Let Me Tell Ya About My Best Friend
Congratulations, Christina Milian. You are now my personal mascot, sort of like the Cleveland Indian, or that fuckin’ crazy Irish fighting Leprechaun mothafucka, you know the one all ready to fuck up a brother. You might be asking yourself, if you ever visit this bullshit here, what does being Savage’s personal mascot entail? Well, nothing really. I’ll just pimp your image out on everything I do, and not pay you shit for it, unless you decide to sue me.
I believe this union between you and me will be mutually beneficial. See, since I’ll be continuously stalk… I mean, watching after you, I’ll be more apt to publicize your business and entertainment moves to an audience of nobodies ready to put down money on jack shit. You’ll gain a whole new fanbase. Of course, that audience will mostly be made up of Nambla members, crackhead teenagers, and savage rapists and looters (I’m gonna miss New Orleans). But I say, some audience is better than no audience. Don’t you agree?
Who knows, maybe if I live long enough, and happen to become famous, your image will reach heights associated with greatness. And when I say greatness, I mean bullshit. Hopefully I’ll get a sitcom, or become mayor, or do some other bullshit like that, and you’ll finally be able to buy yourself some new clothes, maybe feed yourself regularly. Who knows, being associated with me, you’ll finally feel the need to stop whoring yourself to Nick Cannon. That’s right, girl. I know the humilation you’re going through. I know that bastard has shit on you. Maybe a sex tape? Please? It’s okay to cry.
I know you don’t like Nick Cannon. Nobody likes Nick Cannon. If Nick Cannon’s mama had known she’d be pushin’ Nick Cannon’s ass out of her tore up cootchie, I’m pretty sure she would have went ahead with that abortion. In fact, I think Nick Cannon knows it as well. I can see how he hides his pain with dumb ass fuckin’ skits and bullshit rap songs. It’s his way of coping with the pain of being born an asshole, sort of like that devil baby that came out of Rosemary. I forget that shit. Did Rosemary have that baby, or was that shit just threatening to murder her ass through her womb? Mama, I’ll kill yo’ ass, Stewie-style. And just think, some fuckin conservative Republicans wanna ban abortion.
It’s shit like having a baby threatening to kill you from outta your own fuckin’ belly, and knowing you have Nick Cannon about to come outta your shit that tells me that we should keep abortion legal. What if you had Nick Cannon in your stomach (Christina, say it ain’t so), wouldn’t you wanna throw that evil fetus muthafucka down a garbage shoot, or flush his embryonic ass down a toilet. I know I would. I bet Nick Cannon’s mother feels filthy knowing what came outta her cootchie. Giving birth to Nick Cannon must be how it feels to be violently raped (I think I did this joke before. Fuckin’ hack).
Nick Cannon’s mama, if you’re reading this, I feel your fuckin pain. And if I can help in anyway, you know with providing therapy, or cleansing your vaginal area and whatnot, don’t hesitate to write a brother. I know you haven’t felt like the world has loved you all of these years, but I’m telling you girl, I love you. Shit, girl, I’ll love your ass all night long if you let me. At least if you look like Ludacris’s mother. I saw her ass on television once. And I have to admit, I’d bang her, you know, Ludacris’s mother. I’m sure she’s in her early forties. Although, seeing that Ludacris could have come from the hood — you never know with these rap stars — she could be no older than in her thirties. But i doubt it. If she was that young, she’d have had to given birth to Luda back when she was ten. Although, knowing the hood, I wouldn’t put it past a beyotch to get knocked up that early, especially with assholes like me walking around on this great Earth. Thank you, Jesus.
And in the name of the almighty, I’m looking forward to saving another lost soul. Hopefully Christina and me will meet someday pretty soon. Maybe I’ll take her out to lunch, get her a McChicken, let her go crazy on that dollar menu. Make a beyotch feel special. Take her to see a three-month old movie for three dollars. Possibly, hook her up with some new shoes from Payless. You know how I do. End the night with me slipping a Cubic Zirconia on her finger. Damn it, I can see her now, smiling wider than she’s smiled in ages. I do what I can for my beyotches.
I think I’ll call her tonight, maybe send her a couple of mails. Hopefully, she’ll get back to me soon. We’ll be best friends. Won’t we, Christina. Hee-Hee-Hee.
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