The name of my own band is

CRAP
Total votes: 9 (23%)
NOT CRAP
Total votes: 30 (77%)
Total votes: 39

Band Name: Your own band

171
Now come a muthafucka from the 970
You gonna lend my ass an ear cuz I be slappin' the ho's
It's time fo me to school ya cuz yo teacha nevah did
She just put you in da corner with "DUNCE" written on yo lid

Picture, if you will, a sight that is quite disturbin'
Little Angus Jung suckin' on Ralph's Kentucky Burboun
Sayin "Let's hit it, Papa Brett! It's me, the Jung Anus!
I finally got done divin' down on Greg Louganis"

"Angus, you know I'ma Raider fo yo Oakland ass
Now get out mah razor and shave my Kentucky Bluegrass
Don't you let off 'til you know that I'm done
No sucka evah finished 'til I fire my Rising Shotgun!"

Sorry I came so late to dis drama
But I'm far too busy writin' Songs About Fucking Yo Mama
I couldn't let this whack shit go on too long
Without tellin' all y'all how you can suck my Big Black dong

Band Name: Your own band

173
Tree wrote:Now come a muthafucka from the 970
You gonna lend my ass an ear cuz I be slappin' the ho's
It's time fo me to school ya cuz yo teacha nevah did
She just put you in da corner with "DUNCE" written on yo lid

Picture, if you will, a sight that is quite disturbin'
Little Angus Jung suckin' on Ralph's Kentucky Burboun
Sayin "Let's hit it, Papa Brett! It's me, the Jung Anus!
I finally got done divin' down on Greg Louganis"

"Angus, you know I'ma Raider fo yo Oakland ass
Now get out mah razor and shave my Kentucky Bluegrass
Don't you let off 'til you know that I'm done
No sucka evah finished 'til I fire my Rising Shotgun!"

Sorry I came so late to dis drama
But I'm far too busy writin' Songs About Fucking Yo Mama
I couldn't let this whack shit go on too long
Without tellin' all y'all how you can suck my Big Black dong


[clears throat]

Your mom--Mrs. Tree--she calls me Paul Bunyan.
Too bad her pussy smells just like a Funyun.
Babe the Blue Ox is her name for my cock.
Whenever I get wood, she can't help but knock.
"That's some kind of lumber, Jack, down in your drawers,"
She guffaws through a mouth full of rank chancre sores.
Bitch needed some Burt's Bees or some brand of lip balm
So I sprayed her with my nut-sack's nether-lands napalm.

Her bush was a whole 'nother situation
In desperate need of deforestation,
So I yanked me a handful out by the roots--
Honest Injun, I scalped her. It was a hoot.
She passed out cold and was soon sawin' logs.
By and by, I was climbin' Tree, high on the hog.
Unbeknownst to your mom, she was gettin' rear-ended;
My puh with her poop-chute juice duly was blended.

By the time I had finished, her limbs were all twisted
Like Katrina had blown through. Too bad she missed it.
Hell, I couldn't be sure she was even alive,
So I popped in some porn with which to revive.
Then I heard her stirrin'--it was time for Round 2,
Another heapin' helpin' of Dinty Moore Beef Stew
Or Big John Beans & Fixins, thumbprint on the lid--
My DNA was denyin' what we had just did!

That Colorad-ho, I filled up her senses,
Took her country road home and bulldozed her fences.
I good ole Rocky Top Mountain Highed her,
I Brokeback Mountained her, I came inside her.
Crashed my plane in her just like John Denver diddled.
With the sun comin' up, I made cakes on her griddle.
"Thank God you're a country boy, Brett!" I then boasted
Above the hot skillet ass where my grilled cheese was toasted.

Then she stood up and fell down and hollered out "Timber!"
But time be tick-tockin'--the bitch ain't so limber
As she used to be before I plowed right through her
Like a forest fire do. Yes, I did this to her.
Not even Steve's dad could've slowed down the blaze.
Tree's mom was a piss-poor pile of "charred remains,"
Making hideous noise like an old compilation,
So I made the best of a bad situation.

With my filthy boot-heel, I softly kissed her,
Then I sprinkled a sapling--Tree's little sister.

