Where's my Sidekick?

Folks, I have a confession to make. I miss the abuse. The abuse by the only bitch that knows how to talk so much shit, that I actually look like I have a vagina when I spread my legs wide open.

Ball Buster, where are you, bitch? Am I too good for you now? Did you fall for another blogger, all of the sudden? Have I been a little over the top lately with my columns? Wait, wait...lemme guess? Are you mad at the fact that the world knows your true identity now?

Head like Beetle Juice, hands like Shaq.

Where's the column that talks about how I drink like a pussy and pass out on BART for 3 hours and wake up to cops asking me, "Where do you live, sir?" I need that. My readers, need that. More importantly, I know you want that. What do I need to do to get more abuse?

Do I need to call you a cunt 50 times? I'll fucking do it right now.

CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT, CUNT.

Do you want me to send you an awkward pic? Here you fucking go bitch:

Everything about this picture is fucking wrong.

Hold up...I know...you want me to beg? I fucking will goddamnit...because I don't want to lose you. Just ask Jan Terri:




I'll go to great fucking lengths to have you talk shit again. Stupid twat. So what do ya say? Write some shit so the world knows you're really alive and you don't want me dead. Asshole.