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