Band Name: Your own band

174
itchy mcgoo, re: Angus Jung's Mom wrote:That's story as I heard it, bout her quest for girth
And the shit that went down
On the day of your birth.


that's not how it goes, let me tell it again,
it started way back, in the year 1910:

From the iciest depths of the watery deep
came the 'Monyster',
the demon.
the 'Shei-La Behemoth'
that swallowed up seamen
and haunted their sleep

At nocturne, in bed where the children, asleep
would all wake up screaming from dreaming that sheep
were stuffed into her box by the flocks just to keep
the vile liquid that seeped from her staining the streets
and the shrieks of the sacrificed children she'd eat

One day when the village had had had enough
they gathered their brawniest sailors, so tough
"last time she took on three hundred men"
said the mayor: "this time we'll send three-thousand and ten."

Like the fair face of Helen of Troy from before,
Sheila's scare face launched a thousand cold sores
the men they grew barnacles as they fought the beast
and recalled later on, "the pungent odour of yeaste"

Finally, when the largest harpoon did no damage
they decided to stun her with "battering rammage"
the men steered her with oars and beached her ashore
it was then that she showed up in Oakland, not 'fore

It's 1911, by my accounts sure
Sheila has just washed up on the shore
she's tired, but horny, away from her home:
the depths of the ocean, where the serpentine roam

but what would ha'p next was beyond comprehension
that led to her greatest achievement: profession
legitimized by the followed event:
there appeared on the beach front, a scouting agent

he saw what a sight he describes now as "grand"
this arena-sized she-whale lain down in the sand
as the waves lapped against her, he silently planned
to help out his ball team to fill up the stands

And so Sheila began to entertain mooks
that sat in the bleachers, the "sports-fan type kooks"
out she'd be wheeled-an inhuman shield
blocking garbage and bottles from pelting the field

see the ball team from oakland was so filled with shame
that the folks from the city had forgotten their name
three decades of sports without one single hit
no 'byes', no 'leaves' no single 'forfeit'

but something then changed, that year on the mound
three decades of losses began to turn round
It was slow when it started, too slow to react thus
but apparently Sheila helped these men practice

Every day, for their training they surely were taught
how to "run all the bases" without getting caught
I'm sorry to give you a horrifying image
but this is what happened when Oakland would 'scrimmage':

First off, the stadium was not writ home about
so they loaded the men into her 'dugout'
and there they could hide from the hot glaring sun
and focus on playing and having some fun

And though the boys' dugout gave off such a stench
They set up a cooler, a fence and a bench
it felt just like home, some men soon remarked
and soon they were balls flying out of her park

they'd lead off from first base and then they'd steal third
they'd slid into home plate without being deterred
their defense, their offense, they thusly improved
and the team started scoring, so they were behooved

they soon got creative and made a spittoon
when they kept what was left from the hysterectomy wound
"at your cervix!" they'd laugh and fill up the coose
of the nastiest mascot with tobacco juice

The teams in the league didn't know what had happened
but the stands soon were packed, and the people were clapping
and hooting and cheering and waving their flags
and leering at Sheila's fleshy funbags

the team made the finals, just one game left
in a seven-game series, of swiftness and deft
ballplayers they claimed they came to this game
through the magic of Sheila, yet they still had no name

In the bottom of nine, the bases were loaded
the ballplayers' dreaming of praises exploded
when out from the backlot, like nothing before
came a gargled and horrified vomitous roar

the teams paused the game to see what was up
they found Sheila back there, Ass Down and Belly-Up
It seems that her arteries finally clogged
when she agreed to be paid solely in ball park hot dogs

thought saddened they were, they stayed the course straight
they hammered a home-run-4 slides past the plate
and as they received trophies and had pictures taken
the manager stepped up to the mic and spoke, shaken:

"She was our mascot
She was our Team
She was our whole damned arena
you see?"

they dug up the green and put her under the mound
Just how Sheila was found- buried face down

this story is true. I'll tell you, today:
in tribute, they named the team after her "A".
Last edited by kerble_Archive on Fri Feb 17, 2006 1:26 am, edited 2 times in total.
kerble is right.

