Smeagolisms, with definitions

Time for the threatdown
and this week's number one threat?
velociraptor!

So yesterday the Tylester asked if Smeagol had any other sayings that he frequently....uh....said, and I realized that if I ever get any new readers besides the 3 people I pay to log on each day (the checks in the mail, Will, I promise!), they might like a handy little lexicon on the different Smeagolisms, their definitions and how they are used. Enjoy.

Stevester's Smeagolisms (in no particular order)

Bitch muhfugger: Smeagol's default term for Jeff, homeless people, or those more successful than him, i.e. every person who reads this blog, because by inference you have the internet and Smeagol does not, is a "bitch mufugger", or more accurately, "bishmufugger"
example: If I wasn't so tired right not I would whoop Jeff's ass, bishmufugger!"

Bish niggie: Usually either myself or JJ, or any of our friends he is trying to impress with his awesome grasp of modern ebonics.
example: "Hey bish niggie, when are we gonna go pick up some ho's?" (Usually said right in front of Mystery)

Trust, mmkay?: Smeagol usually says this when he wants to reaffirm something, or he makes a threat and you ask him is he can back it up. He also uses it when he tells Mystery something and she goes "Duh really" like she does 99% of the time. Example: Smeagol: "You know what, I coulda kicked Hitler's ass, if I felt like it. I was there, you know." Mystery: "Really?" Smeagol: "Trust, mmkay? I was all like 'quit, qui- *snoring* -huh? Oh I was all like 'I don't care what singles you made, you can't do that to Kevin Federline no matter where the sauna is! ANd then I punched that bish mufugger out niggie!"

I'm so tired: Smeagol's default response to any and every question you could possibly ask ever. Example: Hey Smeagol where's the ketchup? Smeagol: I'm so tired... You: Hey Smeagol my dog died. Smeagol: I'm so tired... You: Hey Smeagol this Taco Bell must be a month old! Smeagol: I'm so...really?! Let's eat!

booty ass overtime: I think booty ass overtime is any time worked over 20 hours a week, because smeagol constantly complained about it but never brought home the paychecks to back up the validity of his claim

punk bitch niggie: Usually reserved for either Jeff or random homeless people, Smeagol is known to also call residents at the nursing home he works at this. Has twice been knocked out by old men, maybe for calling them either 'punk bitch niggie" or a variation.

More Monday

The Shocking Conclusion to Indian Giver!!!!!!!!!!!?

Rodeo burlap
assless chaps and rose petals
I'm a macho man


So anyway, one afternoon, we were not in school, and LJ, one of the local hoodlums, came over and asked if I could give him a ride to the store. My little brother and one of his little loser friends agreed that since I had a car, keys in my pocket and 5 dollars that we should all make haste to the store. Being flat out retarded, I acquiesed.

We all pile into my fly ride, and I take off. Yes I only had a permit, but I was also cool for those brief golden-tinted seconds, driving my cream colored Buick through the fly streets of North Kansas City....until I saw the lights.

Apparently the local constable did not find the humor in my fun, and decided since I had a temporary tag that he would stop me and verify it's legality. I was worried, as I only had a permit and was the oldest person in the car at the tender age of 15, but was less worried about the temp tag. Smeagol would never forge a temporary tag, would he? I admit until that point I had never looked at said temporary tagification, but I just assumed it was legal.

The officer did as officers usually do when they stop someone who is not white: He walked past my door and looked at the VIN number, as if he could tell from the numbers whether or not I was a criminal. He then took my tag out of the back window, and then asked me to exit the car.

Showing me the temporary tag, with the word August misspelled, he informed me that he could tell this was a fake tag, as the 1 was a modified 7 and the 2 before it was poorly drawn, as it was evident there was not space for said 2 before. He also noted that the tag belonged to a 1990 Pontiac Sunbird, not the 1982 Buick Regal it was ensconced in. He informed me that I must get back into my car while he ran some things to see if I had any warrants, and I got back into the car.

During this whole exchange, LJ had the strangest look on his face, as if he had to take a shit or he was scared shitless, either way feces was involved and that aint good.

"Steve, I got weed on me, I got weed on me...." he whispered seductively into my ear, while, unbeknownst to me, shoving approximately 5 ounces of marijuana under my seat along with some crack rocks and pills. Thankfully the officer never found those, and informed me that I needed to take the car home and never drive it again.

