So Sayeth The Peabs

Obvs in '08™

2007-11-14T07:51:00.001-05:00

:Ahem:

Muhhhhh.

2005-06-02T12:34:00.000-04:00

Lick me.

The Diarrhea Of Anne Frank.

2005-04-28T11:32:00.000-04:00

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!

Shmears.

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.

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™.

Positively Bovs Street.

2005-04-21T11:02:00.000-04:00

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.

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™.

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

2005-04-14T11:14:00.000-04:00

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™.

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

2005-04-06T13:30:00.000-04:00

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™.

My Jizzum-Jazzum Has More Protein Than Dr. Atkins' Small Intestine. Bovs.

2005-03-31T10:50:00.000-05:00

Peabs is fucking extraordinary in every facet. Bovs. That being said, Dr. William H. Cosby and my outstanding, modestly gorgeous self were saddened to hear of the passing of long time Obvs Administration supporter Johnnie Cochran. Few people in history even compare to Peabs as a litigator. In fact, I'm probably the most manhunterastic attorney in the hysterectomy of Nicole 4 eva, so fear this, Marky Mark! Jack says you've got a great big cock. May I see it? Please? Rodney Roo let me see his! And, unsurprisingly, his summer sausage was stumpier than a quadriplegic Clare Danes compared to the General Sherman that is my motherfucking D™. And boy does it fuck the mothers! Oh, you don't believe Peabs? What does it say on your birth certificate? Yup, that's a lie. I'm your effing father, fucknozzle. Just because I luuuuvvvvvvvvv you and feel somewhat guilty for not being part of your worthless childhood, here's a birthday present consisting of a Jolly Roger salad tossing and one free fistfuck from J.D. Roth's Fistfucking Fun House! Shmears.

So, yes, back to Johnnie. What few know is that the blackalicious lawyer served as head of my defense council in a highly publicized trial from 1984, in which a seven-year old Peabs was sued by a then-unknown doctor named Robert C. Atkins. Admittedly, I was not the world-reknown Jesus Christ Superstar I am now; Norman Jewison-stizz, hogsviously. Don't even bother vomiting on my fucking face post-beej like Sloppy Fozz on Thankgiving eve if you mention that mo-mo fucktard Andrew Lloyd Webber! Fucking handjob. Anyway, since Peabs was only slightly famous in '84¹, Atkins felt as though he could extort some Norm Cash from my growing fortune in order to get his "revolutionary diet book" a publicity boost without my beautiful pre-pubescent self making a big two in the pink one in the stink about it. Nothing's shocking my sweet ass, Jane! Schmobvs. Anyhow, personally I believe it was actually because Coz sold the doctor some of my equally revolutionary protein shakes to be marketed as his own. Little did he know that the shakes were simply my very own man-sauce packaged in a tin-can I procured from a bum Bodney Sue savagely beat to death when he was going through his Berkowitz phase. Oh, that Bodney! Such an enigma. Sade, donnes-moi! Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Lick it.

I contemplated representing myself (duhvs, I'm a fucking wunderkind), howevs Bill Cosby talked yours effing truly out of it. Peabs believes Coz's proclamation went something like this:

"Yoouuuuuu seeeeeee, me and Dizzee and Lizzie Grubman hired Johnnie to overseeeee the dee-dee in the fiddle faddle riddle raddle! Then Cosby piddle-paddled his way out of Sing-Sing with a Ming vase and Ving Rhames and flames coming out of my flazzum!"²

Needless to say, Cochran was one of the few attorneys whom I trusted with my case. Lest we forget in the 80's the man smoked more crackrock than Malice Green – pre-Mag flashlight, snatch – and dropped Cosby-esque vernacs seemingly every other syllable. And if there's anyone who can appreciate that, it's Peabs. Studies³ say ninety percent of what Peabs says doesn't make any sense to the layman. Which is precisely why you need my hot throbbing cock to lay you, man. Mars she. It'll open your Andrew Bogut to a whole new world, so come over here and rub my magic lamp, you roo-fucking 'tutes! In no time flat, "obvs" will sound like "obviously", and "tigs shats boombalats" shall resonate like glorious trumpets and tromboners! Isn't that right, Coz?

"Yoooooouuuu seeeee, me and Dizzee Rascal cacadackled the spackle tackle box, while Orville Redenbacher flazzumed his Rickenbocker with Betty Crocker! Puddin'!!"

Hmmmmmm. I'm not quite sure how often you'll need the old "in-out, in-out" from Peabs in order for Heathcliff to start making sense. My guess? Twice. Just bend over while I lubey-lube my unprotected and infected D™ with some room temperature Crisco® and buttfuck you all the way back to your velvety 'Frisco bathhouse, Moe-Moe Tucker! Peabs-a-roni: the San Francisco treat! Bovs.

Obvs in '05™.

¹According to French Tickler Fuckstickler Fagazine, Peabs was the 3rd most famous person alive in the year 1984, behind Barbaro Garbey and Winston Smith, respectively.
²Okay, so maybe Coz say that exactly. It was the fucking '80's, for Peabs sake. There was a reason why my nickname was Cokehead Von Hugecockerson. Obvs.
³And by studies, I mean what I estimated just now after snorting some 714's off your Aunt Fran's clitring. Ooh-jah!

This Is A Valley Of Asses - A Fantastic Farm Where Asses Grow Like Peabs' Hot D™...

2005-03-22T11:28:00.000-05:00

Hi, lovers. Peabs is back like that heart attack your Grandma Ethel VanSnackinShack had last weekend after snorting too much blizzard of schmobvs and pounding RB and Grey Goose Gossichs like Dr. William H. Cosby pounds raw, gaping buttholes. For those of you disbelievers who feel that Peabs' plotlines and overall mental psyche have gone further south than a crackwhore pulling tricks on the corner of Shmears Ave. and Twatface St., you can lick my sweet nadalies while yours effing truly Otis Spunkmeyers a hot Charlie Parker onto your fucking face. My fucking prose makes the work of F. Scott Fitzgerald look like a chlamydic sore on the throbbing cock that is society. That was a metaphor. Schmobvs. Oh, you disagree? Peabs created metaphors, you effing handjobs. Lest we forget Peabs also wrote the original Ten Commandments in 2076 B.C. while rolling on E and getting spanked by Terri Schiavo's feeding tube. Bovs on your vegetative tees, you motherfucking mo-mo fucks!

No, shmeariously everybody. Peabs certainly knows that I have been a slight bit out of contrizz as of late. And whilst Peabs shan't apologize for such tomfoolery, instead your gorgeous President shall treat you – my somewhat loyal readers – to a vivid and poignant account of the hooker and blow party myself and Coz hosted at la casa de blanca last Saturday. You may be asking yourself:

"Peabs, hasn't your ridiculously good-looking and heavily inebriated self already had numerous parties involving the animalistic and drug-induced assfucking of filthy call girls in the White House?"

I'd be lying if I said no. Mind you, I'm paid to lie, being President and all. Duh. But that's just not Peabs' style. And we all know what that is, don't we kids? Oh, you seem to have forgotten? Well, let me give you a refresher course, you fucksticks. I like everything hard: liquor, drugs, buttfucking. Yet, Peabs also has a passionate, romantic side. And by that, I really mean I'm into getting all Meredith Baxter-Birney on your A and putting on a little Johnny Mathis while sodomizing your diseased lab-maj with a Mexican unlubed candlestick that I have fittingly nicknamed Senorita Conchita Unlubeylubed. El bovs, yo es el fucking icon. ¡Mars she on your asno caliente, usted muchachas asquerosas de la llamada!

