So Sayeth The Peabs


Thursday, April 28, 2005

The Diarrhea Of Anne Frank.

Yooooouuu seeee...
Peabs, Dr. Bill Cosby and our band of misfits - including Rodney Roo and Bodney Sue, vulvs - will be gallivanting sumptin' truly outrageous in California this weekend. Peabs is my name, no one else is the same, Peabs is my name! Peabs!


But don't fear, oh pleabs of Peabs; I shan't be astray for too long. Barring death, yours effing truly will be back next week. And since it's clear that I don't really give a fuck about updating that often, it shouldn't really appear to be any different than the usual. Well, despite your abnormally overwhelming feeling of exigency, most likely caused by the actuality that your life is rendered fustian sans Peabs. Duhvs. I make everyone's life worth living. Just ask Bodney Sue's mulatto, hermaphroditic partner Spooky Mookie. It would be a downright egregious understatement to say that my gorgeous fucking ass didn't spin his life right 'round, baby right 'round, like a record, baby. Dead or alive, Peabs'll still be Dame Judi Denching my igneous bovsum all over your fucking mantastic mammy-kins, Pete Burns! Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
The only thing hotter than Peabs breakdancing is Peabs breakdancing with MVB.  Bowww!  I'm fucking wonderful.
Anyhow, Spooky Mookie was once a happy-go-lucky carnie who exclusively traveled with the country's most respected third-rate circus, The Cockface Bros. Flying Ooh-Jah Extravaganza; which was coincidentally headed by my now-head of security, Cockface McJohnson. Wait, coincidence? Who am I kidding? Schmobviously Peabs is making most of this shats boombies up, so it should be boss hogs like Nurse Ratchet that my brosnan rosnan C-Face was involved. Fucking mars bars, yo. Bowwwwwwww!

Needless to say, although Cockface is an exceptional proprietor, even he couldn't control the rather obdurate Mookie. For those of you who didn't know, Mookie went a little bog snorkeling gonzo in 1991 when the seminal reclusive has-been grunge band Pearl Jam chose the jersey number of former basketball wash-out Mookie Blaylock as the title of their debut record. This made my spooky compadre despondent, to say the least. Overnight, suddenly Spooky was the third most famous Mookie in America. Dude shmears indeed.

This led to a downward spiral that makes Trent Reznor look like Daffy Duck all quacked-out on smacky-wacky boo-jah. Mookie upped his hikori intake to a kilo a day, thus making his state of mind significantly mondaine. Mind you, Peabs can handle my peyote with the best of them. Howevs, if you start consuming as much as Spooky on a daily basis, without warning you think your fucking cock is a restless native named Dandy Randy Boo Boo, trying desperately to extirpate from the union that is your hot bod. Isn't that right, Coz?

"Yooooooouuuu seeeeee, me Dizzzzeee think that this is a flazzication of numerous tumorous flizzumations! And your association with the assassination of Haitian nations is both bozzle worthy and flozzum and jetsum like George Jetson!!! Theoooooo!!!"

Peabs sees your point, Cosby. My D™ really does have it's own identity. Shit, it's fucking trademarked for Coz's sake! What was I thinking?

Oh, I know what I was thinking.

This blow really is effing tigs. And that smokin' hot salad tossing you gave me last night? Yup, it's up there with the best asslicking Peabs has received all week. Gobble, gobble!

Oh, and as for Spooky Mookie? All I did was shit on his face and he was fucking cured. Ain't nothing like holistic medicine. I would know; I'm a fucking doctor. Duhvs.

Rub my sack and call me Dad, I'm off to California, you effing handjobs.

Forever Obvs™.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Positively Bovs Street.

Bizzle bozzle!
Shmears. It would be an egregious antistrophe to say that your Pope, President and pride 'n joy, Peabs, had a derisory weekend. Normally, this would go without saying, but it's vastly apophthegmatic that one of my favorite pastimes is talking about myself. Duh. In fact, I believe it's third on my list, somewhere behind asslicking coke binges and fisting mongoloid orphans named Poo Poo. Oh, what's that Dr. William H. Cosby?

"What about the flazzum?"

Umm, no offense, Coz. But what exactly do you mean by "what about the flazzum"?

"Youuuuu seee, Dizzee and Coz are inquiring and conspiring and Spencer for hiring about the pontification of the bozzle!"

Ahh yes, that whole glorious debacle. Shmears.

Peabs is aware that my posts have been desultory, but my acumen is bona fide. Your gorgeous President and interim head of the Catholic church had been holed up with the College of Cardinals, as part of the election process for a new Pope. Whilst Peabs knew that my consideration for becoming the full-time pontiff was a long shot, I did my best at making myself appear as the most attractive candidate. Duh. I'm the most attractive person living or dead. Oh you disagree? Try being within a furlong of my bovsness for more than five seconds without simultaneously shitting your pants and fingerbanging your hot and throbbing lab-maj, you filthy fucking sloot! Peabs assures you that your attempts at denying my unequivocal fervorous tepidity will be futile! Shmears on your effing Du-X-Ring, you nefarious slutbags.