Band Name: Your own band

178
Bumble, Bumble, oh why must you stumble?
When you dis my mother, you must be humbled.
Like John Cougar Mellencamp, your walls will crumble.
I poked both your mom's "pink houses" as she mumbled
"Brett, they oughta call you Vlad, the Impaler
Or better yet, Moby Dick." God, what a wailer
That woman was--I speak of Ms. Bumble,
Who polished my "Roundhead" like Oliver Cromwell,
Who cradled my nuts--that's it in a nutshell--
Like a gay bodybuilder fondles a dumbbell
Till I cried out for lube; when things, they went downhill,
She stepped and she fetched it like some Uncle Toms will.
Then I dumped my trash in her putrefied landfill
And she took it all in till I came to a standstill.

But I ain't even done with our night of nights yet.
That American fool started bitin' my nut-sack!
Uh huh--I had to break out my patented bitch-slap.
I mean, I need a lover who won't drive me crazy,
Who won't see my horse cock and then try to graze me.
In truth, I was over this dumb little ditty,
So I pinched off the nipple of one of her titties.
"How dare you, Big Daddy! That irks my ire.
My left tit is burnin' like paper in fire!"
"But don't it hurt so good?" I wanted to know.
"You disfigured my dug," she said. "In a word, no.
I just didn't dig it. Frankly, it sucked.
My boob feels like a cherry bomb tossed from a truck."
I said, "It don't matter--and what if it did?
Have a Lonesome Jubilee, you and your kid,
Spend this lonely ol' night with your daughter Bumble,
Dance naked for all I care, drink till you stumble
Out into the streets of this oh so small town
Where, hopefully, human wheels mow you both down."

Verily I took my leave of these Hoosier shenanigans
And hoped not to get into Bumble's mom's pants again.
In a matter of minutes, I began to fidget--
I felt a stirring deep in my digit
And wondered what ho' might blow me. Even an idjit
Knows nobody blows like that ho' Mrs. Midgett.
And blow me she did, but she added a wrinkle:
She kept a Mason jar full of my tinkle
Out in the garage on a shelf by the deep freeze
Full of pronghorn antelope meat, bear, and geese.

Well, I had some prong-horned meat of my own.
We got bare and I goosed her--my, did she groan
And grumble and grovel during penetration
Like a grizzly awakening from hibernation.
We made the beast with two backs until we were mute,
Lying there on the concrete floor, flat as a butte.
This was my last stand--I felt like Custer,
But she was Little Big Horny for my mister mustard.

Not even she could get blood from my Yellowstone,
So she got to her feet while I lay there prone
And watched, mesmerized, as she wiped her rump off--
That ass looked like the cliff that the buffalo jumped off.
Then I watched in wide wonder as she pooled my resources
With her mysterious matronly forces
And spread out my spoo on a greased cookie sheet
Like it was a snow day with Tim baking treats.
I had to ask her: "Hey there, now, Midge...
Wouldn't that keep better there in the fridge?"
"Never you mind--I ain't makin' cookies.
You just be patient, then have a look-see!"
So I dozed happily, done in from lovin'
While she baked my boys like a bun in the oven.

You'll never guess what happened next: Mrs. Midgett
Chopped my dried duckbutter up with a Widget!
She snorted up two fat lines like it was crank--
She was full of surprises, that Montana skank!
Now we run our own meth lab right here in Missoula.
We're rollin' in cash just like Peter Crisscoula.
Midge is the cook; me, I'm the hose-man--
Our product's especially big up in Bozeman,
Where housewives like Mama Albini get hyped
On the crystal that's drippin' from Brett Eugene's pipe.

* * *

Peace out, bitches, though I am a fixture,
I'm killin' this thread now like my homey Hitler.

Band Name: Your own band

180
Brett Eugene Ralph wrote:I never dreamed it would take a foreigner
To go all "Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

Hell, "Rime" was covered by Iron Maiden
Yo, that's what the singer called your mom when she laid him
And once he'd had all of Mrs. Ralph's fun,
Bruce went ahead and put his Dick-in-son.
Too late to run to the hills,
Bruce gonna nut in all the Ralph grillz.

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