Wednesday, October 29, 2008

A Midsummer Nights Raptor

from the depths it came
Lands fall to plague before it
failure quells it's ire

Ah Fall, that special time of year. Like the Brown Bear it is a time when the Stevester's thoughts and dreams take on a tender, softer appearance, for the time of hibernation is near, the Baconator has sated his hunger, and the air is crisp with the sweet smell of apples and pumpkin spice.

It is a different story for a certain wily raptor.

I am moving. I signed the paperwork, I got a place in Smithville that overlooks a pretty good-sized fishing pond (though with my incessant fear of fish that selling point was totally wasted on me) and is right off the town square, the final sign that I am moving up in the world. In a time honored tradition carried by my family for generations, instead of calling professional movers or renting a truck, I had planned on simply getting a caravan of my family together, and having them help me move with the promises of money, and then as tradition dictates never pay them.

"I thought this post was about Smeagol, I'ma stop reading right now, baby" you might be saying to yourself, playing funk guitar and eating exotic cheeses while rigin a unicycle naked, but hear me out, I will get to that raptor soon enough.

I was wondering if I should invite that raptor along to help move. I know he would feel offended if he was not asked, which once he finds out I live closer to him might lead to even more thefts when he comes over, but the inital amount of stuff that would "disappear" during the move is going to be a big hit as well... .

Smeagol has a long history of stealing things or begging you into oblivion during moving. He is no longer allowed to help my aunt move as he stole stuff like soda and PS2 games from our 4 and 5 year old nephews (this is an allegation until I receive proof, but it IS kinda strange that he came up with some sweet new games that he claimed he "got from a pawn shop" soon thereafter. I know for a fact that when Smeagol enters a pawn shop they move right for the register because he only has one kind of business in a pawn shop and purchasing things is not it.

Of course he is not allowed to help my sister move, and I do not think my mom would allow him to help, either.

Another reason is he has the strength of an ape.....action figure from a GI Joe toy set. Remember when I told you he needed to put 2 pairs of socks on each hand and needed mover assist for tiny boxes?

On the other hand, Smeagol does have his strengths.If he has the idea that he can get more from you by not stealing, he will make sure everything you wanted to make the transition to your new home makes it there, with his raptor eyes of carnage. He will also tattle tale on anyone else who dares steal, even if he ends up stealing it soon thereafter. I dunno... should a brown bear trust a raptor? This is unprecedented.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Smeagol, from the Ethiopian Raptorsmeagolis

booty ass OT
is a bitch motherfucker
but where's the Prelude?

So I get a call from JJ on Friday, while I was busy not posting to my blog, and he related this fantastical tale that I thought I might share.

Apparently Smeagol's happily ever after with his Prelude of Justice was short lived. Kudos to the one who can remember when he actually bought the Prelude, I think it was like 3 weeks ago but I could be wrong. Anyway, Smeagol shows up at my mom's house....on the Metro. As you should all know, the Metro is full of homeless people, winos and hookers. Smeagol hates homeless people, and winos. The hookers are fine. But knowing that Smeagol hates the unfortunate so much, him riding the bus means something drastic had happened.

Had the authorities found out his temp tag that doesn't expire for 3 years was a fake?
Had he been in another hit and run?

Did he fall asleep and someone took his car and maybe stick a carrot in his asshole to stem the flow of funk?

Apparently not. JJ watched with interest as Smeagol hobbled up to the house, moaning in either sadness or ecstacy, you can never tell with him.

"Heeeeyyyy niiggie," he cawed, "can you give me a ride home? Mmmmmmmmm...."

Smeagol went on to inform JJ that his car had run out of gas and a tail light had gone out. The fact that for just a tiny bit more than he had spent on the bus and what he should be giving JJ to make a 40 mile round trip in a car that only gets 15 MPG he could remedy those issues was apparently lost on that wily raptor. He informed JJ that he could finish what he was doing and that he would go in and fill his toilet and catch a quick snooze, which meant he had planned on taking a raptor dump and then stripping down to his thong and laying spread eagle on the couch, but we all know that by now.

