February 08, 2005
Letter of Fug: Cletus Speaks
Yo, bitches. K Fed here. Some of you call me Cletus. That's a'ight. Listen, Meal Ticket over there made me pose for the cover of fucking Details magazine, dude. She was all like, "blah blah hot, blah blah not a skeezebucket blah blah something something something." Like I listen. Anyway, check it:
Dude. I know. When B saw it, she was all, something about me looking fucking sensitive, or some shit? Something about showing Justin something about her winning something? I don't even know, dude. I just tune out, yo. Wake and bake and tune the fuck out.
The thing is, dude, those bitches at Details? No clue how to appeal to the ladies, right? When you're on the prowl, dude, the facial hair has got to go. Get it all clean-shaven. All David Fucking "You Are So Precious To Me" Silver up in here. The ladies are gaging for D. Silver, dudes. Gagging. You got to get the grease all out of your hair. You got to look all so fresh and so clean. You got to borrow a puppy from someone but not a little rat ass puppy like this one, like a MAN puppy like a retriever or some shit so you look all wholesome and responsible and shit. Girls love that. Maybe hang out with a baby, too. I told them I should be holding a baby in this picture, but they said something about not wanting to remind people that I was a "serial impregnator" or something? I don't even know what that means, but I told them I didn't have a criminal record except for that one time they got me for possession. But this is so not the look you use when it's time to get your van rocking, if you know what I mean. I look like a serial killer, yo. I look like I'm about to snap that rat puppy's neck and, hells yeah, I hate that dog but I'm not a dog killer, dude. I just lock them in their room and pretend they're not there. One day, I'm going to do that to Britney, too. HAHAHHAHA. I'm just kidding. Not really. Nah, I'm just messing with you. No, I'm not. No, really I am.
Anyway, B has this cover all framed and hung up in her "office" (which is where we keep the weed. I'm a professional toker, dude. Heh. Wouldn't it be rad if that was really a job? I'm qualified. HAHAHAH. Heh. Heh. Where was I?) but I'm going to hide it as soon as she goes out to the pool because seriously? I know. I know. It's retardo. I know. It's going to totally salt my game, yo. Dude, just because I'm ringed up right now doesn't mean my shot clock has expired and shit, if you know what I mean. I mean, seriously, I just hope Paris Hilton doesn't see this because as soon as I've got B knocked up, P is next. Watch out, Paris, because Cletus is checking into the Hilton. Heh heh. God, I'm funny.
Aw, Christ. B is yelling at me. We're out of Cheetos. Gotta run, dude. Seriously, though, come by sometime. We've got a ton of good shit here. I have a bitchin' Playstation and we've got Pabst on TAP, dude. It's sweet.
Big Ups to Fresno!
Cletus AKA K Fed