Sorry. Peabs got a little sidetracked there. Fucking Rodney Roo was cooking up my morning syringe of smacky-wacky-poo and ooh-jah boo-jah boo, and he must've added a l'il kit kat paddywack give a dog a bone to give Peabs that jumpstart I always need in the morning (and hogsviously normally supplement by blowing teener-long rails of Yo-Yo Ma and dissolving crackrock into my quadruple espresso). Anyway, Bill Cosby and I put together a high-profile guest list made up of the nation's biggest supporters of the Obvs Administration. Sure, you had your A-list Hollywood types and your left-wing politicos, but it was someone unexpected who stole the show. Which is almost schmalways the case at our events. That's right, I'm looking at you, FDR! Wheelchair, my ass. Motherfucker snorted so many effing speedballs at my last party, I couldn't get his ass off of the head table of the State Dining Room! I will give you this, Delano; you've got some tigs shats to the boombies dance moves. You make Martha Graham look like Mark Graham. Frankie!! Robvs.

While FDR's performance at the last White House function proved to be more memorable than the time Peabs pulled out and blew my Clap-ridden load in between your eyes like you were fucking Goliath, it doesn't even compare to the rock n' cock show put on by Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah). For those of you unaware, the senator and Peabs have never been very copasetic on pretty much every issue imaginable. For instance, in the mid-90's, Hatch made public his opinion regarding the legalization of medicinal marijuana, his opinion being that he's against such. You can all guess my opinion. Duhvs. Fucking square. So I, in turn, during one of Sen. Hatch's televised appearances, tied the man down and took a heaping shit on his face in front of millions. Not to mention the fact that Dr. Bill Cosby once impregnated his daughter, Snatch, with a turkey baster full of his fertile, lukewarm man-gravy. And, she kept the child and named him Butterball! Gobble!

Maybe the man felt he was getting back at Coz and yours effing truly, but it was quite the opposite. How he even snuck into the party was beyond Peabs! Most likely that damn Bodney Sue, always trying to make things interesting. Fucking 'roo. Anyhow, Hatch felt it would be a good idea to emulate the persona of Long John Silver, freebase a potent hybrid of dimethyltryptamine and Flintstones® vitamins and yabba-dabba-doo his way to the grand piano, where house pianist Johann Sebastian Cockring had been tickling the ivories (among other things; I'm talking prostates, people!) for the majority of the evening. It was at this moment in which Orrin began to relentlessly heckle JS, requesting "Ode To Joy" every other minute. To which the musician responded:

"Senator Hatch, that was fucking Ludvig Van Beethoven. Not only am I not Beethoven, I'm also not Bach. My last name is "Cockring" and I only play the works of Tangerine Dream, you effing dildo."

This did not bode well with Orrin. He removed his pants and asked Cockring if he would "like to see this old Mormon put his own testicles down his 'hatch'." A shameless pun, we know, but it was still somewhat funny. Especially since Hatch had forgotten to remove his buttplug that bore a striking resemblance to Barbara Mandrell; and it protruded from his ass in such a way that, for some reason, turned on all of the whores in the room something fierce and spermtacularly Michael Rappaport. Add a little cocaine to the fire, and suddenly you've got a free-for-all fuckfest that makes last year's National NAMBLA Convention look like the basement of the pedophile who molested me when I was 2. I'm not positive (unless we're talking HIV), but I am pretty sure Peabs blacked-out mid-rimjob from Barack Obama. Care to clarify, Cosby?

"Yoooouuuuu seeeee, Cosby was too busy flazzuming Obama's mama with Dizzee Rascal's llama in the Bahamas! Rizzazzly speaking, I am a doctor first and a big batch of puddin' second. Waffle house, falafel blouse and tit mouse aside, Cosby also likes to flozzle bop on the side!"

I make fucking Stephen Hawking's talkbox look like a Peter Frampton concert. Oooh, baby, I love your way. And by way, I mean the way you slobber up and down my shaft macaroni and Peabs. Shmears.

Obvs in '05™.

And For Dessert This Evening, We Have Peabs' Homemade Crème Brûlée Shot Down Your Thrizz.

2005-03-16T10:36:00.000-05:00

It's getting to be that time of year, kids! You know, when Peabs dresses up like the Easter 'Roo and hoppidy-hop-hop hoppidy-hops around like a senior citizen rolling his droopy snoop-a-doop-doop bratwurst Steven Fursts off! Schmobvs. Lest we forget how it's also that time of year where I golden shower y'all with some Hubba Hubba and Red Rock goodness gracious great balls of spermatozoon, just to make that whole resurrection of Christ much more hoombodnay fadnomay ooh-jah boo-jah boo! Isn't that right, Rodney Roo?

"Totally motally rotally roo!"

Spooky!

Now before Dr. Bill Cosby gets the urge to take a hot dump on your sassy Classy Freddie Blassie mizzle-mazzle, let your gorgeous President tell you about my weekend. It pretty much goes without saying that it involved white rice, head lice and Bo Bice. And, duhvs, I shot my hot joy-juice all over the Spruce Goose while getting fingey-fingered do you have to let it linger by Kip Winger! Peabs is only 17!! Bovs, that's a flat-out lie. I have the maturity of a hot 'n steamy preemie, the looks of a 25 year-old hot wet dreamy-creamy fuckstick and the vortexual sexual prowess of an infantile jack o' lantern! And to Das Boot, enough razzamajazzum in my nutsaculartastics to start a colony of slappy-nappies! Mars she on your effing viparitakarani, you fucking New-Age vegan mantra karma ball-licking mo-mos! Yogobvs.

Downward facing dog, my ass. Peabs prefers the jackhammer. Unprotected, snatch. How else you gonna hit me up with some o' dat AIDS luvin', you diseased harlotan? HIV-pobvs.

Lately, yours effing truly and my ubiquitous partner-in-crack, Coz, have been criticized for not making much sense here on SSTP. I'd like to personally state for the record that I am the President of the United States and have access to endless amounts narcotics and hot, dirty and loose vag. Mmmmmmmm, vag. Furthermore, because of this, Peabs should be able to flabbergast and glabberflast and jabberwocky my sake bombs with Vietnam during Ramadan eid Mubaarak kullu 'aamin wa antum bi khair all I fucking want! Right, Bill Cosby?

"Youuuuuuu seeeeee, Dizzee and meeeee would like to flazzum all ova Anna Kournikova while flizzumming the crimson 'n clover! Bozzle bizzle puzzle posby, you know my name is Bill Cosby!"

This just in: I'm the fucking best. You think there were a lot of tees at the Boston Party Tea Party? She mars, Ms. Camellia Sinensis, you fucking twatwhore. I make the fucking Dutch look like Christ on a crutch wearing Von Dutch! Voorbij duidelijk op uw fucking T-stukken!

Obvs in '05™.

Little Miss Muffet Sat On A Tuffet, Eating My Fucking A.

