Hey there, Gentle Reader, you know what?
You have got the ILLEST PIMP SLAP.
That's why I love you.
If some ho gets uppity. Slap.
If some mofo gets all up in your craw. Slap.
Simple, to the point.
The opposite of an ill pimp slap is NOT a healthy pimp slap.
I think you're taking the mickey, fool. Slap.
The opposite of an ill pimp slap, is a WACK pimp slap.
Or a wack whack.
The point is, through careful examination of this websites's "statistics" I've come to the conclusion that my readership is made up of:
Bucket bong smoking hippies.
AND SEX MAD SEX FIENDS WHO LIVE AND DIE FOR HOT STICKY JUICY PENIS VAGINA ANUS MOUTH BREAST SEXFULL SEX.
That sentence makes me feel so dirty... UNCLEAN!
But back to the point. Conclusions. inre: you guys, and your ill pimp slaps.
As far as I know, there is only a teensy bit of pornographic material on this website... I am far too moral to fill this little bit of webspace up with HOT INTERRACIAL FULTH!
As such, there is little here for the sex mad sex fiends.
But you still have ill pimp slaps, because you have strong wrists from, well, you know... "playing trouser tennis."
And the ill secret to pimp slapping some uppity bitch is that it's all IN THE WRISTS.
To move in a smooth transition to my next point, we come to the bikies. There is nothing here for them. I've been getting a lot of hits for 89 Ninja, which is a type of awesome bike, but not as awesome as a bike from the future ridden by a femme fatale from the future called Mel, but still an okay bike from the present that could possibly be ridden by a present day femme fatale called Nina or Yvette. (Yvette would wear horn-rimmed glasses, and actually I think she is a librarian, not a MOSSAD assassin, but you never know.)
But 89 Ninja. Not here, you dumb schmuck. I should put their collective heads through a plate glass window, but I won't because:
A. I don't want to get blood on my stylish hunting jacket.
B. Remember, they are big strong rock em sock em bikies, possibly with chains and motorbikes and motorbikes on chains that they swing around their heads and launch at their enemies.
It would go down a little bit like this.
Some wiseass: Hey leather clad, musclebound DICKHEAD! Your bike is still attached to a chain! DICKHEAD!
Bikie: One... Two... Three... HYUP!
Some wiseass: Hey DICKHEAD! NOW YOUR BIKE IS IN THE AIR! DICKH- ARGHHH!! MY LUNGS ARE FILLING WITH BLOOD!!!! I WANTED TO DIE CRUSHED BENEATH A MOTORBIKE... BUT NOT LIKE THIS.... NOT... LIKE.... THIIIIIIIIISSS.....
Bikie: Glad you could... drop in.
Fade to black.
SFX: Tires screeching.
We fade up on... a jackbooted skinhead. The red laces on his Docs a sign that he has drawn blood in the Race War, this man wears pants.
To hold the pants up, possibly some sort of suspender arrangement. Above the suspenders, and on top of his head, locks of flowing golden curls.
Wait a minute, I'm thinking of Goldilocks.
The Three Bears returned home from a lovely Sat'day mornin' walk along the Promenade. The sun had been shining brightly (but not TOO brightly), and there had been all sorts of delightful street entertainment, including (but not limited to): mimes, living statues, and jugglers.
But their happy return was tragically marred,
by a careful inspection of the door, now ajar.
"Alas," said Vater Bear, turning the knob,
"Stay calm, my dear family, but I fear we've been robbed."
"Or worse," said Mutter Bear, "Perhaps it was the ZOG, planting their mind control beams in our porridge."
But this was not the case, because when they got to the kitchen, ALL OF THEIR PORRIDGE WAS GONE.
"Somebody has eaten all my porridge," said Vater Bear.
"Ja" agreed Mutter Bear and Kinder Bear.
"It must have been the ABC," concluded Vater Bear with his masterful powers of deduction. After all, he was genetically superior to the average bear.
"Time for a siesta, ja?" said Mutter Bear, "So we can take our minds off this attack on our culture at the hands of the ABC and the Global Jew."
But when they got to their beds, they discovered a prone figure sleeping within!
"Fuhrer Goldilocks!" exclaimed Vater Bear, "What are you doing here, ja?"
"I was taking a nap, ja," replied Goldilocks, "all that porridge made me hungry for sleep."
So you see, it was actually Goldilocks who ate the porridge, and not the ABC and the ZOG.
Short burst of static.... and back to our regular programming.
As I was saying, apparently (and I'm basing this on correspondence with two people) a number of Melbourne skinheads read (and enjoy) this.
I dislike all skinheads equally, but in this particular instance I have to say, "Bravo, good taste, young misguided goons" and also "East Side Represent."
The reason I have to say "East Side Represent" is cos those terrorist goons over on the West Coast don't like me at all. They're all, "Hey, we're the ANM, and we burn shit down and tag shit up and WE HAVE NO FUCKING TASTE."
Anyway, I guess there must be some shit to the liking of our less intelligent bald brethren here somewhere, but fucked if I know what it is.
Which brings us to the final section of my pimp-slappin' crew.
The Bucket Bong Smokin' Hippies.
Let's be honest... these are my fucking people. EVERYTHING HERE IS FOR THEM.
So, to conclude:
Yo, mein Vater, der kunst im Himmel. Geheiligt seien Sie thy Name (thy fucking Name) auf Masse, da sie im Himmel ist, geben uns, geben uns diesen Tag, geben uns diesen Tag unser tÃ¤gliches Brot, motherfucker.
Illest. Pimp. Slap.