And so JJ, who had his girl coming over later, drove Smeagol all the way home for the sum of 3 dollarinos. QUestions at this point abound. What was Smeagol doing south of the river when he worked only 3 blocks from his house? Why did he not have JJ help him push his car either home (as it was not there when they got there) or to the gas station like any normal person would have done? Where did the three dollars come from? Why did I wake up with a nasty itch and a burning sensation in my trousers? All good questions that must be answered.

I'm sure you all have theories, and I'm sure most if not all of them have something to do with the local constabulary corps, and I will try to find out; the problem is Smeagol is incredibly unreliable, as should be referenced by him being fired numerous times from his old nursing home job for various reasons, including my favorite, taking his doberman pinscher and allowing her to bite people. It probably was nowhere near as dramatic as you are picturing, but I like to picture Smeagol, wearing a cowboy hat much too small for him, curled up like a cockroach on the floor in the corner while the dog drags some terrified old lady by... great things.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Smeagol Race, pt II

santa caligon
Mullets are gifts from Heaven
I cry with passion

Smeagol's Races pt. II

OK, SO I posted part I of Smeagol's magical race history, and now here is part 2 in the 43 part series (I am exaggerating).

The Hit and Run

I know I spoke about the last hit and run Smeagol had in the Bronco, but did I tell you there were 2 of these incidents?! I didn't? Well sit back and enjoy, my friends!

Twas a magical August day, magical because it was one of the few that I had nothing to do, which is a rarity in my life. ON an aside, I ALWAYS have a ton of crap to do. When I was in high school, I went to school, played football, and worked in the evenings. When I got out of school (read: dropped out) I worked in the evening and went to school in the mornings. Now I work and go to karate and try to keep a certain wily raptor from stealing things from my house. I'll be glad when I am dead, I'll finally get some damn sleep.

Anyhoo, like I said, I was laying around in the living room, after the incident where I threw a hatchet through a glass table and accidentally left Bagheera's cage open while the rabbits were out I figured doing things would lead to more trouble (I dunno if I will post on that magical day, cocaine's a helluva drug), and Smeagol comes walking in the door in an elevated state of failure. Now it was strange, because I did not hear his Bronco pull up, which I should have because we did not have any of those pesky windows to block out the noises/bugs/squirrels/urine streams that constantly barraged our home, especially after our neighbor's drunken brother held us hostage that fateful night for 5 dollars and then pissed on our car (I will try to get to that, great times).

Apparently, Smeagol was attempting to race his 1985 Chevrolet Blazer against someone who was driving a 1996 Pontiac Trans Am. This was usual, Smeagol didn't usually let things like overwhelming odds or the local authorities to mar his fun, and this was to be no different. As we all expect, He was blown out of the water, as I am pretty sure the gentleman driving the Trans Am never even knew he was racing a wily raptor, and was trying to catch up.

That was mistake number one.

Smeagol runs red lights when he is racing, his favorite quote is that if they are more than 10 feet off of the ground they are optional, which really annoys me because every time he says that Mystery goes "really?" WHich causes him to launch into a retarded diatribe about how it is illegal to stop someone who runs red lights and I don't feel like getting into it.

Anyway, so Smeagol runs a red light and runs right into a hapless gentleman driving an old Buick. At this point, you or I would stop the car, get out and make sure everyone is alright, exchange insurance information and wait for the authorities to obtain a police report. Well, Smeagol has 1) never attained insurance for longer than it takes to get his car legal,2) has not gotten a car legal since he got the new updated Missouri tag,3) would never wait around long enough for the local authorities to show up as they would arrest him even if he was only an innocent bystander, so Smeagol did what any responsible raptor would do: he fleed the scene, leaving behind a little of his headlight, his front plate, and some of his thong.

Such genious deserves recognition, but it doesn't end there! Instead of parking in the driveway, Smeagol came upon the bright idea that he could park his clearly damaged blazer across the street from his house, in plain sight of said house and now on a busy street, and no one would be the wiser. The knock on the door a few hours later told us this plan had some flaws. On an aside, why would Mystery answer the door, with Smeagol in plain view, I mean PLAIN view, as he is lounging on the couch allowing his saggy balls to take the breeze, and with a straight face tell the authorities that that crazy raptor is not there? The sheer idiocy of such a statement would give the best of us pause, and probably almost baffled the police into not believing their own eyes.