I found out about the weed later, when my dad got home and yelled at me for what I had done and had gone out to put another temp tag in the window. I informed him it was LJ's, and he told me that he was going to sell it and split the profits. Apparently "sell it" translated to "smoke it all with some skank that evening", because that's what he did. I am still waiting for my share of the drug money.

Smeagol came by a few days later, after hearing the story, and told my dad, while I was at school, as punishment he was going to take the car to hold onto until I got a license, and ended up selling it to buy more hot wheels, kim chi and failure inducing instruments of raptordom. Buttfucking assblaster. His answer to my query as to the veracity of the temporary tag? "Look niggie it is legal as long as no one looks at it, you shouldn't have been driving it, bitch muhfugger!" At this point I was at least 5 inches taller and 100 pounds heavier, but it still never occured to me to hand this ruffian his comeuppance in a bout of fisticuffs.

Mystery snorted angrilly and they drove off, and that, my friends and Benson Hunter, was what I like to call the Epoch: it was the first time I believe my dad smoked crack, and also the first time I realized how much of a complete douche Smeagol was. As a sidenote, my dad made me give him 100 dollars out of my savings account, that he used to pay LJ for the drugs he had smoked. Awesome, huh?

Monday: Lilian Ray returns!

Indian Giver

corned beef and cabbage
unfair to fart in the gym?
hell if'n I know!

So after the warm reception the state of Kansas gave us, making me walk 2 damn miles to school lugging a cello every damn day in addition to a backpack full of books, we bid our temporary home in my uncle's basement (really) a fond farewell and moved to North Kansas City, to the ghetto if there could be said to exist one up there. It was a tiny 2 bedroom apartment, but it was clean, air conditioned, and 2 blocks from Macken park, which was fantastic because that is a beautiful area. Nay, I dare posit that with the exception of Dawn, my retarded neighbor and Walt, the retarded guy we played Smear the Queer with all the time (I will explain the rules later) it was a veritable utopia. I got a girlfriend at school, I played football, my uncle let me work at his moving company until I dropped an ethan allen centerpiece sculpture and the driver I was working with waited until we were in the middle of nowhere to inform me he had been raped by an older man when he was my age, and then there was my dad, who cried while he jerked it and used to sit on the couch and literally whine "I need some puuuuussssyyyyyy!" Great Times!

It seemed odd, then, that Smeagol started coming around. I know now it was because he smelled success, and felt he needed to crush it, but back then he seemed to be genuinely caring about my dad and his need for love pudding. He would come over and sit with my dad, who was whining because of his lack of a love petal to pollinate, and listen to his boring tales. Kinda funny, since my neighbor, the one with the retarded daughter, was single. I never understood why they did not hump. Maybe because she was hideous, but if he needed lovin' that bad I don't think he would be that particular, but I digress...

Anyway, Smeagol had a nice car, was dating Mystery, but we will not count that against him, I only note that because he said he was drunk during their entire courtship and he obviously was not, and he did a very nice thing for me: he bought me a car.

No one ever knows why, but Smeagol is known to go out of his way in the oddest of situations and seem like a decent human being, until you find out what his hidden raptor agenda is, and then you realize that cud you are chewing on as he hand feeds it to you is really a dingleberry attached to his thong, the kind with peanuts and corn ingrained in it so it tastes like chii con car.... nevermind.

So Smeagol drives over this 1982 Buick Regal, and I have to admit: it was a beautiful car. I would be proud to drive that car today. It was a cream color, with a tan interior, very straight, clean, with a 305 in it, nice automobile.(Whatever the GM version of the 302 is, if I have it wrong you have too much time on your hands and that time could better be spent masturbating. Try it!) He said he got it for 500 dollars, because there was a little piece of the fender in the back that was missing, like it had been cut out or something, and that he was going to get it legal for me so he would keep hold of the title. The warning lights that should have gone off at that point went ignored as I gently caressed this lovely used car much as John Holmes caressed the labias of homeless women. I know that analogy made literally no sense but I am tired, fuck it.

So I got my drivers permit, and drove all over town with my new ride, my dad riding uncoolly in the passenger side, refusing my repeated pleas to hide his head or at least wear a shirt and pants next time, he loved wearing these cutoff shorts back then, totally gay.

