Post by slamsleymcbody on Jun 23, 2024 8:28:14 GMT
Two half-brothers dwell on their father’s deluge-dire diagnosis. Slamsley believes in a Grim Reaper blind tag during last rites. Sheng CANNOT disagree more. Old Man McBody will refuse burial by buffoonish bureaucracy. As for an official medical record, Slamuel Addergoole McBody, Senior remains bed bound at Erudite Elms Elderly Care. The sardonic septuagenarian claims he’s coffin catatonic. Dude overextended his last legs. Both limbs tapped out when he coordinated a flaccid finish with some fanatical floozy. Of course, that’s stitched together testimony from both parties involved. Mister McBody omits “tapped out” and perceivable performance metric. The lady describes herself as “intensely intimate.”
Our boy Slamsley doesn’t care about dirt sheet details. For him, today’s visit boils down to pre-bereavement banter with the blatant bastard. He’d also call him an “eviscerated embodiment of entangled estrangement.” However, Sheng would categorize such speech as saucy slander. Plus, this crud-carcassed codger’s in critical condition.
I imagine there’s shades of gray when individuals diatribe a nearly-dead ninnyhammer. Briefcase in point? “Poppa Slams’” preferred progeny and her wife are abhorrently absent. In their place, the insensitive in-law named Anya sent a paltry participation trophy, Fumigated Floral funeral bouquet, and “She Calls Me Daddy Now” greeting card. Absolutely atrocious arrangement. Makes one wonder if Bonnie Daphna’s under several sordid soap opera brainwash shenanigan spells.
Reliable Narrator Alert: The couple mentioned earlier share exclusive presence in this preface. It’s how all three McBody boys explain their erratic excommunication. Also, “Da Drab Bod Doomsman’s” promotional material commences with today being June 16th, 2024. Those who stream notice him standing at a frail figure’s flophouse cot footboard. Erudite Elms does reek of rent reduced remedial rehab from residents’ rage-rattled rancor. People pissed on or off in every direction except this reserved room. Slamsley scans around solemnly until approached by one Doctor Mercurial. Guy comes across as an ambulance tire trapper. Who sports couch-contrasting camouflage scrubs when visiting patients? Sheng, meanwhile, sits silent at his father’s right side. Broseph’s oddly olive oiled in an obscenely orange singlet, Mardi Gras beady spectacles, and soot-slicked scalp. As for “Da Almighty Slam Miser” himself? His skullet’s more pronounced, still rocks a “PAPA” bandana, and preposterous potato sack hospital gown under five dollar bill-thin blankets.
Slamsley McBody: Gimme da fat facts, Doc. Don’t cruiserweight cut corners wit me. Speakin’ of cut, why’s Dad wearin’ dat bandana in 2024? I’ve been trainin’ like a Muta Lockin’ machine for NPWA’s Season Opener. Dat means National Pro Wrestlin’ Association. June Turnkey. I mean, tree-zero. Triple Ten? Muck-ups recognize dat number. It’s how many minutes or fewer it’ll take for Whiff Bunter to get her case struck down. If deyr’s one din’ “Da Drab Bod Doomsman” knows, it’s deliverin’ an overwhelmin’ onslaught of an openin’ argument. Emphasis on over.
Doctor Mercurial: He’s hanging by a well-worn tank tread and below-the-belt prosthetic piston personal lubricant. The patient also refuses subsequent surgery, walking with his shillelagh, and/or being placed in a wicked wheelchair again. Additionally, EMTs arriving at his estate cut your father clean out of constrictive clothing. We elected not to remove his bandana since the headscarf acted as a tourniquet for clotted color.
Poppa Slams: No-din’ wrong wit “PAPA,” son. Keeps my mental faculties butter knife sharp comin’ up wit different acronyms. Came to get my gams gas-canned and dese dolts tried to gaslight me, man. Dey could sever da wrong sinew, dat former foe’s femur’s cracked durin’ Everybody Better Co-Sign, and my chart should say how I was once paralyzed by a smolderin’ pile of steel chairs. I view nada viable options, dudes. Gettin’ my affairs in disorder.
Slamsley McBody: No one’s gonna leg scissor you anymore.
Sheng McBody: He’s right, Poppa. You should drop it like an 80’s action movie montage.
