Tbone?

But enough about me, let's play Jeopardy. I'll take "Guys Who Name Their Testicles After Dead British Pop Stars for 100," Alex. That's right, Who is T-Bone Stallone? Point of parliamentary procedure Trebek, please allow me to surmise the conundrum that is that bloody chap...

An explanation for T-Bone's rebellious character and mortal fear of female genitalia can most likely be summed up in the fact that his emotionally unavailable parents spent a good part of TB's childhood keeping his scrotum ever so shorn and his every thought on the family trade, Tea Bagging.

Yes, T-Bone's father invented the disposable Tea Bag while doing a stint in the Octagon before going AWOL after an unauthorized sortie to an east Asia opium den where he heard these prophetic words, "you want try butt beads round eye?"  Anyway, it wasn't long before TB's old man limped back to the states with a raging case of incontinence, mild Trench Foot, and a plunging idea to teabag a robust American economy. Success to be assured with every mouthful.  

Despite being corn-fed and hand spanked by the finest Catholic prep schools the Northeast had to offer, TB would not go softly into that good night and take his rightful place next to the Earl of Gray at the lucky sperm club tea party. For unbeknownst to most historians, TB's father was also the inventor of the far less popular and not quite as consumer friendly line of Sea Monkey Diaphragms. And unfortunately, not long after T-Bone's dad used T-Bone's mom as an unwilling test subject for a not yet FDA approved "Inpenetrator" (apparently the sea monkey was reluctant to come out the cave, ever), there was a divorce and a bitter custody battle ensued. TB's father fought the good fight, but alas, the admission to a rather extensive collection of "Above the Ankle" Mennonite Porn during cross examination was too much to overcome and TB's mom was awarded soul custody despite her questionable citizenship due to a mix up at the post office (mail order brides, nasty business that one). Regardless, she won and just like that, a teenage T-Bone was whisked away to the west coast to live with his mom in Reseda, CA where she could complete her courses in TV/VCR repair at night and referee cock fights during the day.

Though the living conditions were less than ideal, TB would befriend a quirky janitor at his apartment complex who would eventually teach him how to pick up rich, fat chicks with low self-esteem, have meaningful semi-platonic relationships with older Asian men, and defeat the Cobra Kai with home-schooled karate Lessons all in one very memorable summer. I think they even made a movie about it. Anyway, news of T-Bones martial arts abilities spread quickly and several scholarship offers were extended. Finally, TB narrowed it down to two, Cal Poly - San Louis Obispo and the University of Texas.

At the time, UT didn't actually have a "Karate team" not even intramural, but the administration was looking for ways to infiltrate the Asian Mafia who had taken control of the PCL library and was willing to use any means necessary to do so. Of course there little offensive, nicknamed operation "Frush," backfired after the Daily Texan broke a story about the nefarious goings on of one Theodore "T-Bone" Stalone.

Allegedly , TB double-crossed the adminstration and was dealing lady H and running an under the table "rub and tug" massage parlor in the 5th Floor Stacks. Though he would win the McCombs School of Business Entrepreneur of the Year award in absentia (Mathew McConaughey accepted for him) for those same pursuits, T-Bone never returned to Austin to pick up his trophy and never got his degree due to outstanding number of parking violations handed down by UTPD. Not quite the Happy Ending you were looking for, huh?

And that's pretty much where the story ends. No one is for sure where TB resides today though the Heisman Pundit claims to know people who know people who know Magnum PI who swears that TB's in the UK teaching the Brits that there's no such thing as tooth decay and trying to make another go with the only thing his dad left him, the patent for Sea Monkey Diaphragms. Chances are though, he's just holed up at his mom's apartment back in Reseda trying to invent a time machine so he can go back and retrieve his father's love. That's all he ever really wanted. That and two chicks at one time.

Legend or tragic figure? I don't know. All I do know is nobody and I mean nobody ever sanded the floor, painted the fence or waxed on/waxed off quite like T-Bone Stalone in his prime. Hell, even Chuck Norris can't bring himself to utter the name of the only man to ever snatch the pebble from him even after Chuck tried to keester stash it. You see, TB, he's just a different breed. Every man wants to be him and every woman wants to know if the child they're carrying is his. But nobody will ever tame that beast. No, his heart is empty and he is destined to wonder the land aimlessly, slapping the pimps and jocking the ho's. Cupid tried to shoot T-Bone with an arrow once, but TB dodged it and then skull-fucked the chubby little deity half to death. And that's why love is blind.