Tomorrow - the conclusion, including my first brush with the law and my realization that Smeagol was a piece of crap. Don't miss it!

Journey into... (Conclusion)

the warrior, lion's mane,
his sword turned evil to stone
Can it stop Raptor?

Journey into... (as told by Cletus "Jive Turkey" Jenkins)

So lissen up lil niglets, ol Jenkins goan give you da lowdown, cat!

So there he was, Steve of the Impeccable Weave, in his velvet leisure suit, platties with the goldfish swimmin' underneath, Burger King crown and Scepter of Listerine. Making sho his cape was tied on thizzle, he wormed into the-

ELDRIC: Wait, wait, wait a minute. What the fuck are you talking about?

Cletus: Man shaddup, I'se tryin' to finish the tale you almost fucked up son!

ELDRIC: 'Almost fucked up'? How dare you, to fisticuffs, brigand! (a brief, very gay scuffle ensues)

Eldric: Now that I have bested this smarmy negro in unarmed physical combat, I can properly end this tale.

Forsooth! Before our hero stood the Den of Failure, a low vibration emenating from it's very foundation. The stench of Smeagol's Thong was so great, Lord Stevester tried to spray Listerine from his Sceptre on it and it melted before it could penetrate the foul stench.

With trembling hands and steady heart (and iron cock) Stevester bravely grasped the latch of the faux wooden door, intent on battling the minions of the Raptor King. Slowly, the door eaked open.....

And it was a normal apartment. The smells of the hearth, of someone cooking something with too much onion, of what was hopefully a baby's filled diaper and not a dead body served to partially mask the dank undertow of Smeagol's raptor thong.

credit card and positive balance imbued bank statement in hand to ward off the Failure Minions, Stevester made his way to the second floor, as the mailboxes were all marked save 3, and they were all ont he second floor. The claw marks, probably left due to a lack of dexterity (The cloak of failure, while adding +4 Failure and a +2 Horrid Stench, also adds a -5 in dexterity, due to their crippling nature) gave the raptor away.

At the top of the steps, Our brave hero stopped to listen. Hark! The mumblings of Stupidity could be heard, uttered by none other than The Thonged One's Sorceress, Mister-E the Unlearned. Known to the villagers of Kansas as simply "The Dumb One", Her powers were unique, able to end all hints of argument with nary a word, simply exhaling could end all rational conversation, her sweaty, ass scented leggings, slightly browned from prolonged use, bearing silent witness to her senseless killing of many a cuddly kitten.

Lord Stevester knocked upon the door, marveling at how well his Gloves of Archeon, known to be doused in the Soap of Kralgon, which adds a +2 Cleanliness to his manly attributes, survived the searing heat from the flatulent breath of the raptor thought to be ensconced within.

Upon his knock, a silence fell where once the idiotic babbling of a Smeagoled lover had once emenated. A sudden new wave of crotch stench hit our hero as Mister-E got up off of her throne, the kitten dangling precariously over oblivion, and sadly, the only freedom it would ever know.

Footsteps, uncoordinated and heavy, like the fog over a toilet when one forgets to flush, thudded toward the door. Lord Stevester had begun to lose his nerve. Would his armor stand up to the breath of the Raptor?

We may never know. Smeagol was out working booty ass overtime. Stevester had to endure the breath of Mister-E for what seemed like minutes as she explained, wincing every time she uttered the letter "h".

And so the story comes to a temporary end, as Stevester did not get to battle the Wily Smeagol, but now knew where his lair was. And to all other adventurers seeking to find and capture Smeagol, be it for entertainment or lovemaking, know that his lair is in the heard of Liberty, and that you can see the cloak of failure rising as a triumphant plume into the night sky.

Journey into.....

His cloak donned ragged,
sword imbued with good magic,
our hero sets forth....


The Den of Failure

(Told by Eldric the Unworthy, Bardric Mage from the town of New Tristramville)

And lo did Lord Stevester finally become sated with waiting,
the air heavy with his thoughts,
an empty mug that smelled of ale,
a satisfied nymph (Mmm Hmm!),
all bearing silent witness to his final decision:

"I must find Smeagol."

Many had travelled the darkened land,
some for riches lost,
some for riches perceived,
but none had returned.