I will try to post later on today, but the next month or so will be hectic as I am actually working, it totally sucks.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The Race, Pt. II

you see the debate?
yeah, I was watching porn too
fistersister rules!

...will be tomorrow's post, I promise. I was watching last night's debate, and realized how futile John McCain seems. If you are a McCain supporter, you may want to navigate away. I finally wrote to the rudepundit.

If you do not know who the rudepundit is, check this out. Fantastic, no? I started reading it about 3 years ago when the website closed, and it is very readable. In closing, here is the email I sent, hope you enjoy:

OK, I've had it. Last night, I watched as an old, completely out of touch with anything newer than the Manhattan Project old geezer was outwitted, out matched, and outclassed. And once the moderater finished doing all of those things, Senator Obama hit him even worse.

But the true, frothy outrage came when I was watching the "analysis", and by "analysis" I mean "retarded meanderings of the diahrretic bowels of whatever sacks of shit they could find that had not already said the exact same thing". I listened, shocked and dumbfounded, as they claimed Obama spent much of the debate "backpeddling". WTF?! I mean no, seriously, What. The. Fuck. Did they not watch the same debate I did? Because what I saw can best be described in this mini skit I am going to make up. Here, for shits and giggles you pick a role, let a friend be another, and hire an old emphasymic (I know I spelled it wrong, fuckin' sue me) hooker to play McCain! It'll be fun!

o = Obama m = Moderator j = McCain

m = Senator Obama, what is your stance on economic policy?
o = Well thank you, Bob, I believe we need to blah blah blah, I would like to reach across the-
j = Senator Obama is a raging pedophile.
[stunned silence]
m (while looking at McCain, who said that with a straight face) = Uh...OK. And to you again, Mr. Obama, what do you think is the most pressing issue for Americans today?
o = Well, I think the most pressing issue is the economy, with high gas prices and education coming up as close respective seconds and thirds. If I am given the honor of bein-
j = Senator Obama was the third gunman on the grassy knoll.
[slightly less stunned silence. Someone in the audience nervously clears his throat]
m = Uh....alright. Senator McCain, what would you do to pull us out of our current economic downfall?
j = When I was a young boy, I dreamed of being an orange. Of flying through the air, and saving children and curing disease. Senator Obama raped a dog yesterday, and lathered his cock in it's bloody shit before sticking it in a leukemia pationt's mouth as he slept.
m [after a few seconds staring in disbelief at this old woman] = Senator Obama, your rebuttal?
o [also looking at McCain, who has started undressing at the podium] = Uh...I would....uh...I would start by giving middle class Ameri-
j (dancing around like a drunken leprechaun) = Shit leg turkey fuck bunghole petunia! Shit leg turkey fuck bunghole petunia!
[in the audience, some of the lower IQ'd people start believing him, and are looking at Obama with a mixture of contempt and embarrassment]
o = While I have no idea what he is doing right now, I would like to point out that I agree with Senator McCain on some issues, such as bailouts and trying to reform the education of our young children. One of the ways I can make this work better is -
j = Barack Obama's mother introduced AIDS to America.
o = No, she did not.
j = You're a pedophile.
m = Let's switch gea-
j (Looking at Obama with idiocy in his eyes) = You're a pedophile.
o = No I'm not. Can we talk about the iss-
j = You're a pedophile.
etc., etc., ad nauseum

It is at this time, gentle reader, that some of the, how shall I put it diplomatically, more impressionable constituents watching this debate began believing Barack Obama was a Muslim Arab Pedophile Terrorist, and began frothing at the mouth in retarded anger, jiggling pockets of fat covering red-sore laden vaginas or long flaccid demi-cocks, mouths turning into tributaries of anger, with crows feet accentuating extra jowls as they wonder when the Arabimaniacs are going to burst through the door, lift up the huge layer of fat and violate them. If someone calls you a pedophile 10 times in a row, you have to realize that there are people out there stupid enough they will believe it, much as they believed Saddam Hussein was one of the original 20 who attacked America on 9/11. As much as it hurts you to dignify such a response, you have to dignify it with a response, or the frothing masses will have your head over it. When did Joe Sixpack become so fucking stupid?!