And now you know, the rest of the story. Well not quite, here's a little bit more trivia for you. T-Bones testes have names, the right is Freddie Mercury and the left is George Harrison. You play your cards right ladies, you might just get to party with all of them.

Game on.
54b

Still, they got it backwards. This entire thread is proof positive: Just Say Yes.

 Absolutely classic!!

TB, after reading your sad tale of woe and misspent hegemony, I wish I could be that grease fire, that solitary bullet for you. But why, when that would only prevent the fine readers at the BON from baring witness to your futile descent into the bowels of eternal helldom that has become your non-refundable Iliad. Though I will recommend your autobiography, "The Transcendentalist Cockpump," to my wife's Book and Bunko club. May Dan Brown have mercy on their souls and that box of wine remain bottomless.

But oh TB, ain't we a pair? You, the reincarnated, misanthropic Doc Holiday, and me, the eternally optimistic, yet fallible Rudy Walk-on. We go together like peas and Prozac. If only Freud were still around to sort us out. Of course after massaging our own egos confessing to Sigmund how we always wanted to double-team his mom while his dad watched, I doubt he'd stick around long enough to pick up his Id. That's okay though, people who spend their lives trying to explain shit make constipation tolerable...What's the meaning of life? Are we alone? Why do you have to pay double for backdoor love? Who really knows and I'm not going to waste my time wondering if the Earth is really just a pimple on Zeus' left nut either. You want to know why we're here? Because nature beat nurture in Game 7 and slingin' yogurt feels good. Problem solved.

So T-Bone, my brother from another mother who also happened to be a one-legged prostitute with club foot, I will not feign concern for your Evita-esque plight nor attempt to explain your refrain any longer. But I will leave you with this nonsequitor in the hopes that its positive message may keep you keep afloat in that bottle of $3 ripple you call home...

Was it over when Mr. T beat up Rocky and made him do uncomfortable man-love scenes on the beach with Action Jackson? Was it over when my Atari 2600 was declared Y2K incompatible? Was it over when my parents dropped Cinemax from our cable subscription before I got to bomp my baloney to Night Eyes 4? Was it over when Charlie gave the Everlasting Gobstopper back to Mr. Wonka? Hell no it wasn't over.

(BON readers begin slow clap sequence now until you crescendo into a frothy lather.)

It's not over until you say it's over. If that fat lady's singing, you reach back like a pimp and slap that ho. I know you're hurting.  Maybe you feel alone, perhaps abandoned or unloved. But you got to hold on for one more day, things will go your way, and if they don't, there's always the Beford YMCA. Hey, when the going gets tough, the tough go out and find someone smaller than them and whip their ass just for the hell of it.

Because we went to UT and "We're Texas" damn it, and everything's bigger and more backward down here. So you just wave those Horns in the air and wave them like you just don't care because all we have to fear is reruns of Fear Factor and no I won't go to the end of the line because I don't take shit from nobody, or wooden nickels either and I don't care if ET comes back from outer space with that look upon his face, I will survive. I will survive and so will you damn it. I don't care if it takes all night, I want to see four passes before you shoot and for the love of good Scotch, don't let me catch you watchin' the paint dry.  Just win baby.  Just win.

Winning isn't every thing, it's the only thing that helps the medicine go down. So swallow your wounded pride and your gum if your chewing some and go out there and give me 110%, at least half of the time. It's go time. It's show time. It's magazines for shin guards, 3/4 inch Spot-built cleats, eye black all over your face, big disgrace, kickin' ass all over the place time. So show me how to paint the fence T-Bone-son, and when the breaks are hitting the boys, you go out there and win one for the stripper.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go finish my doctoral thesis on "Why Saved By The Bell and Screech Power's Jungle Fever Ostensibly Ended The Civil Rights Movement."

Word to your mom,
54b

TB, If this is how it has to be, so be it. The 54bus always has room for one more Rocky wannabe looking for a shot at the title. How appropriate that you share your sir name with a washed up douche bag actor. Sly didn't know when to quit rehashing the same trite shit either. Regardless, sit your ass down and get ready to go to school...