It was rumoured, nay, whispered in darkened alleyways and brothels amongst the common skank,
that those intrepid, adventure seeking souls had become Smeagoled,
wrapped in cloaks of Failure so strong,
even Sol's warming rays could not penetrate their horrid stench.

Lord Stevester began his preparations,
as many a brave soul hath done before him.
Knowing this could be his last day, he kissed his fair maiden and 3 young apprentices,
and with a heavy heart set forth upon his adventure into the Pit of Doom.

Neither sword nor axe nor motorcar had he,
not a single luxury,
for these implements were for far different adversary,
and were useless against the cawing raptor.

Only a credit card, debit card or current bank statement,
a work permit or other such proving document
could dissuade the raptor from it's heinous attack.

To Liberty, the land of the Mega-church, Stevester doth travel, leaving his convoy behind in the clearer pastures and sanity of Kansas City.
For to best the raptor,
Lord Stevester knew the only way was to travel alone.
To bring others for security, moral support or to sacrifice at the breath of the Smeagol would lead to a cockiness that could be deadly.

As soon as Stevester crossed the line into Liberty, a pall, dank and dark with failure and the scent of the Green Thong, hung low in the sky.
With each step Lord Stevester bravely took,
the omnipresent cloak of failure threatened to take away his very sanity.
With Herculean effort, Stevester turned his troubled brow toward where the heavens would be, but in it's place he could only see failure, and the red and blue lights that signal Smeagol is in the area.

Following the contrails and currents of the flatulent smelling wind,
Lord Stevester did see a vortex, one of such powerful failure that nothing could possibly survive.
The Den of Smeagol was terrible, an unassuming apartment building to the naked eye,
but an abode of unfathomable horror.
Boasting a +4 Cast Failure Spell with bonus Screech of the Raptor being cast every few seconds,
The Den was a terrible place, and Stevester was instantly sorry he had come.
To know the Den of Smeagol was to know it's many names:
The Den of Failure,
The Hovel of the Raptor,
Mordor.

Gathering his strength and courage, and countering the defensive shield Smeagol's Spell of Hiding had created with his Lasik Eyes of the Ancients,
Stevester entered the Den.

Tomorrow, part II, as told by Cletus "Jive Turkey" Jenkins, who just moved on up to the East side.

As an aside, Smeagol called the day after his birthday to beg my mom for money because he had lived another year, and lamented that no one called him on his birthday. WTF?! I am seriously contemplating posting his number here so we can all spam him unmercilessly and of course sign him up for gay escort services.

I also found out his email address, is it not funny that his name is Reaper69? I will let you all know when he gets his new computer and internet connectivity so we can all write him all the time. JJ said the only reason he would get on the internet was to look at porn, gently massaging his thong while little kids ran around, sometimes stopping to look at him and shake their heads disapprovingly.

Product Review: Boulevard Wheat Beer

Once the beer is gone


the drunk spouts philosophy


with shit in his pants





Boulevard Wheat Beer:





So for my first ever product review I chose Boulevard Wheat Beer, as the heading of this post and the name of the product, 2 lines up from here, can surely attest. I know what you are thinking: "Stevester, I can go read reviews on products other places and from much more intelligent people who have even a small idea of what the fuck they are doing, which you do not."





First, fuck you.





Second, I plan on delving into the intangibles, on seeing more than what other product reviews dare to explore. I am going to give you the stinky low down on things you probably don't even want to friggin know about. Let's begin.





My rating system goes thusly: I rate on a Smeagol scale, which is anywhere from 0 to 5 Smeagols. I then give the product an overall rating, which can be anywhare from a tattered cloak of failure, to a sexy Jeremy, to the coveted Spiritual Mystical Retard classification.





Price: 6.50 for a 6 pack of 12 ounce bottles.


score: 4 Smeagols (I would give it 5 because I thought it was a great price until I saw how much PBR goes for)



Product packaging: 3 Smeagols, nothing overly fancy, but I kind of like the olde timey graphics on the bottle.

Butt drunk?: 2 Smeagols. On this classification the lower the score the better, this hashes on one simple, yet beautiful question: Would I be willing to stick a funnel in my anus in and waste beer by pouring it up my ass? I will be honest, there are a few beverages (Fosters, Hurracane, Night Train) that are too elegant for such behavior, but this stands up well. T'would be a shame to miss out on this beverage's complex flavors.