It's sad, frankly, that our political climate has devolved to this point. I know, I know, I promised I would not get all political but sometimes you got to.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Hole-EE SHeeeeit!

A gentle kiss comes
but our love, it's just so wrong?
Wii-ner Fit, indeed

Alright ya'll, there's too much for me to get all this in one post so I will have to split this all up. I took my mom to the Rennaissance Festival, that will be one post. Today though, I must get into more pressing issues.

Another thing, Smeagol called tonight. It is enough for a whole new post, but you will have to wait.

Tylester got back today, and apparently his handshake unprotected with Smeagol finally took it's toll on his frail body like a marauding rebel force. You all remember The Tylester touched Smeagol's claw, which had previously probably been ensconced in his thong or a random resident's anus. You will also note The TYlester was out sick all week last week. Apparently he went to the doctor, who proclaimed his liver was suffering. This should come as no shock, especially when they drew blood and it was 140 proof and the nurse was sued by Pabst Blue Ribbon for copyright infringement for not turning said blood over to them, as it is actually used to hold the recipe for their, actually not so bad beer.

Anyway, the doctor says something is wrong with Tylester's liver, and orders some tests to be done, among them hepatitis, all of which he.....failed. The doctor now has no idea what is wrong with the Tylester's liver, but you, my intrepid readers, do. ANd so we must all work together, to come up with a cure for Raptoroptomy, as it is infectious. Trust me, I know. Simply walking by him can cause credit card failure, low gas mileage, and a failure to produce sperm. Help me.

On another front, do you all remember the Lillian Ray stories? No? Fuck you then punk! I worked hard on those scams. Anyway, I get an email out of the blue from some guy in SLovakia, named Salsito. Apparently Lillian Ray was sending him emails and one of the return emails in her little email list was mine. He asked what I knew about her, and friends, I think I have a new partner in my scambaiting operation. I will post some of this gentleman's excellent work in the coming days, please give him the same love you give me: that is, completely platonic, with the occasional awkward copped feel.

Thank you

Monday, October 13, 2008


We will have to meet up later this week, Tylester has been sick this past week and Smeagol is working at his "Second" job today.... I'll let you know, I think Smeagol has Wednesdays off...

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Alien Retard

Ligget, don't stigget
You can sugget, don't fuckit!
Youuuuuuu liiiiiggggeeeett damn Steve!

So it was that your friend Stevester was getting tired of living under Toboggan Boy's reign. Janet was getting crazier and crazier, pulling her hair back tighter and tighter, and she always made this weird noise with her mouth, this inhalation of snot and a popping sound like she was trying to swallow a load, which she might have been I dunno. Alphabet drug dealers came by more and more frequently, V, J, K, ~, and we were forced to go to the store and purchase food for them, while we ate our daily rations of a cinnamon roll and/ or an egg sandwich. FuuuCK!

Toboggan BOy had not taken his fateful ride down the front steps yet, but he was getting more and more annoying as he became more and more cracked out of his mind, coming home and walking around the house, all wide eyed looking for stuff, always telling JJ and I that he was a foolish man, that with love and support he would change his life and move up in this world, then immediately heading up to the Enterprise, which is what I will now call his bedroom. It's pretty sad that at this time moving in with Smeagol seemed like a good idea, and in retrospect I may have been better off simply getting addicted to drugs. Dad had just told me in lieu of getting me new school clothes and trying to pull myself out of the quagmire he had placed us in, he was planning on buying me a little bit of every kind of drug he could find, letting me sample them, and seeing which one I wanted to become addicted to, showing why he was still in the races for "Parent of the Year".

