Boner Stabone

MuthaFuckas be hatin'

Alright, turdburglars. I know I don’t get on this tumblr bullshit often. Mostly because I’m really busy with handing out Vitamin Waters downtown to all the professional bankers and douchenuggets who wear skinny ties and pennyloafers. Anywho… I wanted to let you know about how these muthafuckas be hatin’ on me down at the flea market.

So there I am, right? All dressed up in my cut-off golf pants/shorts - more like fancy plaid mancapris - and a nice pair of canvas sandals and a blue wifebeater with an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt flowing in the breeze, topped off with my knock-off (but you’d never guess) Oakleys and a NY Islanders visor.

This muthafucka be hatin’ all up in my face, talkin’ ‘bout how I’m so unironic that it’s ironic and that I should really grow a beard for the full effect, or at least put on some kind of wolf shirt or maybe even smoke cheap cigarettes with a picture of an eagle on the pack. I was all, “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Galifianakis Wannabe?”

I’m just looking to pick up some of those extra-hot and ultra-thrifty flea market chicks who dig folk art of dogs and nature and black people, but this muthafucka be hatin’ all up in my face, totally crampin’ my style and, quite honestly, hurting my feelings. I decided I’d purchase a blown Magnavox speaker at another smelly vendor and bid the overweight choadburger good day.

I came across a table selling seashell necklaces and tarot card readings. Fucking tarot card readings. At a flea market. This muthafucka had homemade cards with crayon drawings of witches and horsemen and skeletons and shit all up on these bent-ass index cards. So, yeah - your bitch ass better beeeeleeeeve I gots me a reading from this muthafucka. Turns out, I’ve got a big change about to take place in my life and it probably will have something to do with coming into some money or maybe someone will die. Fucking crazy right? I hope I gets me some of that money. Or if someone dies and they leave me that money. Dude seemed like he knew his shit, too. Especially with the detail he colored in on that Jesus card. Tarot has Jesus cards, right?

Then I was all, “Peace out, Tarot dude, I’m ‘bout to find me some flea market bitchezzz.” And I gave him my signature ‘One Love’ chest pound and was off to find me a fly honey. Lo and behold, who did I see next to a tent selling 80’s R&B cassette tapes? A hippie chick sporting one of those flowing skirts and tight little t-shirts with long curly hair - falling out of her shirt sleeves. Hey, just because she don’t shave her pits don’t mean she ain’t trimmin’ up the clam’s beard. And damn skippy I was gonna try my darndest to get under that skirt. Closer investigation on her face revealed meth boils and a few missing teeth, but shit, I came to this flea market for two reasons - a new speaker for my car radio and to get my balls licked by a someone who at least looked female.

I picked up a New Edition cassette and said, “You look so sweet. You’re my special treat.” That’s right, bitches, I quoted Candy Girl and damned if this skank didn’t cream her boyshorts right then and there. She took me by the hand and led me inside tent and dropped the vinyl sides for a little privacy. Long story short, I totally got a beejay from this girl and I may have stuck my finger in her butthole, too. I don’t play, folks. I don’t play.

I tried to get her number but she was all, “I live out of this Bronco. I just go where the road takes me.” So I was like, “Fuck. At least let me buy this New Edition tape.” And she was all, “Just take it and go,” tossing it at me with a look of longing and heartbreak in her eye. Fucking sweet! Free tape for my one-speakered car stereo, ya’ll!

I gave her a LATERRZZZ and left the tent, never looking back. Make that bitch watch me as I walk away, right? I was so satisfied, and a little sleepy - I totally forgot about finding a new car radio speaker. I went home, took off my clothes and went to bed.

The next day, I pulled on my cut-off golf shants and went to Hardees for a one of those breakfast biscuits. MuthaFucka at the counter was all, “That’ll be $4.37.” Shit… wouldn’t you know it - when I went to grab my genuine alligator wallet from the back pocket - that shit be gone. Muthafucka at the counter be hatin’ all up in my face about payin’ for this sausage biscuit, too. I had to go home and search all over the place for my wallet before I realized that ho from the flea market must’ve yanked it as she was gummin’ my knob and I was diddlin’ her two-hole.

You know that bitch left town, too. Shit. I searched high and low for that ratty ass Bronco. Muthafuckas be hatin’ on me. But at least I gots me a blowjay, stinky-pinky and a New Edition tape. What, what!

You know what I don't do a whole lot?

Post on tumblr.

Maybe I should change that. But really, I’m so busy with all the important shit I got going on. Like yesterday, for example, I had to help my Uncle Max move a vintage 1976 velvet tapestry painting of a naked, Afro’ed Pam Grier into his office. We hung it up right next to his picture of Jesus and his drawing of one of the Iron Maiden album covers that he did when he was in high school. He’s a really good draw-er. Then he made me lunch. Sliced sweet pickles and Miracle Whip on white bread. For dessert we had the jello with the fruit bits suspended in it. It was red jello. I like red jello. We talked about how stupid he thinks my dad is and how he doesn’t understand why my dad won’t let him borrow the van to go pick up a fish tank from his friend down at the pawn shop. Something about really fucking up the last time my dad let him borrow a vehicle. Something about a 14 year old girl who he swears was more like 18. Maybe 17, but she said 18. Something like that. My Uncle Max is a real character. He even offered to give me a shave with his vintage straight razor! I turned him down, though. Sometimes I like to get scruffy. Like Ryan Seacrest! Then we smoked Merits and put them out on our paper plates (still from lunch). After all that, we sat in his lawn chairs and he told me how I should find a black girl to have sex with because he had sex with one once and she smelled like strawberries and tasted like a ripe kiwi. Then he fell asleep, so I went home.

Anyway, tumblr. I’m really fucking busy over here. I’ll try to post more often, but no promises.

Dear Spymaster game developer and the assfucks who allowed it to be put on twitter:

I hate you. It’s ridiculous and retarded games like yours that ruined my facebook experience. I know you’re just trying to make money, and God knows there is an audience for it, seeing all the people on twitter who are using it. But please leave my twitter alone. Just the fact that I see your name in the trending topics is foul enough. Now I have to unfollow friends who I thought were normal, funny people because they’re playing your stupid game and all they post is shit like “I just wounded @someassfuck in an assassination attempt. #spymaster” I even have recieved auto DM solicitations for this game. Awww HELL to the muthafuckin’ NO.

Really? Fuck. I can tell you with absolute honesty that I started to play Hobowars on facebook a couple of years back. It was fun. A little silly. I wasn’t obsessed about it. It was hobos, for Christ’s sake! Silly hobos. They put a box on my profile - not status updates for every fucking hobo I beat up. Anyway, I lost interest quickly. It was annoying. I deleted the app and removed the box from my profile.

Then came all these other ridiculous games - Mafia Wars? Oh, fuck… I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit “ignore” from people on facebook asking me to join their mafia. Fuck. No. I’m done with that shit. I’m not afraid to unfriend you, either, GuyIWentToJRHighWith18YearsAgo. Just the fact that I see status updates about it (and other games) is reason enough for me to significantly reduce the time spent on facebook.

Sure, the Boner_Stabone twitter account has only been around for a month, but I’ve been around twitter for a while with another handle. I like it. I like it the way it was. No games. No obtrusive ads. Just people on the intwerwebs talking about nipples and pie and poop and cheese and sex and tacos and bacon and music and pizza and farts. No games. Fuck games.

Get off my twitter, Spymaster. Twitter, consider that shark jumped. Time to find a new social community. Tumblr, it’s not gonna be you. Don’t even get me started on your lame-ass tumblarity.