How to Rent Space in Someone's Head

¡Hola! Everybody... [note: Where's Chubsy?]
Well, well, well!

Ladies and gentlemen: it seems that for the past two days I have held a clinic on how to rent space in a dumb ma’fucca’s head.

Fat Tony, the wanna-be killer (who writes blogs about the guns he owns ::shiver:: ) actually vowed to break my arm and fingers (apparently in his small mind the greatest punishment is not to be able to go online) has shown himself to be the phony that he is.

I dunno, but if you if you were really down, Tony, time and place wouldn’t matter.

First, he tried to act as if he didn’t have my number, but he called me a couple of weeks ago because, thirsty muthafucka that he is, he wanted to get with us for the meet-up. So Tony? You’ve had my number for over a year and you’re going act all brand new as if you didn’t have it?

Remember when you practically begged to talk to me after it was disclosed you were a grimy muthafucka by people who met you? I heard you misrepresented yourself, that you’re unhygienic, and that you still live with your mother. In my neighborhood, we used to call cats like you Table Pimps. I didn’t answer your call then because, I dunno, call me old-fashioned, but I don’t like to gossip -- especially about women I have met.

The past two days you’ve had my name in your mouth so much that if my name were a penis, you would’ve been arrested for performing a public fellatio. I'm inside your head, Tony, and that was my first intention with you -- to get inside your head. I'm mind-fuckin’ you. In fact, you should have your barber shave the initials “ER” in your ‘do, bro...

We’re holding a party there today, dancing salsa and shite.

People, he’s called me several times. Last night he lefty me a voicemail like this: “Well, Eddie, I don’t want to miss my football games on Sunday, so can we meet tonight?”

LMPRAOOOOO!

Am I the only one who sees the stupidity in this? Wait: “I’m a killer, I’m going to break your bones (as he reaches for his inhaler), but can we postpone tomorrow, Eddie please? ::wheeze::”

I would never interrupt my real life activities to meet you Tony. I was actually hanging out with real life friends, good friends, eating at a nice restaurant, enjoying friendship -- you know: the real world.

In my world, you hold no significance. Nothing personal, but you’re not that important.

I mean, c’mon Fat Tony, you swore in front of everyone here that you were going to break my bones. Now -- at the last minute -- you don’t want to show?

::blank stare::

Sounds like bitchassness to me.

::sniffs air::

Yup! smells like bitchassness to me.

Check this out Chubsy: the mind is what wins fights. I’m deep inside your head. You’re calling me, hanging all over my e-dick on the internet, threatening me, lurking my pages, leaving embarrassingly idiotic blog comments and text/ VM messages, etc. If your brain were a hotel, I would be renting the Honeymoon Suite. For free! LOL!

Think about it Chubsy: you vowed to break my arms and fingers today. If you don’t show, that means you’re a biotche. You swore -- you “vowed” to break my arm/ fingers.

However, if you do show up and I stand you up, how you gonna feel standing there all alone in this frigid weather? I know you can’t afford a car, so it will take you at least two hours to get to the Seaport and another two to get back home! Shite, even if you convince some fool to drive you there, it’s a gridlock alert day. Now, you swore you were going to break my bones today, Tony. Don’t go bitch on me!

Sweetie? If you can ever break my arm is still a huge question -- it’s up for major speculation. I mean, you have a heart condition and shite -- just got out of the ICU due to complications arising from your glutinous ways (from what I hear, you’re closer to 400lbs) -- I have no fear of your gimpy ass (luckily for you) and I didn’t even think about this nonsense. Today, I’m thinking about it to laugh and then I’m letting it go. If we do ever meet, it will be on my terms, how I want it to happen and where.

Like today... those are my terms, Chubsy Wubsy.

The funny thing is you admitted to me on the phone last night that I was renting space in your head. What’s the lesson you should take from this, Chubsy?

::blank stare::

No dancing for Mr. T for you Blubber Man; no “Balls ovah da Nose” awards for you. What I’ve done with you is real time shit. From now on, this mind control technique of renting head space will be called “being cosmicized.”

Now: BE AT THE SEAPORT AT THE APPOINTED TIME, BITCH!

PS: And Tony? This ain’t no internet joke: the joke is you.

::smooches::

Eddie (aka “Papi Chulo”)