Anyhow, before the Cardinals congregated to select a new leader, each of us candidates had to go through a little self-promotion, if you will. And Peabs will, spank you very much. As mentioned above, there are few things Peabs enjoys more than talking about my fucking wonderful and charming exsistence, so I felt that I could use this to my distinct advantage. I decided against being innocuous, and instead short and sweet, despite the fact that Peabs is over six feet tall and so so effing dirty. Some say dirtier than my Mexican cousin Sanchez, but just slightly less dirty than Dirty himself. Mmmmmmmmmmboooooowwwwwwwww!!! Needless to say, I explained that my first name (yes, Peabs has one, though 'tis rarely used), Matthew, means "Gift of God" in Hebrew; for that reason alone, I felt the Popehood was mine. Now, hogsviously my omniscient self knows what you clever fucks are thinking. Peabs, aren't you God?

Certainly this isn't a far-fetched conjecture. Schmobvs.
The body of Christ.  Or an effing hangover.  Obvs.
Howevs, Peabs has always had more of a Christ complex than anything. Though I shalln't deny that I have proclaimed myself as God. Duh. Look at me. I'm so fucking pulchritudinous. That means "beautiful," you uneducated cockfaces. Mars. And contrary to popular belief, Peabs is the gift of God. Any rumors you may have heard foretelling said gift being a hookah filled with fuzzy-wuzzies and a box of Franzia® are merely scuttlebutt.

That being said, the priests apparently didn't take too kindly to this. They claim that my association with a known rapist and nonsensical pervert – that being Coz (robvs) – hurt my chances at becoming the new Pope. And since yours effing truly had been couped up this past week (sans blow, no less!), I hadn't heard about my beautiful black friend's recent sexcapades. Personally, I think this is fucking bullshit. So effing what if Coz touched a few women here and there? Last I looked, there was something like 800 million Catholic priests charged with habemusing little boys papams. She fucking mars.

This was probably a blessing in disguise, what with all of my burgeoning responsibilties as leader of the free world. Lest we forget I was itching something fierce for some sort of line, rail, bump, hit or toke, and another day of sobriety would have more than likely driven Peabs to start huffing paint again. And we all know what happens when Peabs huffs paint, right?? Boo-jah!

So with that, on this first day of my twenty-eighth year, I, Peabs, declare myself Emperor of the Universe. How does that sound, Dr. Bill Cosby?

"Yoooooouuuu seeeee, it sounds good to meeeeeee and Dizzzzeeeee!!!"

God damn right it does.

Forever Obvs™.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

April Golden Showers Bring My Fucking Urine All Over Your Effing Ooh-Jah!

Youuuuu seeee, my finger has a flazzumy linger to it!  Must be the flizzum!
It had been much too long since Peabs had heard from my good friend and long time Obvs Administration supporter Alex Sanders. I was in midst of receiving my morning papal cock-swabbing when the infamous ass-eater phoned, and it made me happier than Dr. Bill Cosby high on yayo, rubby-rubbing his lukewarm smegma all over the upper-lip of Lukas Haas. Got flazzum, Scott Dandridge? And by flazzum, I mean gobby-gobs of oozing cock-cheese. Everybody says you love it, you fucking gallon of momogenized milk. Yummy yummy yummy, I've got bazzle in my tummy! Muhhhhhhhhhhh.

Anyhow, being both the leader of the free world and Catholic church has been rather highfalutin for yours effing truly this past week. So it should come as no surprise that my formidable, salad-tossing porn star friend would want to come to the aid of Peabs in my time of urgent desideratum. And what better way to take the load off of my rather sickly and emaciated shoulders than to take said load and blow it all over the primed aperture of famed ex-slooty sloot of Pope John Paul II, Margaret Clitherow. No, shmeariously. That's actually her name. Mars she.
Your pontiff, post-spliff.
It should go without saying that Alex Sanders, at the very least, owed Peabs. Whilst I was quite grateful for the gesture, it was expected considering what my pretty ass motherfucking self and Dr. William H. Cosby did for him last year during our campaign for the Presidency. Now I've risked my foxy, dreamboat, insured-for-a-billion-dollar neck for many a douchebag parvenu in my day. For instance, in 1981 thesaurus mogul Peter Mark Roget was in dire straits, financially. Contrary to popular belief, this had nothing to do with his flunitrazepam-inspired obsession with Mark Knopfler, but rather his feeble dependence upon sloppy hot gay beejers from Webelo-ranked Cub Scouts and mainlining lonamin® into his scroaty-scroat. Oh please, like you've never wanted a tepid young lad's arrow of light all over your boo-jah! Shmears. Obey the law of my fucking sack.

Nevertheless, Roget blew his fortune foolishly and came to his close friend, Coz, for guidance:

Roget: "William, I supplicate your auspices. I have become penurious and destitute."

Coz: "Yoooooooouuuuu seee, Roget, me and Dizzee feel that your flizzum has become too fizzy! Falafel your riff-raff laffy-taffy to Peabs, and suddenly all will be bizzle bozzle!"

Roget: "So you are adumbrating that I desist my overwrought use of the English language, and barter all of my highbrow theories to your bewitching, narcotic-consuming inamorato, Peabs?"

