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|I wanna submerge my testicles in it!|
Magic Byline | Monday, 09.19.05
New Jersey is famous for a lot of things. The ambiance, the smell, the roads that make out-of-state drivers slip into a coma behind the wheel (especially you New Yorkers... what the fuck oh my god laugh out loud). Thanks to stale, out-of-date stereotypes, we're known as the state of big hair, wannabe mafia kingpins and a general disregard of everyone in the world that doesn't come from Planet Jersey. We all live off the Turnpike, we all have a house down the shore, and we all know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can get us really good Devils tickets if we "do him a favor," which is Garden State slang for killing a man who owns a pizzeria that isn't named "Tony's," "Anthony's" or "Tony's II." And really, the smell isn't that bad. Sometimes they mask the dangerous chemical odor with butterscotch flavoring, so it's like living next to Billy Wonka's (the less famous, but equally flamboyantly gay brother of Willy Wonka) Butterscotch Factory.
|Jersey's finest shit farmer.|
But fuck all the haters, yo, because we have magic mud. I have to admit, at first I thought magic mud was what came out of your ass after eating a magician's wand, but apparently you rub it on your balls to remove the sheen. Y'know, you can't show up with your balls all glossy and fresh-out-the-box lookin'. They have to look, and more importantly, feel broken in.
Somewhere along the mudflats of a Delaware River tributary in New Jersey is the spot where baseball's "magic mud" is mined, a location known only to a few and kept secret for decades. The unique mud is rubbed on every new baseball used by Major League teams to remove the sheen, soften the seams and give pitchers a better grip.
Technically, can you "mine" mud? I'd search for the answer, but I only have one hand available at the moment. Y'see, I received an electric razor for my birthday, and my usually stubbly moustache area is as smooth as a baby's crotch. I feel like I'm 12 years old again, before the puberty and feelings of worthlessness took over... and it feels grand! In fact, it probably feels as good as gingerly dipping your balls in magic mud. Get it? BALLS? I'm making references to balls on the internet, guys, is it funny yet?
The company was opening up new markets for its mud, selling it in Asia to the South Korean Stars, and to its first football team, The San Francisco 49ers, said Bintliff who sells the mud for $45 for a quart container and expects to ship some 500 containers this year.
Wow! According to my math, selling magic mud to sports teams is a multi billion dollar a year operation. This is the part where your father gets all grumpy and says things like, "We're in the wrong business! The magic mud is selling like hot cakes! Hot, muddy cakes of dirt and errant animal feces." Then he quits his job, breaks out the hose, starts making his own magical dirt creations in the backyard and drops them off at the local ebay store. Then he loses the house, your mother dies of a broken heart and all he has to show for his efforts are 300 pails of mud and a horrible outlook on life. But don't worry, you'll find his lifeless corpse hanging from a rafter in the garage in a few weeks when his other moneymaking venture (selling magic grass clippings door-to-door) fizzles out. Thanks New Jersey!
Everything sounds better when you put the word "magic" before it. Here, watch this: Magic Holocaust. Doesn't sound so bad anymore, does it? Magic Bowel Movement. "Hey John, how was your last bowel movement?" a random stranger asks. "Oh man, it was like David Blaine entered my ass and made the contents of my bowels disappear into thin air. It was... a Magic Bowel Movement," I reply as the random stranger slowly backs away. Another good modifier is "super." Super Mario Brothers, Super Market, Super Christmas is Cancelled This Year, Super Oh God the Condom Broke. This concludes the super mega magic ultra this may hurt comedy bucket o' laughs and mud.
As a straight-shooting 24-year-old man (next week), topless women throw themselves at me almost every time I leave the house. Usually, it's my confused 85-year-old neighbor Mrs. Whatsherface, whose timeless beauty is hidden by layers and layers of old age and the sickening stench of approaching death. But man, take her garbage out once and all of a sudden you're face to face with a pair of tits that quit more than a quarter century ago. "Thanks for taking out my garbage, Jimmy!" says Mrs. Whatsherface with a confused, soulless grin, completely topless. I avert my eyes and dive face first into my car, and then I hit the ground with a sickening thud because I forgot to open the car door first. And then, uh... I... Look, I've written myself into a corner here, folks, so let's just get to the real update henceforth.
|Lawanda Dixon doesn't care about black people.|
she also doesn't mind stabbing them either | Friday, 09.09.05
An angry San Diego topless dancer pulled out a knife and stabbed a customer after he refused a lap dance, police said on Thursday. Lawanda Dixon, 24, was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon shortly after the altercation with 33-year-old Melik Jordan at the Dream Girls Cabaret early on Wednesday, San Diego police Det. Gary Hassen said.
That's one way of putting it. Here, let me take a STAB at it:
Some cracked out stripper bitch stabbed a dude because he didn't want her puss-filled crotch writhing about on his new pants. Lawanda Dixon, the 24-year-old cracked out stripper bitch, was hauled off to the slammer for assault with a deadly stripper weapon. Amazingly enough, the deadly stripper weapon wasn't the HIV. Then some other stuff happened.
|A funny caption.|
This scene would be kind of hot if the stripper wasn't fucked up on meth (which the cops found in her stripper action purse). I mean, I don't think I could turn down a topless woman brandishing a weapon. Unless it was a slingshot. I feel fairly confident that I could disarm a stripper who was threatening me with a slingshot. The odds of her getting a shot off are slim enough, and plus, where's a stripper going to find a rock in the middle of a gentleman's club? What's she going to shoot me with? Love and affection? Good luck, whore! In other news, stay tuned for my hit emo pop punk single entitled, "Strippers Brandishing Slingshots, Shooting Me With Love and Affection."
But now that I think about, I'd like to commend Lawanda Dixon, 24, of the Dream Girls Cabaret in lovely San Diego, California for having the balls to threaten her customers with knives. Would you bring 11 items to the "10 Items or Less" line at Wal Mart if you saw a piece sticking out of the handicapped cashier's belt? How quickly would you tip the bathroom attendant with a crossbow strapped to his back, or the waitress with a crazy look in her eye? The answers are a) No b) Quickly and c) Also quickly. Maybe Lawanda has the right idea. Maybe she can flail around on a pole better than any of the other whores at the Dream Girls Cabaret, and she just carries a knife around to bring the point home. You can't knock a girl for trying, and if you do, you're probably going to be carrying your organs home in a Shop-Rite bag.
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