Dear Mr. Stallone:

You are about as unoriginal as toe cheese and your sexually deviant writing style, much like your sexually repressed life, lacks any form of direction or cohesiveness.  An explanation for your character can most likely be summed up in the fact that your father spent a good part of your childhood wiping your ass and grooming you for a life of superficial relationships and unfulfilled expectations (mostly in the bedroom no doubt).

To put it in terms you can comprehend, you're basically a walking ABC After School Special but unlike Teri Hatcher, the lesson on good touches and bad touches didn't impress you and your butt still aches for the days when Scout Master Bob would choose you special to polish his Arrow of Light. Speaking of, have you been to visit Bob lately or was your petition for conjugal visits denied?

To bad Bob's other victims can't learn from the closet rebellion you wage daily against your penis. It's not your dick's fault that you tried to fuck a toaster when you were 12 and your parents wouldn't take you to the emergency room until well after they knew Walker Texas Ranger had successfully subdued and apprehended the mobile meth lab of Jerry's Kids.

Maybe your mom should have stopped hitting the Falitamide in your 3rd trimester, maybe your dad shouldn't have let your touchy-feely uncle take you fishing so often, and maybe waiting until your were 17 to get you circumcised by the Benni Hanna sous-chef wasn't a good idea, but how long are you going use your parents as the excuse for your addiction to anal cavity projectile gerbil launching?

As for your tired, misogynistic quips, they can't hide the fact that your only two friends in the world are an industrial-sized drum of KY and a sultry recording of some elderly woman announcing the primary school lunch menu. Who knows, maybe today's the day you get rub one out to the intoxicating rhythms of Sloppy Joes or Shepherd's Pie.

How does it feel knowing that if a real woman ever engaged you in conversation, you'd probably shit yourself? I bet that keeps you up nights, that and the news that doctors are giving the last gerbil you shot out of your ass four chances in ten of surviving. Poor little Plugger, he never had chance did he? I'm sure there's a hell bent PETA rep on the way to your door right now. Better hope it's not a woman, you're running low on two-ply.

And don't insult the unfortunate readers of this worthless banter by coming to the party two hours late and claiming feigned kinship or contesting my comparative word processing prowess. If BON readers want to talk Longhorn football, they'll call 54b. If they want to debate the pros and cons of using Hidden Valley Ranch as the primary lubricant for anal mastication, they'll find you.

As for me, if I want anymore shit out of you, I'll squeeze your head.

Warmest regards,
54b

If you want to call me out for not bringing my B game, that's fine, wouldn't be the first time. But don't bring that weak ass report card shit above to the table unless you're ready to mail it in. You want to talk borrowed interest look no further than your tuna taco reference. Do female genitals really smell like fish because the 4th grade called and they want their joke back.

And this was far too early in the game to give the bullpen the old forearm double-tap as the conjoining of anatomically ambiguous dolls never provides any comic relief, even on the BBC. How you didn't include GI Joe with his swivel arm battle grip for unlimited, lifelike courtesy reach-around fun was a real shocker.

As for what constitutes a real woman, I'm not the Inglebert expert you purport yourself to be, but I can promise you it's not the Pretty Polly Inflate-O-Mate you go back to your flat to every night. Lucky for you she doesn't talk back, but if you keep insisting on taking her to the DP Tupperware party, she'll end up on the 15-day DL with a hernia. And if she cuts a fart, you're libel to lose a testie. But then again, your high school class did vote you most likely to prove Darwin right. So go ahead and push the 50 PSI envelope...

It's a good sign that this game o'blog pong is winding down when we start critiquing each other's previous posts and referencing pre-anorexic Elizabeth Shoe tweener b-movies. So I'll take the parting shot as this diary exchange will soon be dropping off the best seller list anyway...

TB, if it's your wet dream in life to become a more prurient facsimile of Austin Powers, than I'd say your Eurotrash immersion therapy is paying dividends and you might want to invest in rubber sheets. But while your kinky platitudes may pass for evolved discourse across the pond, last I checked, this site still originates in the states and it's going to take a lot more than sexually explicit shock value to compensate for your ever more frequent "short-cummings."

But hey, Mr. Bad Ass Marry Poppins, you come on back if you ever want to try again, cuz I told you once you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been.

Don't you, forget about me,
54b

Aside from that, I've got to vote for 54b as well.  A couple of classic lines that I will remember for days, if not weeks.

So we have to pick a winner.

It's been a gigantic win-win for all involved. If they keep it up, I'm going to have to start sharing ad revenue with those two.