2005-03-08T12:22:00.000-05:00

Come here, baby. Come give Peabs some love. No no, not that kind of love, you filthy old soomka! Are you prepared to boast and host and Emily Post the Large Margest sn-sn-sn-snausage your silky-smooth rootin'-tootin' uterus has ever has the pleasure of accommodating? Dr. William H. Cosby and yours effing truly felt that you whorish Catholic slooty-sloots have been so goody-goody gumdrops this Lenten season that y'all deserve a present. And by "present", what Peabs really means is that come Friday, my gorgeous self and my loyal cokehead sexual deviant sidekick will be treating each and every one of you to a juicy prime rib dinner, smothered in our au jazz. And if that's not enough, I'll be more than happy to allow you to Rimmy-Rim McRimmerson my fucking beautiful ass! Nothing compliments a hot beef dinner like a tossed salad, my lovelies. Kinda like how nothing compliments your Lipps, Inc. like my D™ club-manwiched in between them. Schmobvs! Speaking of doing massive amounts of Levitra®-laced angel dust and getting sloppily she marred by Babar, this week is National Motally Rotally Rodney Roo Week! Be sure to pick up a bag of peanuts and fashion them into anal beads and literally go fuckadee-fuck yourself, you effing Rik-Rik Rikki Rackmans! Bang your fucking head on these balls, you fucking butt-ratastic flabbergastrical bypassing ass-clown Bobby Brown bunny sunny day real estate masturbating wenweio3489ecdbnzxci8anmaw3eisdjsdbvq3w98sdjZ ksdmsysdksed8((mweksy3mOnsi8r) dn493bsd89s!!!!!!???!!!!?!?!!! Ratzo Rizzo!

You'll have to pardon Peabs. Bodney Sue shat on my winky-woo this morn and, because of Winn Dixie, it's made me antsy and dancing nancies! Peabs in every direction! Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

No really, oh pleabs of Peabs. I'm actually rather Fab Morvan! Blame it on the rain or the cocaine, but I haven't felt this rigatoni boney-maroni since Chef Boyardee licked my tees and easy-cheesed Betsy Ross' buttfloss with bisghetti sauce!! Lest we forget the Great Spooge of '75, when Coz and myself simultaneously ejaculated on each respective cast member of "Barry Lyndon." Remember that effing hotness, Bill Cosby?

"Youuuuuuu seeeee, Dizzzzzzzeeeeeeee Rascal flazzumed his prickly prick into Kubrick's knickerbocker wicker rocker! Flozzle bozzle mozzle movs, I'm gonna shatspadat 'cuz my name is Coz!!"

I have no fucking clue what I'm talking about.

Doesn't change the fact that Peabs is a fucking genius. She mars. When my moneyshot hits your eye like a big Peabs-a-pie, that's, well, my fucking hot load on your mizz. Duhvs.

More later, when I become more inspired. And by inspired, what Peabs really means is when I'm high on BenGay® and special K and getting my testes sucked upon by a nestie full of Westies! Gobbly gobbly goo goo goo!

Obvs n '05™.

Hush Little Baby, Don't Say A Word, I'm Gonna Cram My D™ Down Your Esophagus.

2005-03-01T10:11:00.000-05:00

Spank me gently, you fuckface sack-licking mo-mos, 'cause Peabs is ready for some hottt butt-love! Oh, you haven't been brutally assfucked in decades? Fearn't, you effing borscht-loving jerkoffs. Your gorgeous President is more than Happy Scrappy Hero Pup to blow my cold beet soup all over your Isaac Mizrahi (dollup of sour cream included, snatch). And if you feel as though that is unsatisfactory, Dr. Bill Cosby will gladly tickle your labbie-lab with a dill pickle and a can of Tab®. Tab®. Muhhhhh. Reminds Peabs of 1985 while on the set of "Brazil", when yours effing truly freebased a rather lethal hybrid of pentazocine, an 8-ball of Yo-Yo Ma, and the pubic hair of Jonathan Pryce. Needless to say, the concoction made Peabs feel quite serengeti Dave Righetti ooh-jah boo-jah botally boo boo Berry-Berry Kix® all mixed up, don't know want to do, 311-stizz. So I had Rodney Roo go fetch something that would make my pretty fucking ass hallucinate something Raggedy Ann in order to sober up. And yes, that's the last time you'll hear the words "sober up" come out of Peabs' lippie-poos. But it certainly isn't the last time I'll gargle your Venetian secretions and spit them in your GoBot™ tater tots, Major Mo! Bovs splashed all over your tees, Walter Kornbluth.

Oh yeah, Tab®. Almost forgot. The somewhat gullible, yet magnificently Sammo Hung like a horse a horse of course of course, Rodney Roo thought that the fagtastic Soda Popinski was actually LSD. Alas, poor Roo.

But like Mindy Cohn always said to Peabs when I was face-down in her Honey Bunches of Oats®: "you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have my benevolent vagina thrusting against your gob." Being a brilliant engineer, I was able to fashion the pop can into a life-size statue of Ms. Pac Man receiving a John Wilkes Booth from both J.R. and Patrick Ewing. And you wonder why the Hoyas lost to 'Nova in the '85 national championship game. Or who shot J.R., for that Mats Wilander. Shmears. More like a smoking hot moneyshot of my jazzum-snot, Hagman! Ratzo Rizzo!

Anything you care to add, Coz? You've been relatively Silent All These Years today.

"Yoooooooouuuu seeeee, Peabs, I am not Dizzee Rascal. Contrary to the prairie dogs that burrow around my round-robin flazzum-flozzum, Dizzee is actually a rootin'-tootin' Rasputin gluten-free busy-bee! Bizzopplebop!"

Umm, duh.

And you thought I didn't have it in me to stay this brills for so long. Mars. The only thing I have in me is your mother's milk-warm tonguey-tongue, firmly placed in between my Maurice Cheeks, swirly-swirling Round and Round like Ratt. Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.

Kitty Kat!! Get Off The Island!!

2005-02-24T09:21:00.000-05:00

Like all past Presidents, yours effing truly had to get my yearly physical yesterday. Sure, this may seem a Tad Inhaler early in my term to get a check-up; howevs, the administration felt that since Peabs lives a bit of a "different" lifestyle than other former Commanders-In-Chief (besides maybe Taft, who had an infamous addiction to special K and bubonic plague-ridden slooty-sloot devotchkas, Ratzo!), it would be best to get it over with. And thank fucking Coz we did! Can you believe that I have high blood pressure? She effing mars. Other than that nonsense, Peabs is in tip-top shape (only 28 pounds underweight, nuhh), though I was told I could use a little more sleep. This makes sense, considering I've been pulling the same all-nighter since 1975. Ahh yes. 1975. That was the year Peabs discovered the art of sprinkling PCP into my morning whiskey, covering my Adonis bod with mayo and getting frisky with my Mexican house boy Mateo and a young, hung Scott Baio. That being said, I had Rodney Roo summon my personal masseuse/nurse/fluffer Hot Yogurt, and ordered her to inject me full of enough carisoprodol to kill Divine at an Amish Buffet convention in Sandusky. Be that as it may, it didn't work so well, for your gorgeous motherfucking President and Dr. Bill Cosby had been snorting crystal meth for five straight days with a Somalian hooker named Ms. Clyde Labia of Majoraville and the ghost of Edsel Ford. Bovs on your Model Tees, Ed! Boo-jah!

What are you fuckfaces doing this weekend?!?! Oh, you might dress up like Friar Tuck, sit in a bathtub full of chimpanzee spidunkadunk and listen to your CHANT album? Effing mo-mos. May Peabs suggest you visit my Taj Mahal¹? Obvs, Peabs may. What are you going to do about it? Fuck my Papa Roach in the anal cavity until his bicuspids bisexually bite your mumbly-bumbly off? Mars. Quoth the great Vincent Van Gogh:

"I cut my fucking ear off and sent it to a stupid fucking ho-bag because my pussy ass can't handle any absinthe. I'm also a hack when it comes to post-impressionism; though I am certainly better than that fucking assclown Gauguin. Punk-ass bitch motherfucker. Vinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!"

