Friday, January 7, 2011
Brothabag Freddie Moves On
Yesterday, Brothabag Freddie got constipated near the Holiest of Holy Hotts, Bree.
Today, Brothabag Freddie moves on. To two luscious shoulder suckles, Shoulder Suckle Sally and Shoulder Suckle Suzanne. For theirs are shoulders of deepest suckle gnaw.
For that is how Brothabag Freddie rolls.
Well, that, and by moving his right wrist leftwards and rightwards in a quick shaking masturbatory motion, and then tossing the dice forward at about an eleven degree arc.
I don’t give a shit as long as he hits that $150 nine I’ve got placed
Brothabag Freddie takes one last picture with the Shoulder Suckles Twins with crushing disappointment etched on his face after Sally turned to Suzanne and said “Did he just hit one me because I don’t speak jive?”
Wow he’s like a human canker sore. Get thee some Orajel, Suzanne, that stuff can get infected.
Ah, the thumb ring! It’s an ancient symbol of being a eunuch. No need to be concerned here, friends.
You gotta give Brothabag credit: When he’s around, boobs get mashed together. If I were a chick, I’d get all Sapphic, too, if Brothabag was my only other option.
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Although to be fair, if I were a chick, I’d get all Sapphic all the time. What a filthy lesbian whore I’d be.
Brothabag Freddie is one step ahead of Cleavon Little, though. Can we call him “Blazing Saddlebag”?
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Then again, he don’t need no stinkin’ badge.
This picture is why cropping software was invented. See ya, brotha.
Mr. White – there’s an interesting theory you have there. See, you take the “if she’ll sleep with him she’ll sleep with anybody” rule. Then apply it so that any woman Freddie pushes himself up against has her boundaries so blurred that she’ll cross the gender line.
Ergo – successful douchebags lead to lesbianism? And everybody wins? Wait, I’m confused. And depressed.
@ Mr. Biggs
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Once you “go through the big change” everything will become crystal clear. Mr. White wrote a book on it. He showed it to me on our first date a long time ago. Oh shit, the cat’s out of the bag!
He’s throwing the rare and fairly unpopular “Blinder”; rather than the shocker’s famed one in the pink, one in the stink, this is “One in the left ocular socket, one in the right ocular socket”. Usually only used in White’s basement, Son.
Why is my Brotha constipated? If I touched Bree while she looks that hot I think I would shart and then pîss on her leg.
That damn Hootie can sure pull some tail.
More like the blowfish.
Brothabag, did I hear you right? for a bottle of Goose and some bling to be named later, you’ll trade me Sally and Suzanne? Done! Ladies, please step this way.
@doc bunsen
I’m still a little embarrassed by that book. Not by anything that I wrote in it, but of my choice to use that font that dots all the i’s with little hearts.
Poor Corey Glover is just hanging onto his 15 minutes, I mean geez “Living Color” sucked and they barely gave him any screen time in “Platoon”
@ Mr. White
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In all seriousness, I just about fell off my chair when I read your post in the Wankster Wally post. I started out having a shitty day but that post turned it around. Thanks son.
There ya go, Freddie. Them’s some nice clean, wholesome girls. Now get the eff away from them before of of their daddies pulls out his shotgun.
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@ Mr. Biggs 12:44–Indeed, Mr. White IS onto something, you’re furthering it, and I’ll give you scientific evidence. Once upon a time, when I was a young Gorgonette, I sort-of frequented a club that was rather edgy and underground. However, Dennis Rodman glommed onto the place and soon every jackass in the city was turning out. This was way back before the Douchebag phenomenon that we know of today came into being, but the people of which I speak were the proto-douche of the time. Anyway, There I was with my roommate at the time, she a young mod complete with bomber jacket and vintage red Vespa, I an angry punklet with green mohawk and corset. So these two overstuffed polo shirts come up and do the whole “Heyyyy, you two look like some freaky laydeez” and all that. We ask them nicely to leave, we tell them rudely to leave, then when all else failed, I threw my arm over her shoulder, pulled her brusquely against me and snarled, “Fuck off, we’re lesbians!” They got quiet for a moment, and then the shorter, louder one of the pair said, “Awwwwright, can we watch?” I said something to the effect of go fuck a duck (I drank a lot in those days) and turned away, dragging my stumbling, tipsy roomie with me.
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As I stormed away, I became very aware of the feeling of her arm around my waist, the firmness of her thigh as her leg bumped against mine. Her hair smelled of something not quite floral, not quite soapy, but captivating. I spent the rest of our time living together hoping like hell she would stumble in drunk one night, accidentally climb into my bed and I would ravage her like none of her abusive boyfriends had the wherewithal to do.
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So, yeah. Who wants to write the thesis paper on that one? I’m going back to sleep. And I mean sleeping, not fapping.
Freddie is an embarrassment to his race, the douchebag race.
To enforce it, she went against Freddie has its limits clearly that cross the gender line.
Freddie has bedroom eyes and backroom fingers.
Medusa I’d be happy to write an abstract on that. Sounds like we had parallel 20s. (and wait’ll you see my treatment of the suicidal in Inferno 2010)