Coz: "Flazzum!"

So with that, Peabs purchased the rights to Roget's publications. And because I'm such a benevolent heartthrob, I not only decided to keep the original name, but also made it a point to use it as a tool for seemingly every other word written here on SSTP. Bovs. Peabs might be a fucking prodigy, but from time to time I do need a little assistance – from myself! Bowwwwwwwwwwww!!! You fucking love me.
Находится на моей головке?
Oh, and as for how I helped out Alex Sanders? Well, unsurprisingly he had acquired a butt rash that made the splotchy-splotch on Gorbachev's forehead look like the syph that had been festering on my nutsackalicious since the time Peabs respectively teabagged Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem. Manah minahobvs!

Needless to say, since the application of Peabs' tongue to any bodily perforation could cure effing cancer, I rimmy-rimmed Alex Sanders' sweetly shaved ass, sopping up any remnants of a breakout. And you know what, jerkoff? It tasted like turkey! Gobble gobble!!!

God bless Peabs. I'm amazing.

Obvs in '05™.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

All-You-Can-Eat Tossed Salad Bar For Everyone!

Youuuuu seee, my bazzlebiz is huuuuuge, but my flazzum is even bigger!  Bozzle!
Rodney Roo and his on-again off-again girlfriend Windy Mindy are so fucking funny. Every once in a while, the constantly incongruous Roo will purloin from Dr. Bill Cosby's stash of microdots and have his rooty-toot slooty-sloot of a fuckbuddy enemize his tender crispy bacon cheddar ass with some meprobamate. Why, you may ask? Firstly, there's a Peabs that wants you to have it your way. And, boviously because it chill-out maxes 'n relaxes and numby numbs the sphincty-winkty in such a way that in the matter of seconds, you'll be shatting Rhea Pearlman for days! But wait, Skeet Ulrich!! There's more!!

Actually, there isn't. Peabs is just in an especially jubilant mood today, for reasons I cannot quite pinpoint. Though, I am certain it has much to do with the romantic and frantic antics that yours effing truly and Coz took part in the evening before last. Now it should schmobviously come as no alarm and no surprise that your gorgeous and fearless leader was emotionally drained, what with last week's passing of Johnnie Cochran and Saturday's death of my close, personal friend, Pope John Paul II. That being said, in order to brighten our spirits, Cosby and myself made our way to our local Olive Garden. One must consider the fact that Coz and I had been tripping balls on peyote for 72 consecutive hours, so in our brills (yet dissociatively Vans® Warped Tour) minds, this was the closest to Italy we could be in order to pay tribute to our recently deceased pontiff. Plus, Peabs scored a coupon for free wine all night with purchase of the all-you-can-eat salad bar, so it seemed like a no-brainer. Schmobvs.

Little did myself and my hot Nubian sidekick know that the "all-you-can-eat salad bar" at the O.G. did not mean unlimited ass-licking rimjobby jobs from a skagged-out Shelley Duvall. And since we're not big consumers of food (duhvs, eatin's cheatin'), we opted to instead slam a gallon of Riunite Lambrusco and fashion the empty bottle into a gravity bong, with which we used to freebase some Mussels di Napoli sprinkled with bovs-laden MDMA. Needless to say, Dr. Bill became rather frisky-whiskey with the other restaurant patrons, insisting that "when you're here, you're flazzum!" This translated hogsviously means your Spiro Agnew is fair game for Heathcliff's monstrous Richard Nixon slappage. Ejaculate all over your Watergates, Deep Throat! Bovs on 'em too while you're at, you effing mo-mo buttfuck. Shmears.
God bless my holy D™.
It didn't take long for us to be removed from the eatery, but it didn't stop there. We called Bodney Sue and told the maniacally deranged marsupial to prepare the White House with some squalid B-girls and a grandiose passle of flake, for there was to be an ostentatious coronation that evening! Cosby suggested that Peabs take over as interim Pope until the Catholic church decided on a replacement for J.P., and I couldn't think of a more Count Von Tigglesworth way to pay respects for my great friend and long time supporter. Acting as legal coronater, Cosby emulated his inanimate litigating hero Cochran, eloquently dubbing yours motherfucking truly temporary spiritual overlord:

"Yooooooooouuuuuu seeeeeee, me and Dizzee dub Peabs as the Pope, for it's yooooooouuuu that flazzums the most dope! Flizzum!"

So with that, I am no longer Peabs The Great. Sure it was a hot run, but I am setting my sights on bigger and better things. Obvs, I've already done more for the Presidency in four months than any of our past leaders combined. And whilst I am unsure whether or not I'll put my name in the running as a candidate for the permanent successor to Pope John Paul II, my part-time stab at the job will no doubt make Catholicism tickle the fancies of even the least-dedicated of religious followers. And by "tickle the fancies," Peabs really means I'll vellicate your vaggie-vag with my holy D™ and auto-asphyxiate you with an anal bead rosary! Pius has got nothing on Peabs! Mars she all over your Father, Son and the Holy Peabs!

I'm the best.

Obvs in '05™.