And you thought watching "The Bicycle Thief" on 'ludes and kit kat while getting your ass Edvard Munched upon by Mark Fidrych would get you off the island! So naive.

Until next week, my pleabs of Peabs. Anything you care to add, Coz?

"Yooooouuuuu seeeeeee, Dizzee Rascal likes to flazzum the frisbee with bumblebees and flizzum the stickball with Paul Westphal!!! Bozzle!!!"

Face it - Peabs is your reason for living. Lou Reed agrees. Schmobvs. Oh, you disagree?? I have five American dollars and my man-sherbert smothered all over your Muggsy Bogues that disagrees. Translation: Peabs just jizzum-jazzumed on your Templeton Peck, you cum-hungry twatty-twat. Zappa!!!!!!!

Obvs in '05™.

¹Peabs, I.M. Pei and Bodney Sue built the Taj Mahal in 1995. Duh. Oh you didn't know that? That's because I'm lying and wanted another excuse to use a footnote, Uncle Grambo-stizz. Gobble!

Castrated Incorporated.

2005-02-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

Hi cutie! You wanna lappy-lap up Peabs' pre-jazz off of my Rod Carew and make a worldwide fad diet out of it? The answer is schmobvs. It's unfortch most of you mo-mos don't realize how many of those unnecessary ell-bees you'd take off by simply sucking my fucking D™. So please, by all means slobber away, you effing slutwhores! Yeah, just like that, baby. Tastes like USDA-choice 'roo, doesn't it? Bovs splitter-splattered all over your effing tatters! I bet you'd love for Peabs to Chute my Ladder all over those tees, eh Milton Bradley? Duh.

There are few things your loyal President hasn't done, and I am not afraid to admit such. Certainly Peabs has been one to spasm-jasm my spyro-gyra into Elmira's coffee (she takes it black; muhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!) and shat toffee into David Klingler's Debra Winger. But this does not change the fact that yours effing truly has never taken a burly Buckaroo Banzai up the Erie Canal for a gondola ride, despite what recent tabloids have been printing. Okay, sure, I might've ingested some 714's, ripped off my custom leather assless chaps and had Dr. Bill Cosby stick a lubed digit up my Moondoggie while Peabs Ocean Spray®'d my Wavy Gravy across the lips of PETA members, but I can explain my actions. You see, Peabs loves animals (duhvs, I'm both a kangaroo and turkey - gobble!) just as much as the next guy; but what I love even more is my Gucci™ buttplug made from the pubic hairs of several gay possum. And apparently there are some fucking agenda-hungry, Vegan Rebecca Romaine-lettuce munchers out there who feel that this is disrespectful to the opossum, claiming that they have already been persecuted enough for their sexual orientation by legions of other phalanger. So effing what if they packed more Superfudge than Judy Blume? Shmears! Personally, if I were a homosexual possum, I'd be more than happy to donate my skin to create sex toys for drugged-out supermodels who think they're President of the United States! Ivca¹.

Be that as it may, I've had PETA activists all up in my ooh-jah all weekend, and it's quickly putting them near the top of my list of people Peabs wants to billyclub over the head with a sterling David Silver Slik Willy². Luckily, Rodney Roo had been exclusively smoking levo alphacetylmethadol with PETA President Vag Snatcherstein, so he was able to convince her that my pretty ass should be the least of her worries. She should be concerned with Dave Pirner, what with all of that effing mayonnaise and lack of relevant music in his fucking hair. Lest we forget he's also eunuch. I would know. I'm a doctor. Hey Dave, Dr. Peabs wants somebody to shove their cock down Anne Rice's thrizz, Le Stat! And that somebody is me. Isn't that right, Bill Cosby?

"Yoooooouuu seeeee, Peabs, even Dizzee Rascal thinks your last post was Kibbles 'n Bits 'n Bits and rizzle rits on the Riddler's tits compared to this glizzum glitz! Flazzum!"

You all want to have sex with me³.

Obvs in '05™.

¹Fuck, my cacoethes loquendi and neologisms make you want to shit on my face and call me Omnilord of VaginaLand, you fucksticks. Ratzo Rizzo!

²Don't even get me started on Women's Lib, Leslie Bibb or Adam's Rib, for fuck's sake. Though Peabs must say, Ms. Bibb once fingerbanged my asshole so shats boombies, I thought she was going to jumpstart my boo-jah like a petty car thief on mescaline. Mars.

³Duh.

Surprise Surprise, Beef Brisket In Disguise!

2005-02-15T11:34:00.000-05:00

Tiz is very much like Peabs' friend Rodney Roo. Both have a distinct appreciation for all things ooh-jah; each can put down a liter of Beefeater faster than Dr. Bill Cosby can assfuck Jared Fogle with a foot-long sweet-onion chicken teriyaki sub from Subway® (eat fresh! muhhhhhhhhhhhh! eat me!); and both men have a fondness for beef brisket. Schmobvs. Howevs, El Tiz loves beef brisket more than his uncle Maury Povich, whereas Rodney Roo prefers to donkey doo doo his Portia De Rossi all over his Bob Fosses. Be that as it may, it doesn't even fucking compare to the amount of flunitrazepam I gave Cito Gaston last night, just to get a taste of his hot Toronto Blue Jay. I was so effing Tinky-Winky kinky, the entire population of Yonge Street shat their toonies out of their canuckular veins and spackle-dackled cat valium into their Molson-soaked testes, eh! Mars she all over your effing fries smothered in vinegar and gravy, you fucking hosers! Ratzo!

How was your fucking Valentine's Day, you Cupid-fucking mo-mo King Jaffe Joffers? Did you fingerbang your father for a smokie-dokie snackie-poo of Peabs' totally motally rotally roo? I thinkn't. Doesn't change the fact that yours effing truly wants to be your valentine. And by "be your valentine" I really mean Peabs would luvvvvv to rubby-rub my Rooster Cogburn all over your Eula Goodnight and disarm you with a smile. I'll cut rails like you want me to, Billy. And then snort them with so much gusto, Michael Musto would be spank-a-danking in the corner, screaming Peabs' name at the top of his Village Voice. Oh Peabs!! Blow it on my out-of-date lenses! Bovs.

You don't even seem phased anymore, oh dear pleabs of Peabs. It's as though you've become immune to the epidemic that is Peabs. Could it be perhaps because my hot rod Cape Cod bod carries a strain of Hep-C that is more defunct than Daft Punk? I understand. From now on, I shan't speaketh or sayeth or gobbleth in ways which do not effect your psyche, but in ways that will sodomize your senses like Rocco Siffredi blows moneyshots in the ready, willing, Cane and Able faces of fancy ladies. Translation: before every post, Peabs The Great shall dissolve a sheet of blotter acid into a vat full of Thallium Dysprosium Dioxide (TlDyO2), teabag my Oolongs into said vat, freebase some crack out of a DivaCup™, and write utterly brills prose that makes Hemmingway look like Eric Da Re. Leo no! Leo no! Obvs.

It's the dawning of a new day!!! I want to assure you, my people, that you get nothing but 100 percent Peabs 100 percent of the time! Coz, don't you think my new approach to things will improve the overall reading experience here at SSTP?

