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™.