Smeagol was in the middle of a custody battle for his kids, who are both bigger than he is and probably completely successful now, and had just introduced me to Mystery, or rather her photo, which I erroneously thought was a friggin dude. I enjoy reminiscing about the olden times, but this story is about the last time I showed any emotion, other than my o face which strangely enough I use more often when taking a big dump.

Even though we had moved and I was no longer in school, my girlfriend at the time was still with me, why I still don't know, since she routinely told me at that time that she was too attractive to be with the likes of me, and before I realized ladies love fat black guys I assumed she was right. I needed to devise a plan to get back in school North of the River and thus things would magically get back to normal. This would take some finagling the likes of which I have never tried before, observe:

!) Grandma: In order to go to school north of the river, I had to have an address up North there. THe only person I knew who lived anywhere near the school was my grandmother. I foolishly asked Smeagol to run me up there, not knowing she was already well versed in turning raptors down, and that he had been up there recently begging for money to buy another wrestling jersey, which I thnk he used to hide the fact that he had no muscles.

We get up there, and before I can even say anything, start putting the moves on her, Smeagol starts in with his stupid "You can't say no, niggie!" whining about how he needs money to pay his car payment, causing her jowls to sag with annoyance. Fucklick! I cut in on his sales pitch to inform her that I too wanted something from her but it was nothing monetary, causing her to quit paying attention to the raptor sitting there, letting his thong scent taint her couch (I went up there like 5 months later and there was a different couch there, coincidence? I think not).

"I just need to use your address so I can go to a good school, I will drive myself to and from school every day, I just need an address in the Northland." I said hopefully, thinking if I went the education route I would get a better response. I had forgotten she hates niggers though, so her response, in hindsight, should not have surprised me: "Well, I can't tell a lie' - wait WTF?! THis hoe ain't George Washington! I was told by my dad that my grandpa is actually my grandpa's brother, who she started banging behind his back, and NOW she has values??!?!
'because that's not who I am, I know your dad will get you into a good school." For the record, to flesh out her retardedness or pigheadedness, she, to this day, thinks my dad has smoked 1 marijuana cigarette in his lifetime. I am still not sure what she thinks that while film around his lips, the burn marks on his fingers or his random outbursts of "Nigga I want some crack!" mean (I kid about that last one, but if you have seen my dad, picture him saying that in a Tyrone Biggums voice. If you do not know who Tyrone Biggums is, kill yourself)

Later: Part 2, where I go live with a buddy of mine and somehow ruin a friendship, also with my confrontation with Toboggan Boy in full effect ya'll!

PS - It has come to my attention that there are approximately 10 stories I have started but not finished, let me know which ones you want to hear finished and I will work on those first

Tuesday, October 7, 2008


I'm a foolish man

take that cigarette from me

and hug the bad out

Random Question #4 - What asshat decided work should start so damn early in the morning? I mean seriously, why can't work start whenever I get up? Fuck I hate having to wake up in the morning!

Anyhoo, no one cares about my inability to wake up on time for work, let's get down to business!

.......and so Stevester fell into a rut, coming into work, taking phone calls and fixing things Flanders was always too busy to work on himself, listening to Max, Derka and Jason all laughing, joking around and having a good time, always under threat of seeing under Greyskull's leather skirt or being called into her lair, dank with the smells of incompetence and failure, though not all that unfamiliar after living with Smeagol all these years (did I tell you he used to mow his front lawn with no shirt on and a scythe?), which may explain why I spent all my time there.

Yes it was a sad time, what with my mom telling me she caught Toboggan Boy in the basement smoking rocks, hiding in the corner behind the clothes dryer. At what point do you realize that something like that is no longer cool, when you cannot look your kid in the eye when they ask if you ever sucked a cock to smoke rocks? Or is it when you have to hide in Smeagol's lair, a dank basement in the ghetto in order to enjoy the crack rocks?

Anyway, I was just getting back from my trip to Omaha, the fun I had staying at the Howard Johnson Hotel (more on that later), sitting in a closet on a milk crate for 3 days (really) and working my ass off trying not to laugh at the managing partner's VERY fake toupee, and the guys (and gal) had decorated my cube, welcoming me back, something I sorely needed. Apparently, even though this was not my fault, it was the last straw with Greyskull and her counterpart, the strangely wigged Skeletor. I was immediately called into her lair, which made me sad because I could not enjoy the decorations, and annoyed. It would take all the power my diploma in communications had to get out of this one, and even that might not be enough.