"Yooooouuuu seeeee, Dizzee Rascal has become the ascot-wearing mascot of the University of Flazzum at Little Rock! Gooooooooooo Flizzums!"

My genius is flowing like fucking Mount Etna. And speaking of mounting Etna, why don't you bring your cute l'il Abner over to your beautiful leader and let me toss your salad. How else is my emaciated A gonna get my calories? Obvs, via your butt-leakage, you filthy fucking sloot. Oh, you don't dig on the Pacific Rim? That's fine. You can make it up to Peabs by snowballing Dr. Bill Cosby and jerking off Bodney Sue's rigga-rigga with some l'alba, l'alba, rinforza il petto sulle vostre coscie! Oh, and while you're at it, throw on some Norah Jones. Ain't nuttin' gets me in the pure moods like you Raviing my Shankar and cumming away with Peabs. Well, besides Fozzie The Bear's hott tongue on my D™. Wacca-waccobvs!

Unlike pimpin', Peabsin' is easy. Duh.

Obvs in '05™.

Cosby Comes Forward! And All Over Your Effing Mizz, You Slooty-Sloot!

2005-02-10T15:20:00.000-05:00

Last evening on Fox News, Dr. Bill Cosby's accuser, Tamara Green, publicly stated how Coz drugged her ugly A and then "touched [her] inappropriately." And while my sidekick and Vice President was not there to defend himself, we here at SSTP would like to take the time to say that Ms. Green got it all wrong. He did not drug her "lunch." It was her dessert; a Jell-O® Pudding Pop, to be exact. And Coz did not leave her "two $100 bills on the coffee table." It was more like three bucks and a half-filled Dixie® cup of his jazz. Bovs. Furthermore, she also had the audacity to claim that he violated her in "worst possible way." Now let's be shmears here, folks. "Worst possible way?" What the fuck does that mean? Did he give you a dirty sanchez, using the diarrhea of a SIDS-ridden newborn, Ms. Green? Did he blumpkin you with your bloody tampon and make you call him Prince Playtex®? I think not. If anything, you got off scot-free. Millions of women out there would've loved to have been in your shoes, getting a chance to feel the Coz's manifest destiny all up in their Guy Ritchie. Shmears!

Be that as it may, Peabs is still rather proud of Dr. Bill. This incident occurred well before we became inseparable compadres, and it's good to see that the man was acting "inappropriately" even way back then. So with that, yours effing truly, your "hipster doofus" of a President (thanks to Anonymous for the compliment!) and his loyal, molester friend, Cosby, wish you a weekend filled with phencyclidine, rimjobs and John Wilkes Booth. Anything you'd like to add, Coz?

"Yooooooouuuuu seee, Dizzee Rascal is the king of the castle! And I am the queen of Diana Ross & The Supremes! Flazzum in the name of flizzum!"

Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.

Vatican Rhymes With "Shat On My Face Again." Obvs.

2005-02-09T11:15:00.000-05:00

If there's anything we as the human race can agree on, it's that we all love Thai hookers. They're just so sultry and dirty and diseased; and I, Peabs, have no problem confessing my undying love for participating in unprotected, unlubed assbanging with three or twelve of them at a time. Schmobvs. Now don't start getting all high and mighty on your fucking President, you effing genital-warted cockharlot fuckass slutbags. You know you love these beautiful creatures, too, so don't be afraid to admit that shit. Oh, you're afraid your wife is gonna find out? You fucking pussy! I'll write you a fucking pardon. Hope you didn't forget: I'm the President – Peabs does it all the time. Shit, just the other day I had to pardon a skagged-out Rodney Roo for flying a plane into the living room of Columbian Vice President Gustavo Bell, and holding his family hostage with a double-sided dildo made out of smoked Gouda until they paid him an unlimited supply of meximelts. Apparently my good friend thought Gustavo was the founder of Taco Bell®. Dumb fucking 'roo. I guess all marsupials can't be as motherfucking brills as your effing truly. Isn't that right, Dr. Bill Cosby, you fucking rapist!?

"Yoooooouuu seeeeeee, it was Dizzee Rascal who fondled Piston Honda with a flazzumberry gasmcherry! Bazzum!"

Uh huh. Sure it was, Heathcliff. Don't fritter and fret, my friend. Peabs believes you, you Big John Studd you. Robvs.

In related news, Peabs was doing bongtokes of opium-laced Vioxx® with Pope John Paul last weekend when he admitted to me (in stoned confidence, which incidentally doesn't mean jack fucking shit, duhvs) his fascination with the aforementioned Thai hookers. So I felt it would be a good idea for Bodney Sue and Ratzo Rizzo to round up some Bangkok whores, snag a kilo of some potent blow and turn the Vatican into my personal effing brothel. Little did Peabs know that PJP would endlessly beg for his face to be shat upon for the remainder of the night. Lest we forget that the man blew so many rails of Alfie and started convulsing so heavily that he made the love child of Muhammad Ali and Michael J. Fox look stiffer than Justin Guarini during a confessional with Archbishop Chester McNamblavich XIV. Schmobvs.

Needless to say, what I learned from my little binge in VC is that all Catholics love to have their respective faces shit upon. Which is only fair since they, in turn, shit on everyone's face themselves. Especially little boys. Not that there's anything wrong with a little pedophilia now and then. Shmears. Just yesterday, upon circle-jerking to "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York," Coz and myself invited the entire Culkin family over for some marshmallowy treats and fistfucking goodness. Damn, that Rory's got a mouth that makes a dentureless Jessica Tandy look like Mufasa! Mmmmmmm, Mufasa. Remember when Peabs hakunaed your matatas? Sir Elton may have been feeling your love that night, but Peabs was feeling something else. And that "something else" was your big villainous lionhood all up in my ooh-jah! Mark your President's words when I say that bestiality is back in a big way in 2005! Bovs on your effing mane, Simba! Rawrrrrrrrr!!!

Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I'm really kidding. Well, for the most part. What the fuck would you do about it if I weren't? Peabs is more untouchable than Eliot Ness. Howevs, I do highly suggest you touch me. Preferably on my D™. Or just tickle my sweet A with a sweet pickle. I think it's excellent! Sweet Pickles is great!

That's not the only thing that's great. Yup, that's right. Peabs is great. So great, in fact, that from now on all future Presidents will be known as _________ the Great. I'm so fucking revolutionary. It's clear you want to rimmy-rim my anus and call me Christ. I don't blame you. I do it to myself on a daily basis. Why don't you fucks try to crucify my fucking ass? Huh? Yeah, I didn't think so, you effing jaggoffs. Shmears.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Happy Ass Wednesday! Be sure to shmear the insides of a day-old paczki all over your buttplug and think of Peabs while you eff your boo-jah! Hogsviously.

Obvs in '05™.

My Spidunkadunk Makes Your Vagina Look Like Phil Donahue!

2005-02-07T14:09:00.000-05:00

Kiss Peabs, I'm Irish. And by kiss, I mean ess my fat D™ and milk my prostate with a gerbil name Herbie The Love Gerbil, you filthy fucking slutwhore. I was having passionate buttsex with trannie sailors in India when you were still wetting the bed and fingerfucking your grandmother just for some fucking oatmeal raisin cookies. And Peabs knows what you did with those cookies, you sick and twisted fucks! Shame on you. Luckily yours effing truly is a very forgiving individual. I make Buddy Ackerman look like your fucking bi-curious, HIV-pos sister, face down in the muffy muff of Rodney Roo! Mars she on your fucking Dynamic Theory of Gravity, Tesla! You know what the fucking sign says? Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Obvs. I'm a fucking sage.