Slamsley McBody: Quit bein’ a ghoulish, grave-robbin’ glory hound. I plan on professionally prosecutin’ and pummelin’ Asunder. However, unlike you, deyr won’t be any bones to pick when dat final bell rin’s. Instead, I shall sequester her from success. As evidenced by sporadic social media posts, dis gauntlet’s about grapplin’ guilt. Slamsley McBody shall shoulder da burden of responsibility. It’s a diabolical drop dat must be dealt. It's also da modicum of mercy Wonder's witnessin' firsthand. I respect her, dough, Slamuel. Why? Because I know she'll George Michael WHAM! her way back to a vertical base better dan my "Fod-der Figure."
Our boy Slamsley doesn’t care about dirt sheet details. For him, today’s visit boils down to pre-bereavement banter with the blatant bastard. He’d also call him an “eviscerated embodiment of entangled estrangement.” However, Sheng would categorize such speech as saucy slander. Plus, this crud-carcassed codger’s in critical condition.
I imagine there’s shades of gray when individuals diatribe a nearly-dead ninnyhammer. Briefcase in point? “Poppa Slams’” preferred progeny and her wife are abhorrently absent. In their place, the insensitive in-law named Anya sent a paltry participation trophy, Fumigated Floral funeral bouquet, and “She Calls Me Daddy Now” greeting card. Absolutely atrocious arrangement. Makes one wonder if Bonnie Daphna’s under several sordid soap opera brainwash shenanigan spells.
Reliable Narrator Alert: The couple mentioned earlier share exclusive presence in this preface. It’s how all three McBody boys explain their erratic excommunication. Also, “Da Drab Bod Doomsman’s” promotional material commences with today being June 16th, 2024. Those who stream notice him standing at a frail figure’s flophouse cot footboard. Erudite Elms does reek of rent reduced remedial rehab from residents’ rage-rattled rancor. People pissed on or off in every direction except this reserved room. Slamsley scans around solemnly until approached by one Doctor Mercurial. Guy comes across as an ambulance tire trapper. Who sports couch-contrasting camouflage scrubs when visiting patients? Sheng, meanwhile, sits silent at his father’s right side. Broseph’s oddly olive oiled in an obscenely orange singlet, Mardi Gras beady spectacles, and soot-slicked scalp. As for “Da Almighty Slam Miser” himself? His skullet’s more pronounced, still rocks a “PAPA” bandana, and preposterous potato sack hospital gown under five dollar bill-thin blankets.
Slamsley McBody: Gimme da fat facts, Doc. Don’t cruiserweight cut corners wit me. Speakin’ of cut, why’s Dad wearin’ dat bandana in 2024? I’ve been trainin’ like a Muta Lockin’ machine for NPWA’s Season Opener. Dat means National Pro Wrestlin’ Association. June Turnkey. I mean, tree-zero. Triple Ten? Muck-ups recognize dat number. It’s how many minutes or fewer it’ll take for Whiff Bunter to get her case struck down. If deyr’s one din’ “Da Drab Bod Doomsman” knows, it’s deliverin’ an overwhelmin’ onslaught of an openin’ argument. Emphasis on over.
Doctor Mercurial: He’s hanging by a well-worn tank tread and below-the-belt prosthetic piston personal lubricant. The patient also refuses subsequent surgery, walking with his shillelagh, and/or being placed in a wicked wheelchair again. Additionally, EMTs arriving at his estate cut your father clean out of constrictive clothing. We elected not to remove his bandana since the headscarf acted as a tourniquet for clotted color.
Poppa Slams: No-din’ wrong wit “PAPA,” son. Keeps my mental faculties butter knife sharp comin’ up wit different acronyms. Came to get my gams gas-canned and dese dolts tried to gaslight me, man. Dey could sever da wrong sinew, dat former foe’s femur’s cracked durin’ Everybody Better Co-Sign, and my chart should say how I was once paralyzed by a smolderin’ pile of steel chairs. I view nada viable options, dudes. Gettin’ my affairs in disorder.
Slamsley McBody: No one’s gonna leg scissor you anymore.
Sheng McBody: He’s right, Poppa. You should drop it like an 80’s action movie montage.
Slamsley McBody: Quit bein’ a ghoulish, grave-robbin’ glory hound. I plan on professionally prosecutin’ and pummelin’ Asunder. However, unlike you, deyr won’t be any bones to pick when dat final bell rin’s. Instead, I shall sequester her from success. As evidenced by sporadic social media posts, dis gauntlet’s about grapplin’ guilt. Slamsley McBody shall shoulder da burden of responsibility. It’s a diabolical drop dat must be dealt. It's also da modicum of mercy Wonder's witnessin' firsthand. I respect her, dough, Slamuel. Why? Because I know she'll George Michael WHAM! her way back to a vertical base better dan my "Fod-der Figure."