I mosey in, and sit in my default way, leaned back as far as humanly possible with my arms crossed and trying as desperately as possible to roll my eyes the entire time.

The meeting started with Greyskull telling me the usual filler crap, 'You're a good tech but you lack de social skills', blah blah blah, the only difference is Skeletor was sitting right beside me, not looking at me at all. This was most troubling, Batfriends!

"I would like to say that I am a little annoyed by your desk this morning' what the fuck does that have to do with me?! I could understand if like a loser (or Flanders) I had decorated it myself, but I didn't!

"It seems you are in your own little click, you only talk to a few certain people and you completely ignore others' - meaning Flanders and Santa - 'and frankly I'm sick of it. You will start getting along with everyone here, you will respond when someone says something to you, and keep your negativity and bad attitude to yourself"... so par for the course as far as manager's meetings go, so why is George Washington here?

"Skeletor also spoke to me about your subpar performance in Omaha, and I think this is going to warrant a little more than a talking- to"... WTF?!

It is at this point Skeletor starts with her (his?) whining about my bad attitude and unwillingness to work with other people, telling me and Greyskull about how she said 'Good Morning' to me and I just grunted and ignored her (I did), how I walked by her in the hallway and completely ignored her when she said something to me (I did) and how I seem to be going out of my way to make her feel uneasy around me (I did not). Sad part is, since I was acting all of this out in realtime in the office I was not in a position to negate said argument, and so simply sat there looking at the wall clock, wondering when this old man was going to shut up so I could go back to listening to Journey.

Finally, I heard silence, and realized they were expectantly looking at me, as if I was supposed to say something. "What?" I asked politely, and Greyskull blew a fuse. "That's what I'm talking about. Your attitude brings this whole helpdesk down, you make everyone around you feel uneasy as if they have to walk on eggshells around you, and I'm sick of it. I want you to read this and sign it, and turn your demeanor around TODAY or you will be looking for employment elsewhere." And with that, she gave me my first write up, a 2 page document that I was proud to say I had earned with my own blood, sweat and tears, and her and Skeletor made out loudly whilst I gazed upon it's beauty, imagining Greyskull frothing wildly at the mouth while pounding away on a tiny keyboard, Santa crying softly in the corner as he tries desperately to adjust his bondage gear, knowing she would only put the ballgag back and the chaps would be retightened upon her return.

More tomorrow.

Friday, October 3, 2008

Cannonball Run

A lone quandary
I wash my ass, then my face
why?! Why'd I do that?

So Smeagol has been telling JJ he is pretty sure his hot rod 1992 Honda Prelude could smoke my 1989 High Output (meaning 108 horsepower instead of the wimpy 86 on stock) Ford Escort, with the super smooth 5 speed manual transmission and lack of bolts holding the front end together. This is going to be some real fun, but I figured I would take you on a short trip through some of his past races and prove why I think he has no chance.

Race #1: Smeagol - 1992 Pontiac Grand Am Opponent - 1986 Mustang Dominator
This race, as many others, was completely impromptu, and doomed from the beginning. As you all know, the 1992 Pontiac Grand Am was a weak 6 cylinder 135 HP engine, versus the HO 5.0 supercharged 350+ engine the Mustang Dominator, with it's dual glasspack exhaust, which could beat a stock Corvette.

The Story: so we were, as usual, about 20 minutes late leaving for work, as Smeagol was taking one of his usual shaving cream baths and fell asleep having a tinkle, and damned if I am going to go in there and try to wake his nasty ass up (Mystery never flushed, so there were always flies and shit in the bathroom, and the piss in the toilet had like this nasty ass film over it. Pretty nasty, I remember cleaning that toilet out before company came over). We were cruising up I-29 North, and were just going over Parvin Road, when this Mustang Dominator zooms by, easily doing 100 (with the speed limit being 55, Smeagol would regularly drive 80). Smeagol got into race mode.