So how was your weekend, oh pleabs of Peabs? Did you sit around and snort lines and get your salad tossed? Peabs did. Did you tape nasty, dirty sex conversations with some skank-ass Bubba Ho-Tep? Nope, that would be my good friend Dr. Bill Cosby (well, vice versa, but whatevsdotorg). Personally, I don't see what the big fucking deal is. Coz is the Vice President of the United Effing States of motherassfucking America; he should be allowed to drug and sexually assault anyone he pleases! Shmears.

Now before you get all Gloria Steinem on Peabs, realize this: I do not advocate sexual assault towards just women. If my man Cosby wants to go out and pick up some Liberace at a local glory-hole establishment, feed him a bunch of Gama Hydroxybutyric Acid and dildo-club him over the head like a wet dolphin, he should be able to do so. Why? Because he's a politician. And politicians can do whatever they fucking want.

Case in point? Peabs. Duh.

Just yesterday, I was freebasing some Catha Edulis on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial... while giving an Abe Lincoln to a D.C. cop! And did Peabs get arrested? Fuck no. I did get a phone number, though. Darlene, you're certainly getting a ringy-ding latro because Peabs hasn't been blown like that since 1849, Gold Rush-stizz. Well, except for you, my lovely Indira. Ain't nuthin' beats that sweet sweet way you gargle my man-spit and call me Младенец. And you're not even Russian! You are a fucking whore, though. Peabs' whore. Boo-jah!

Hey Coz!? You gonna let all this bullshit get you down?

"Yooooooouuu seeeee, Dizzee Rascal feels I should flazzum the fluffin with a blueberry muffin, and spizzum the fussin' with a bozzle of Tussin!"

That makes no effing sense, Coz. Mars. Maybe you should take a few days off and rethink what you just said. Here's some inspiration; perhaps watching multiple yous will make you realize that you're starting to lose it.

I'm just joking! You're still my favorite. But you're not the best. Peabs is the best. At everything. What's that, Muhammad? Oh, you wrote the Koran? Prove it, bitch. Peabs wrote that shit with my pre-jazz on Post-It® notes when I was 4 months old. You call yourself a theologian? Malcolm-Jamal Warner is more a theologian than you'll ever be, you fucking hack! Dude, SHMEARS.

Offended yet? Good. I needed to step it up a notch. Tomorrow's topic: the Pope's obsession with Thai hookers and hot carls. You all wonder why the motherfucker shakes so much. Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.

Bart Jemima: Professional Kangaroo.

2005-02-02T08:36:00.000-05:00

The other day, Rodney Roo suggested to Peabs that I branch out from being the world's greatest, best-tasting and most gorgeous turkey¹. And what better way to do so than becoming a professional kangaroo? Dr. Bill Cosby agrees. Mind you, it will be difficult to replace my "gobble, gobble" call sign; therefore, Peabs plans to still use the phrase, though for now I plan to exclusively be a marsupial. I really, truly believe that it's not only a step forward for my pretty ass motherfucking self, but also for you, my pretty ass motherfucking America. And if you disagree, please suck my effing D™. Pretty please? With my hot spunk on top? You know you want to. I could feed Africa and Canada a hot jazz dinner and still have enough left ovs for dessert; that is if Peabs fucking ate dessert - which I do not, because it's for handjob mo-mo Ratzo Rizzo fucks like you, Kirstie Alley! Schmobvs.

Unlike turkeydom, the art of being a professional kangaroo requires a stage name, not unlike Rock Hudson or Jonathan Vaginaface. Coz suggested I seek guidance from his left testicle, but I attribute that to his massive consumption of thebaine. The always-wise Bodney Sue claimed that ex-Piston and current sports broadcaster John Salley was an expert on the subject. Apparently John and his twin brother Sally were the predominant 'roos in the early 1980's (hogsviously before John became a world-reknown yellow jacket and spider, snatch). Coincidentally, on Sunday evening, Peabs attended the same party as John Salley, who recognized me from the time I kidnapped and assfucked his filthy effing wife and held her for ransom in the sum of 40 dollars worth of skag and Mark Aguirre's pumpkinhead. Needless to say, it was an awkward meeting and yours effing truly immediately apologized, stating how I used to be a crazy fucking turkey and wanted to do something more with my life. You know, like the time I switched from shooting horse into my ooh-jah to shooting horse into my boo-jah. Duhvs.

The Spiderman saw that Peabs was dude shmears and with one snap of his fingers, he proclaimed me as Bart Jemima, professional kangaroo. Then I gave him an Abe Lincoln and tossed his wife's salad with such gusto, I made Alex Sanders look like Sanders® bumpy cake. Mmmmmmmm, bumps. Speaking of which; Coz, you wanna cut up some rails and invite Boris Becker over to play a little "how's your father?" in my pouchy-pouch?

"Dizzee Rascal razzamatazzed the guru jazzama-Tasmanian Devil with a rebel yell she wants more more yellow Jell-OOOOOOOO® like Old Yeller! Bozzle!"

Alas, poor Yorick, I guess we'll have to save that for another tizz. Looks like another boring evening of soaking my malnourished body-to-die-for in liquid acid and pretending I'm the President of the United States. Wait, you mean Peabs actually isn't the President? Have I been hallucinating this whole time?

Haha, I'm kidding. Whilst it's clear that Peabs has been tripping for years and shmears and tears for fears, it doesn't change the fact that I am the leader of the free world. Lest we forget I'm also the master of the universe. Eff He-Man, that vitzen spatchen Thor-wannabe mo-mo anklebomber (??????)!!! I HAVE THE POWER!!!!! She mars² all over your Pedro Almodóvars. I'm all about your fucking mother, you effing suckjob. Bovs.

To answer your question: no, it's really not that difficult being this brilliant and the most beautiful specimen the human race has ever encountered. Schmobvs. You so want to be me. Your lives are shit without Peabs. I'm the best.

Obvs in '05™.

¹As determined by a recent poll in Fiona's Turkey Enthusiast magazine. Which doesn't exist. Obvs.

²Or should it be She Ras? Nuhhhhhhhhhhh. He-Man references have about as much buzz as dropping mid-80's WWF® knowledge. And since Peabs does both, they have more buzz than a crackbaby getting breastfed by Whitney Houston. Robvs.

Not By My Nuts On Your Chinny-Chin-Chin!

2005-01-28T11:43:00.000-05:00

You will all Rodney Roo the fucking day you don't let Peabs honey smacks my effing D™ across your pretty face, you fatherless cockwhoring slooty-sloots! Shmear my cream cheese across your upper lip and I'll be your Einstein, bitch! Ratzo!

I was getting a mustache ride from a meth-fueled John Stossel the other night when Peabs realized that I had not seen my Vice President, Dr. Bill Cosby, in almost 48 hours. And this is rather rare considering the fact that on weeknights, Coz and yours effing truly usually spend our time secluded in a twelve million square foot bathroom made of mirrors, blowing rails of baby laxative and special K and referring to each other as different breakfast cereal personas. Believe Peabs when I say that there ain't a more euphoric feeling than having an eight-ball up every possible orifice and being called Tony The Tiger. It's grrrrrrrrrrreat! MUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Shmears, are you effing SIDS? There's at least four things that feel slightly better than that; mind you, three of four include the aforementioned cocaine and mustache ride. And that fourth... well, we'll just go ahead and let your imagination run wild, you fucking perverts. Mars she all over your effing aristocracy, King John! Call me Baron von Peabs and shove my Magna Carta up your motally moo ooh-jah boo radley roo! Obvs.

