yo Ma, and the pubic hair of Jonathan Pryce. Needless to say, the concoction made Peabs feel quite serengeti Dave Righetti ooh-jah boo-jah botally boo boo Berry-Berry Kix® all mixed up, don't know want to do, 311-stizz. So I had Rodney Roo go fetch something that would make my pretty fucking ass hallucinate something Raggedy Ann in order to sober up. And yes, that's the last time you'll hear the words "sober up" come out of Peabs' lippie-poos. But it certainly isn't the last time I'll gargle your Venetian secretions and spit them in your GoBot™ tater tots, Major Mo! Bovs splashed all over your tees, Walter Kornbluth.

Oh yeah, Tab®. Almost forgot. The somewhat gullible, yet magnificently Sammo Hung like a horse a horse of course of course, Rodney Roo thought that the fagtastic Soda Popinski was actually LSD. Alas, poor Roo.

But like Mindy Cohn always said to Peabs when I was face-down in her Honey Bunches of Oats®: "you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have my benevolent vagina thrusting against your gob." Being a brilliant engineer, I was able to fashion the pop can into a life-size statue of Ms. Pac Man receiving a John Wilkes Booth from both J.R. and Patrick Ewing. And you wonder why the Hoyas lost to 'Nova in the '85 national championship game. Or who shot J.R., for that Mats Wilander. Shmears. More like a smoking hot moneyshot of my jazzum-snot, Hagman! Ratzo Rizzo!

Anything you care to add, Coz? You've been relatively Silent All These Years today.

"Yoooooooouuuu seeeee, Peabs, I am not Dizzee Rascal. Contrary to the prairie dogs that burrow around my round-robin flazzum-flozzum, Dizzee is actually a rootin'-tootin' Rasputin gluten-free busy-bee! Bizzopplebop!"

Umm, duh.

And you thought I didn't have it in me to stay this brills for so long. Mars. The only thing I have in me is your mother's milk-warm tonguey-tongue, firmly placed in between my Maurice Cheeks, swirly-swirling Round and Round like Ratt. Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.