Race mode, if I have not gone into this before, is when Smeagol starts gyrating in his seat like a meth addict, saying over and over "aaaawwwwwwwshiiiiiiiit niggie, it's on now, it's on now... whoooooooeeeeeeessssshhhhhiiiiiiiittttt" and starts flattening his perm on the sides with his outstretched hands. He then puts one outstretched hand (he never closes his hands, is what I am trying to get at) on the shifter, which I am not sure why because it is a fucking automatic, and places his other raptor claw on the wheel at 12 o'clock, I guess ignoring the fact that he does not possess the strength to turn the wheel with only one hand.

So there he is, hair all in disarray, car smelling like activator, thong and shaving cream, and he stomps on the gas, let's imagine (even though he was still saying the above phrase) that he said "I'm a guy!" as if only to convince himself.

Instead of responding positively to the stomping of a raptor on it's accelerator, we all know by now failure refused to let that happen, and he ended up blowing a seal or the head gasket. There was a loud popping sound, and smoke billowed out from under the hood. "Awwww shiit niggie, I almost had that bish muhfugger" Smeagol said happily, ignoring the fact that he had only made 5 payments on this car and now no longer had a car. And no, we got nowhere near close to outrunning that car, as they had gotten off on the exit before us, so in essence Smeagol was racing them as they slowed to stop at the stoplight.

Epilogue: Smeagol called the car dealership, told them "Hey niggie your car broke down, I'm not paying for it, come get it stupid!" Thus getting another hit on his credit, which is why he has to call at least 10 used car dealers before he can find one sleazy enough to deal with him now... what a class act.

Monday: I go into the second of three races: The Blazer. This one ended in a hit and run by our wily raptor, which has still not been solved. Don't tell the authorities!

Thursday, October 2, 2008


I may or may not have noticed that today's post was a little nast, even for me and is probably more than you wanted to know about me, so my bad. Anyway, Smeagol has been talking trash on the Escort, saying he could beat my car with his "totally not stock, niggie" 1992 Honda Prelude with 48432083905890432890489305712032184031253.4 miles on it. Should I skool this young raptor? I will need to borrow a video camera to catch the festivities, does anyone have one I can borrow?

Please vote, it's the only way I can learn...

A History of SexyTime

swollen hemorrhoid
flowered pinwheel now beckons
the fuck am I say'n?

When we left off, I was about to tell you all about the night my neighbor's 18 year old wildebeest aunt touched my naughty place. Let's resume, shall we?

Anyhoo, the day started out normal enough, I hopped on my supafly gold peregrine dirt bike (with the mismatched mongoose handlebars, totally boss!) and moseyed down to my friend's house with JJ in tow on his brand spankin' new TMNT dirt bike with the handlebars that you could rest your legs on while you ride, totally keen son! Anyway, we all met up at Matthew's house, (if you will remember he is the kid that let our dog hump him) and were trying to decide on what to do on such a wonderful day. It was finally decided that we would start by racing to another friends house down this huge hill and around the corner, get some Koolaid, and then try to catch another glimpse of one of our friend's 13 year old sister changing, as she did not have shades and did actually have tiny breasts.

JJ was already on his bike and flying down the hill, singing "Koolaid Koolaid I'm gonna wiiii-" when it happened. You see, at the corner was a stop sign. and parked at said stop sign was an RV. Yes this is illegal, but also understand this is Northeast Kansas City, so not only did no one care about no stinkin laws, no one spoke English anyway. Get a good picture of the RV and the house on the corner obscuring anything coming down that street. Got it? Good, let's move on.

JJ was screaming down the street, intent on flying around said RV and winning the race to get to the delicious Koolaid we all craved. As he rounded the corner, though, this is not what happened. Apparently 2 old ladies in a late 70s Cadillac Coupe Deville had decided to take this very street on this most unfortunate day. Since said RV was blocking the stop sign, they never even saw it, and went hurtling through the intersection at a breakneck pace of about 10 miles an hour, completely decimating JJ's bike and introducing him to the world of a stuntman as he flipped like a ragdoll over the top of the car and onto the pavement.