Oh wait, there's Coz! Where you been, my beautiful Black friend?

"Meeeeeee and Dizzee Rascal bozzled some mushrooooooooms and razzle dazzled Hume Cronyn's scrotum rotum! Flazzum!"

And I thought my little "fling" with Stossel was dirty! She fucking mars all over your WWF™ Superstars. Peabs is going to have to up the salad tossing quotient tenfold and then some. Or perhaps just get Coz into the mix a little more. Duhvs. Hey, Coz, I'm fearing that the site is becoming too tame, especially compared to your recent shenanigans with Dizzee Rascal. Can you maybe help Peabs out and make SSTP (dude, who fucking links to themselves? Fucking Peabs, that's who, you effing handjob.) disrespectable (??) again?

"Yooooooou've gots to know that I tosseled Stossel's falafel with a flizzum jizzum Geo Prizm!"

Rodney Roo agrees. I'm such a fucking genius. Gorgeous, too. Schmobvs.

Obvs in '05™.

Inevitably, You Would Prefer To Hummy-Hum My Hot Cockadoodledobvs.

2005-01-25T10:48:00.000-05:00

This is not the greatest post in the world. This is just a tribute. Bovs.

There are few men who have caused Peabs to ever feel the affliction of penis envy (I'm looking in your direction William Randolph Hearst, you sassy cocksman!), and the recently deceased Johnny Carson certainly was not one of them. Not to sound crass (because, she effing mars, Peabs is never fucking crass; eloquent, sure...), but the aforementioned Carson was admittedly a mantastic talk-show host, a pioneer, if you will. And you will. Because I effing told you to, you fucking mo-mo buttfucks! Ratzo Rizzo!

Be that as it may, Johnny wasn't exactly "packing heat" in the area of all that which defines manhood, especially when compared to yours effing truly, or Dr. Bill Cosby for that matter. I know this may be in poor taste to speak ill of a man's cock size when he has recently passed; howevs, Peabs assures you that it doesn't taste nearly as poor as the queefing vaggie vag of your Aunt Mabel. Or your underage sister. Fucking slutbag whores. I bet you love the way Peabs teases you with my Presidential D™ and then denies your advances because your filthy snatches reek of fish oil and fried ooh-jah! Boo-jah! I'm on cocaine right now. Right now... it means everything. She mars all over your Sammy Hagars!

But shmeariously, folks...

When Rodney Roo came to Peabs and told me the news of Carson's passing, I was rather crushed. For those of you who didn't know, I made my first television appearance on "The Tonight Show" in 1979; with help from Coz, hogsviously, since he was once a guest host. Needless to say it went well, despite the fact that beforehand I had ingested sixteen tablets of dextropropoxyphene and huffed an entire paint can of ether. Schmobvs.

Below is an excerpt of our interview, in homage of the great man that was Johnny Carson. Any man that can put up with a toddler-aged Peabs, high on potent oral analgesics, is a genius in my extremely humble opinion. And by extremely humble, I mean I'm fucking GOD. Totally motally.

Carson: You're rather attractive and well-spoken for a two-year old, Peabs.

Peabs: I just shit my pants.

Ed McMahon: Yes!

Carson: Do you attribute your success to your affiliation with Bill Cosby?

Peabs: I feel like I'm getting sucked off by a toothless crackwhore, Johnny. You hear me? I'm a turkey! Gobble, gobble! Right, Coz?

Bill Cosby: Dizzee Rascal is really Alfalfa spelunk-a-dunkin' his wooden mops on his J-E-L-L-O puddin' pops!

We'll miss you, Johnny. Obvs in '05™.

She Fucking Mars.

2005-01-21T11:10:00.000-05:00

Bovs.

Obvs in '05™.

The Following Post Is Brought To You By The Letters "L", "S", and "D."

2005-01-19T13:20:00.000-05:00

Hi!!! I'm Peabs!!! I'm the President!!!

It's nice to see that you care, America. Almost as nice as it is to get your scrotum suckled upon by a junkie slutbag with scabies all over her boombalats. Almost. I mean, mars, people! Few things beat the whole burning sensation one's testes acquire after teabagging Bilbo Baggins with some eggnog raggin flaggins. Duh.

Fuck. Peabs is starting to talk like Dr. Bill Cosby. I attribute a bit of this to my massive consumption of speedballs and Corn Flakes® this past weekend. And no, my lovelies, I did not eat the aforementioned Corn Flakes®. You don't even want to fucking know what Peabs did with them. Let's just say it makes Lewis and Clark look like effing mo-mo smack-em yack-ems, even when balls deep in my Sacajawea. Pronto! Dude, SHMEARS.

Wanna tonguey-tongue my hot anus, you sassy bitch? Bovs you do. You can't handle an hour without my man-sauce marinating your gizzard like a turkey jazzing on my spanklet. Gobble gobble, dildos! If you think you look good in black, Ms. Jazz, imagine what Ratzo Rizzo looks like post-bukkake cassorole bakeoff! Macedonia!

What's that? Peabs is crazed?

Hardly.

Mind you, I have gone down on both Thelonius and Art Monk in one sitting, and find lab-maj fascism to be rather sexy when covered in my spunk-a-dunk. Dr. Bill Cosby agrees. Just ask him! Go ahead, he doesn't bite.

Wait, that's a lie! Coz makes Marv Albert look like Stuart Pankin on mescaline, circa "Arachniphobia"! Boo-jah! Right, Coz?

"Dizzee Rascal spiked your punch with Capt'n Crunch! Bozzle!"

Okay, sorry, yours motherfucking gorgeously truly got a l'il Abner sidestracked. Despite the well-known public battle between Bill Cosby and Dizzee Rascal, the Brit rapper came forward to help out Peabs with the naming of my tsunami disaster relief fund. Apparently, he and Rodney Roo thought it would be a tigs shats idea to lace my drizz with 400cc's of D-lysergic acid diethylamide and then go over the suggestions written to me by you, my pleabs of Peabs. And I must say, there were some keepers. For instance:

Love You Long Time: Sex Tourism Fund
Tears for Shmears (which, alas, had been previously used)
Eat Mommies for Tsunamis
Save the Asian Crackwhores Fund

I would like to personally thank all of you for your submissions. Howevs, the name of my new fundraiser is:

The Obvs in '05™ "I went to Bangkok for some hashish, a suckjob and some authentic Pad Thai, and all I got was this lousy wet tee-shirt" Tsunami Relief Fund.

Yes, I know it's a mouthful, but so is my fucking D™, and I've never heard your cocksucking whore self ever complain about that, so fellate me! Tsunobvs!

I drop acid like New Yorkers drop names. Mmmmmmmm, and I taste so effing good. Go ahead, try some Peabs. If I weren't a waifish, anorexic, drug addicted sex freak, maybe I'd be a little juicier. We can't all be Grover, can we?? NEAR!!!!! FAR!!!!

Obvs in '05™.

Buttfucking The Tsunami And Your Effing Mommy.

2005-01-13T13:26:00.000-05:00

Peabs is very disappointed in you. So is Bodney Boo.

