by Reginald Phlegmingham, Duke of Crapping-Upon-Bryllshire

‘Sup, bitches? I guess Lord Eddie has finally crawled out from under his rock long enough to take offense at the righteous smackdown I laid on his liver-spotted ass. Well witness the quickness as I dish this, and lay down a dis track with lyrics so fresh they be still bleeding.

So some of you might know about Lord Eddie’s “estate”, which is what he calls that POS McMansion near the train tracks and the hobo graveyard. Well, a few years back, I heard he was having some trouble with undesirables in the neighbourhood and, unlike a proper gentlemen, didn’t have the balls to dish out some justice by himself.

You see, a real man can deal with that shit himself. You set one foot on Reggie’s lawn, you get a cap busted in yo’ punk ass. Or else you’ll get a curb-stomping as a warning, but either way you can bet no fucker crosses the Phlegmer a second time. But most of the time, troublemakers know to stay clear. It’s because of the ‘burns, you know what I’m saying? Same reason you don’t tangle with Wolverine. Straight up.

Anyway, Lord Eddie Pissinghimself doesn’t know how to throw down with punks, so he paid someone to dig him a goddamn moat around his house! That is messed up! What did he expect, that marauding Huns would be repelled by his kick-ass medieval defences? What next, Eddie? Are you gonna keep cauldrons of boiling oil on your ramparts? Fuckin n00b.

Well, as anyone who hasn’t killed off their braincells by smearing Bryllcrap on their heads could have predicted, the moat didn’t work. The transients discovered that it was a good place to bathe and swim, and so it turned out that Eddie just ended up attracting more of them. A good curb-stomp would have set them right in a jiff, but Eddie had to go and create a fucking swimming hole for every hobo who stumbles out of the local LC.

Soon enough, some tramp had one too many Thunderbirds and ended up floating tits down in the moat. Quite the embarrassment, so Eddie panics, and figures that he needs to do something to keep the ‘bos from hanging around the water. Hey, the local poultry farm has truckloads of chicken shit, right? Half goes into the moat, half goes into Brylcreem Ultra. Problem solved!

Thing is, Eddie and ‘Dwina must have lost their sense of smell after one too many coke parties in the ’80s or something, cuz… Damn. That moat is nasty!

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 20th, 2010 at 10:51 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.