Dir: Seymore Butts
You know Ghostface Killer is my dad, right? I mean he’s going to be my dad. Some day. All I need is five minutes of his time to work it out and I’m sure I could convince him to be my big poppa. I’m not looking for a handout or anything, I just never had a dada and I want to be able to tell people, like I am now, that I’m Killer’s kid. I say “Killer” and not “Killah” because I’m white, but that’s fine. Ghost isn’t into semantics. He’s about love. I just read this article that said he plans on opening a school in South Africa. His reason was, he went over there and saw all the kids that lost their parents because of AIDS/HIV and he wants to give back. Isn’t that great? I mean, sure it would make sense to build a hospital, but fuck it. A school is cool, too. Kids can, you know, learn about shit, like how to spell A-I-D-S. And spelling is half the battle. Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I had AIDS? That was fucked up. I’m not going to get into it, because if my dad is reading this he might get pissed and take away my car. Do you think Ghost would let me drive one of his cars if I were his son? Like on a date, not on some “drive me to the store, white devil” shit. I hope so, because I don’t have a car and I could really use one. There are a few other things that I don’t have that I’d like to mention, since my birthday is coming up and Ghost/dad may be wondering what to get me. First, a bulletproof wallet. I have no money, nor do I get shot at frequently, but at the moment I’m using a rubber band to hold my cash together, so I think a wallet of this nature would be both an affordable and useful gift. Also, at last glance, I don’t have any fur coats in my closet. No pink chinchilla, no powder-blue fox, no mustard rabbit. So, dad, if you’re thinking fur, I’d be happy with anything, even one of your old coats. I wouldn’t even care if there were blunt burnholes or Hennessey stains on it. I mean, it’s the thought that counts. And if you’re thinking Wallabies, I’m a size nine. I like the purple ones you dyed with Raekwon, but I don’t know if we’re the same size. But, oh my god! Can you imagine if we are the same size? Like in everythingtrousers, tops, shoes, hats, the whole kit. How cute would it be if we had matching father-and-son outfits and we went to the park and you pushed me on the swing? If I fell, would you kiss my Betty Boo bump? This is the type of stuff I daydream aboutyou and me going to the circus, feeding the orangutans at the zoo. Does your driver’s license say Ghostface Killer? I want mine to say Chrisface Killer. How does it work? Would Method Man be my uncle? Some people do that, you know, call people who aren’t even related to them their uncle. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you ever heard, dad?
Belladonna's Fucking Girls Again
Do you know why people love buffets? Aside from them being retardedly inexpensive, all-you-can-gorge glutton fests? It's that they have a little something for everyone. If you like fish, they got you. Meat and potatoes, sushi or Italian or stir-fryyou're good to go. This DVD is sort of the same thing only it's the greatest lesbian buffet ever made. And Belladonna is the best whore of a hostess since Mae West. First off, she's pregnant. And not a little pregnant. I'm talking a whole lot pregnant. I'd say a good seven months in. You know, just far enough to eventually shatter the kid's world when he sees this DVD some day and cause him to go postal and kill everyone in his path. But you have to give her some credit, she's somewhat of a classy mom-to-be, it's not like she's fucking dudes or she-males on film (which she once did), it's just girls. There's nothing wrong with a little girl-on-girl action when you're pregnant, at least that's what the Bible says. And Belladonna does try and keep the lesbian action fairly romantic. I think the best example of that is the last scene, when she puts five golf balls up Melissa Lauren's ass. After the third one you don't think she's getting any more up there but sure as shit she finds a way. Getting them out, though, makes the inserting look easy. Have you ever lost something up a girl's ass? It's like pulling the E-Brake at 100 mph. All fun and excitement comes to a grinding halt. I've heard stories from friends that work at hospitals of people coming in with all manner of things lost or lodged in their butts, from frozen fish to Barbie-doll heads. It's hard to keep your composure after losing something in the brown void, yet when it came time for Melissa to shit out her golf balls and only three came out, they just kept on truckin'. Without flinching, Bella stuck her fingers up Melissa's ass and started fishing around for the two lost balls. No luck, so Melissa sticks her whole hand up there to see what she can find. Nothing. Belladonna tries to assist by sticking her hand up Melissa's pussy, pushing on the center divide with the old "OK, I'll push, you pull" maneuver. Sure, enough the fourth ball drops. But no sign of the fifth one. After a few more minutes of probing for it, the girls are like, "Fuck it, it'll turn up," and they move on, grabbing next a specially made wooden baseball bat with a head of a penis carved onto the thick end, the end that gets shoved up Melissa's ass. Meanwhile, no sign of the golf ball that's lost inside her, possibly making its way up into her digestive track. Fuck golf, they're playing baseball now. It's like the blonde thinks she's fucking Bo Jackson or some shit, more concerned with the achievement than her well-being, which makes me think I wouldn't mind standing on an Iraqi battlefield holding an M-16 with her by my side. Or whatever. After such amazing, dirty, lesbian whore sex Belladonna is courteous enough to clean Melissa off by trying to drown her head in the toilet because, I guess, if the unborn kid ever does see this movie he'll know that his mother was, if nothing else, concerned with keeping things sanitary.