We stood there, shocked. Was he dead? As if in answer we heard him cry out "I'm dead! I'm deaaaaaad!" as the little old ladies finished mangling his poor brand new bike and got out to see what this heathen negro was whining about after sullying their while caddy with his smelly body.

Anyway, more on that later. As JJ was at the hospital, Mom decided to get rid of me for the night too and suggested I stay the night over at the neighbor's house. No not our immediate neighbor, though I am sure someone over there would have loved that; no, I was to sleep across the street.

So I went over there, and noticed as I was setting up my sleeping bag in the piss-smelling room my friend shared with his little brother, looking in disgust and a little pride at the huge urine stains on the underside of the little fella's bed, that Amber was staring at me shyly from her room, the door cracked just enough for me to see her unibrow and that she was not wearing a top. Awkward! I finished setting up and went to find Chet (that's what I'll call the neighbor boy, I only call one person on this blog by his real name) to see about playing lazer tag.

All went well until the parents left later on that evening, and Amber was making it apparent she wanted some of 12 year old Stevester's shaft inside her smelly love hole. She conveyed this by offering to play a game with us in which she would lay on the floor on her stomach, and Chet and I would take turns sneaking up on her and trying to mount her from behind. I noted with some chagrin that though she bucked Chet off like a wildebeest bucking a potential mate, she was opening her legs a little wider for the Stevester. This was making me feel strange, not unlike I felt when I was 5 or 6 and mounting my babysitter, but this chick was ugly. I am ashamed to say, you all, that that did not stop me. I can't even use the excuse Smeagol uses for marrying his wife, that "I was drunk off my ass niggie!"

It was about 10 o'clock, and for some reason instead of bunking in the room we originally planned to, the urine smell forced us out and into the living room. So there we were, telling dirty jokes and giggling like schoolgirls (which is actually how I fall asleep now, ask my wife) and Amber sneaks down. She informs us that she was going to let us both have her, but wanted to show me something first. Whatevs, son, whatevs, I follow her to the laundry room, where she turns and lifts up her nightdress to reveal her hairy snooter. Sadly, just like with my babysitter, this excited the Stevester, and she noticed my throbbing tiny wiener underneath my superman 2-sizes-too-small sweatpants. She smiled and walked back toward the living room, and I am more ashamed to say I followed.

Chet, and this is disgusting because he was her nephew, went right for the butt, plunging his little wiener in her shit hole over and over, which was kinda grossing me out. There was no way I was gonna go for her vag and risk touching cocks or balls with that nasty motherfucker, so I informed her I wanted her to suck the schlong. Well I will not go into details, but after that particular evening ended, I went back home, feeling like I would assume anyone would waking up next to some hideous beast, with what looks like jizz all over her mouth and a smile on her face, ugh....

Anyway, I figured I was off the hook, as she was going home to Oklahoma (to be on the range, I am guessing) and I would not see her again because Chet's family was moving to Harrisonville. I was partially right. About a week after she left, I got a letter from her. I should have thrown it in the trash, but what can I say? The Stevester ego would not allow me to pass up hearing how I satisfied another lady.

"Dear Stevester,

I just wanted to tell you how I felt. Sometimes I sit on the wall in front of the house and look through your window, and I cry because I want you so much (ugh). I loved having your dick in my mouth (ugh), and would like you to put it in other places the next time I come by. I have a car now, if I came up would you run away and come live with me in Oklahoma?


OK there was other stuff in the letter, about how just thinking about me turned her on, blah blah blah, friggin gross. I had planned on throwing the letter away, and of course never seeing her again, but she DID send along a NKOTB poster, so I kept that and let JJ read the note, in which I think he lost all respect for me, as she was quite hideous.

Shit but at least I didn't get hit by a fuggin Cadillac! LOL I mean am I right?! *crickets*

Screw you, judgemental jerks! I was 12! Any one of you would have mounted her and bragged about it over a Lunchable at school, just as I did!

Sorry about that outburst, you know I only hit you cause I love ya!

More later.