Smeagolness: 4 Smeagols. In this classification, I ponder whether or not Smeagol would imbibe on such a beverage, by that I mean could his hot breath and cloak of failure melt the liquid before it makes it to his jowls o' Failure? I am happy to say that Boulevard Wheat Beer is good enough most of it would be able to withstand the trials and terrors of the Journey through what historians have dubbed the "Raptor's Halo": an area, usually extending about 2 feet in front of the face, where even bacteria cannot survive, the stink is so unbearable as to kill all it encompasses; the only known natural counter is the Breath o' Mystery, which is just as bad.

So here, our model, who is TOTALLY not the Stevester, poses with the delicious alcoholic beverage before diving into it's complex bed of pleasures and deliciousness. Notice how the thumbs up signifies that the liquid is ready to drink; this is not done voluntarily by the model, the beer is actually so good that it makes your thumbs stand at attention (among other things, rowr).

Hoppyness: 5 Smeagols. Since I have no friggin idea what the hell a hop is and I am too lazy to research, I will give this beer a 5 just for the hell of it.

Body: 2 Smeagols. The cloudy beer is a natural reaction to the wheat and yeast and shit, but it still looks like jizms to me. Sadly, this did not stop me from drinking 2 or 8 of them.

Complexity: 4 Smeagols. Our model noted that "beer good, sleepy time soon", which means he found the beer complex, with a very smooth texture and taste, and a little sweet.

Guzzlability: 4.5 Smeagols. If this shit was piss warm, our model would have simply poured it down his gullet, and bypassed the taste. Alas, it was cold, though he still tried.



Fills you up without letting you down? 5 Smeagols. See the photo below. Good times.


(side note: My wife kept making me pull my pants up higher and higher for this photo, it was pissing me off. SHe also wanted to put mayonnaise or whipped cream on my ass, the nasty buzzard)

Modalities? yes.

TOTAL SCORE: GREEN THONG OF AWESOMENESS

Now I didn't want to give such a coveted award out the first time, but in all honesty this was a very decent beer. There are only a few levels higher that you can go from the Green Thong of Awesomeness, and this beer is very deserving.

More Monday.

Fuck Smeagol

touch a rotting corpse
stick your finger up his ass
that's friggin' profound

Alright, so I got Smeagol's cell phone number from JJ, with the added knowledge tidbit that "Unless it's your payday, he won't answer." Bah! I thought to myself as I dialled his number from work, "He's a jerk, but surely he would answer his phone on his own birthday!"

I was wrong.

I tried 3 times, and then called JJ back to verify the number. He informed me that "Smeagol gets paid every other Tuesday. He is usually broke by Wednesday morning, and has to borrow money for gas and food and stuff. He will only pick up the phone if it is your payday and he thinks you will give him some money. Call him on Friday, I bet he answers."

We spoke about the possibility of my going to Smeagol's lair, as I really wanted him to do the product review, but no one knew exactly where Smeagol lives. He had been burned before, with family members sending the authorities and various bail bondsmen to his house before, so he decided to play it safe and not give anyone his address at all. I wondered aloud if I could just drive around Liberty until I saw the telltale aura of failure emanating from the very bowels of a particular apartment building. JJ suggested taking talcum powder with me and sprinkling it on the steps in front of each apartment. When it catches fire or I hear Smeagol howl in pain, I would know he was there. I would have to get ready much like Abraham Van Helsing did in the late 19th century: Like his garlic, I would need breathmints. Like his cross, I would need a GQ magazine or a valid work permit. Like his holy water, I would need hand sanitizer. My journey to Smeagol's lair would be fraught with more danger, though, as with Dracula you only had to worry about becoming a member of nosferatu yourself. In my case, I could get raptored to the very death, or at least until I got totally annoyed by having him caw and scratch me with his claw like nails. I could also get thonged, having Smeagol's oddly heavy with Raptor juice thong flung at me with the speed legends are made of.

The decision was made, out of my safety and the risk of letting a raptor run free when more people would be out, to go by the Smeagster's house this weekend, as Smeagol is known to work Booty ass overtime on Fridays and so would be hiberraptoring (like hibernating but with a lot of really bad smelling farts added in) and at his most vulnerable.

I will make the required edits on my review, as I had made some changes to add Smeagol in, and post tonight. I am so sorry to disappoint everyone, I know Smeagol would have made this special, but he's a douche.