I called out to you, my pleabs of Peabs, to assist your fearless and motherfucking (literally and figuratively) gorgeous leader in naming my tsunami disaster relief fund. And what did you do? That's right; you ignored Peabs, you selfish fucks. Sure, I may epitomize superficiality and self-absorbtion on this brilliant site, but that doesn't mean you should all try and copy yours effing truly. Granda, who could really blame you? I'm fucking perfect. I was curing cancer as a fetus when you were getting handjobs from your sister in the backalley of a White Castle in Lubbock, Texas, you fucking clit-rings. When Peabs was two years old, I was rewriting the fucking King James version of the fucking Bible; what were you doing? Oh that's right. You were getting assraped by a strap-on worn by a neutered Richard Dean Anderson on the set of "MacGuyver." She mars all over your Dana Elcars, you fucking mo-mo loving Ratzo Rizzos! Schmobvs.

So with that, I am now giving you through the long holiday weekend to come up with a name. My brosnan, Aaron Peabs, was the only one to email Peabs regarding this matter, but I want to give his pretty ass some competition - although his idea of "Save The Dirty Asians Fund" was pure genius, and lovingly ironic. Hogsviously! Also, Peabs is a little consumed at the current moment, preparing my inauguration speech, so things will be put on halt here until this Tuesday. And by consumed, I mean I'm in midst of getting a sloppy salad tossing from Sandy Duncan, who finds it necessary to sing songs from "Peter Pan" as she gargles down my ass secretions. Fucking slut! You ruined the Hogan family! Mars. Valerie forever.

Anything to add, Dr. Bill Cosby?

"Dizzee Rascal spackled my tackle box with Samantha Fox! Flazzum!"

Obvs in '05™.

Cockslapping The Malnourished And Underprivileged.

2005-01-10T11:56:00.000-05:00

Let's be shmears here, folks. Contrary to popular belief, Peabs is more than just a pretty face, ginormous D™ and a beautiful mind (lick my effing Joe Sakic and go do some fucking math, John Nash!). I am a giving man - and not in just the "Peabs loves to give head to waifish, Chlamydia-stricken cokewhores" manner (though it certainly is fucking Ratzo Rizzo all up in your Rodney Roo, duh). Upon seeing the results of last week's tragic tsunami in southeast Asia, yours effing truly and my gorgeous fucked-up cohort Dr. Bill Cosby decided to set up a disaster relief fund. The true task at hand, howevs, was naming said fund. Tastefully. And by tastefully, I mean seeing how many times the words "relief," "orally pleasure" and "nourish oneself with the protein from Coz's jazzum flazzum" could appear. Mars she all over your prematurely ejaculated Spunky Roostered tees! Cock-a-doodle-doo, Henry! Tsunobvsies.

I'm great. Oh, what's that? What Peabs just said doesn't make any fucking sense? I shan't even dignify that with a sarcastic and genius response. Lord knows Peabs certainly isn't a genius, nor sarcastic. Not one fucking bit, you fucking handjob mo-mos. I also never talk about myself.

Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs Peabs

Never.

Anywizz, my good friend Bodney Boo visited my posh 45,000 square foot loft in downtown Kingston this weekend to discuss the launching and naming of my tsunami relief fund. Needless to say, it was rather productive. Bodney brought over some beef brisket and rubbed it all over his ooh-jah boo-jahs and let his pet ferret Lick, ummmm, well, lick off the remnants. Lest Peabs forget to mention my dear old pal also brought an overstuffed bag of benzodiazepines and an endless amount of pure Andean trichocereus pachanoi. It was then decided that we would be launching the foundation in the middle of this week, yet we were still without a proper name. Coz felt it should be called the "Flazzumgastic Organilizationalism Alligatorasm Chasm Faction," but that was, even for yours effing truly, a bit of a mouthful. And I have a fucking mouth that could handle a load the size of Whoopi Goldberg's nappy duggsies. Duhvs. Bovs all over your ghostly tees, Swayze crazy! Muhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

So what Peabs asks of you, my lovelies, is to assist your President-elect in naming my tsunami relief association by emailing my hot ass with some suggestions. The winner will receive a firm assfucking and enough anal drippage to guarantee a down syndromed by-product appearing in their womby-womb in approximate five to seven business days. Only Indira Gandhi has been able to experience such a butt-reaming. And let Peabs tell you, it was fucking outstanding. Perhaps only rivaled by the time myself and William Fucking Cosby, with the help of former WWF™ Tag-Team Champions, Demolition, gangraped Fran Drescher with a Yves St. Laurent ascot, a bathtub full of Jell-O® and 'ludes, and Mr. Fuji's cane. Schmobvs. Some say hottest gangrape since Coleman Young sodomized Malice Green with a crackpipe smothered in cucumber sauce. Φανταστικός!

Anything you care to add, Dr. Coz?

"Dizzee Rascal likes razzleberry falafel waffles!"

Obvs he does, Coz. Obvs he does.

Obvs in '05™.

Methematical Equations.

2005-01-05T11:49:00.000-05:00

It should come as no surprise to anyone that Peabs loves to consume crystal meth in all shapes and sizes (though preferably in massive, obscene quantities, bovs). This is about as obvs as the herpes festering on the upper lip of Dr. Bill Cosby, due to last evening's horse-induced affair with a Vietnamese crackwhore that bore a striking resemblance to Curtis Armstrong. What few of you know is that yours effing truly also dabbles a tad in screenwriting; usually quality pictures, though I have been known to write a blockbuster every once in a wizz in order to supplement my ever-burdgeoning drug habit. Schmobvs. In fact, people ask Peabs constantly if any of the characters in my scripts are based off of my pretty self. Hogsviously the answer is obvs. Tyler Durden? Written in midst of a 14 day coke binge. Charles Foster Kane? Well, you can probs put two and two together and figure that one out. And if you can't, well, please Sookie Sapperstein my fucking cockring, you effing dildo. I'm the best.

Yesterday morning, Bill Cosby was shitting on the kitchen floor when he turned to yours effing truly and asked if we should quickly split an eight-ball (or 4) and go to Charles Bronson's house for his annual "Dirty Dozen Party". For those of you unaware, every year Chuck invites his share of filthy starlets (and equally as filthy faux-politicos like my gorgeous self) to dress up as cast members from his timeless 1967 motion picture and reenact scenes. Well, sorta. Actually, it's a bunch of trannies and drag queens obsessed with Jim Brown injecting smackysmack into their Uncle Festicles and baking Gyne-Lotrimin cookies. By the dozen.

Cute.

Mars she. Needless to say, this is where Coz met the aforementioned Joseph Heller, who apparently came dressed as Col. Everett Dasher Breed. The rest of the evening was pretty standard - Peabs smoked some yaba and got my ass-licked by Telly Savalas, who kept asking me:

"Who loves eatin' ya ass, baby? That's right, Telly, baby. Telly!"

While most would find that to be rather disgusting, the man has a tongue only comparable to a candyflipping Donald Duck giving a Hum-V to Joe Buck. So eager, so razzle-dazzling. Bovs on your Kojaked tees, El Sleezo Tough!

Until tomorrow, my pleabs of Peabs. Damn, that's really creative. Shocking, since I'm a fucking gobblingly mad genius, you Ratzo Rizzo wascally wabbits! Anything left to say, Dr. Bill Cosby?

"Dizzee Rascal is a flazzum scuzzle buzzle!"

Obvs in '05™.