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

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.

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.

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™.