I’ve Loved, Laughed and Cried! As promised last week, this is the last Realisms column. We’re leaving to build funny new concepts and marinate our writing chops at Ladybombescorts.com. I’d like to thank JB, AA, and BJH for giving me the opportunity and freedom to entertain my fellow Detroiters and the world. If Musty, Tokugawa, and I made you laugh hard enough to spit up your drink or drop your crack pipe, then we did our job. If not, tough tits.
A.) Yeah, you can’t win them all, man. B.) “Marinate our writing chops?” You’re a comedy butcher. C.) Can’t read the column right now—I’m watching the Kid Rock sex video.
I’ve Had My Fill, My Share of Losing! Ladies and Gentlemen, say hello to Marlena, a 22-year-old buxom brunette from Battle Creek, MI, She is the featured whore this week over at the dotcom. Oh, she is so hot. This brown-eyed, beautiful, bisexual babe will blow your mind. Five hubba hubbas!
A.) She sounds nice; I will try her. B.) I’m happily married and will pass, but yes, she does sound nice. C.) Show me a guy that wouldn’t like that and I’ll show you a gay guy.
Now As Tears Subside! If you ask me, the most disgusting Realism that Musty Scribblins ever wrote featured a Michidude on meth caught fornicating with a pumpkin. And it wasn’t even Halloween. Seriously though, the Musty one did brutal research on that story like no other god-fearing man should, if you know what I mean.
A.) No, I don’t know what you mean. B.) Yeah, maybe your chops need marinating. C.) I married a pumpkin, and we’re quite happy together.
I Find It All So Amusing! Wow, we’re strolling down memory fucking lane! It’s no secret, dear readers; we’ve always loved using the f-word in print. No, not as the verb for sexual intercourse (“He fucked her.”) but as a noun (“Don’t be a dumb fuck.”), and most importantly as the best descriptive adjective ever (“Wow, we’re strolling down memory fucking lane.”). You see, it helps describe the lane we’re strolling down. Call us corny but we can type it all day: fuck, fucker, fuckizzle, whatever, we are all over it.
A.) Thanks for explaining. We understand it’s a humor device—we’re not stupid. B.) Yes, Einstein, like you’re the only one that uses the word. C.) A little too much marinade—know what I’m saying?
To Think I Did All That! How cool is that? A celebratory telegram from Bosco and Amp Jacotti! They’re still out in Hollywood where they’ve made millions of dollars producing what they call ‘cornography’—dirty movies with really fat chicks and small-penised premature ejaculators. All of the flicks start with the lovers sharing a large sandwich in the kitchen before engaging in some quick fu…oops, I mean, sexual intercourse. The things that people will pay to see absolutely amaze me. Bosco and Amp send their regards.
A.) Remember when Bosco accidentally shot Musty in the ass? B.) Amp Jacotti looked a lot like Jack Nicholson. C.) My favorite was when Musty threw a half-dozen Slim Jims into a vat of vegetarian curry at Sir Paul McCartney’s wedding.
No, Not In a Shy Way! I love my wife, Christine. I’m one lucky fucking guy and I know it. And a quick pat on the head to Taxi, our Border Terrier. He’s a good boy.
A.) My wife is a bitch. B.) My dog just shit on the new carpet. C.) I’m single, no pets, and am on my way to the club looking for love. Later, losers.
Not Me—I Did It My Way! Besides lording over our whorehouse dotcom, I’ve got an application in to become a Federal Air Marshal—you know, the crooked kind. Like the pair busted two weeks back with 33 pounds of blow and $15,000. I’ll fly around the world, take money to move dope, pack heat, and flirt with the chicks as I protect passengers from terrorism.
A.) Down with hummus! B.) Change your name to Shake Mahan—it’s a friendly name. C.) Ha, you’re too funny this week; you’re killing me, stop, stop, I’m begging you… Oh, wait—it’s your last column, ha.
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