A Message From The White Retardo and Her Sweet Mexican Sidekick.

So according to the Gangsta Name Generator (courtesy of Mrs. Strizzzzzzzay), I am The White Retardo. Or perhaps just a white retardo, which is slightly less glamorous if you ask me.

To tell you the truth, this probably isn't the first time I have been accused of being white, retarded, or some combination thereof. I grew up in a part of town that most cops and caucasians refer to as "the ghetto". Yes my friends, Alief, Texas is not the ideal place to raise your white-ass-whitey kids. In middle school, I adhered myself to the only visible white person not packing heat or donning corn rows. Incidentally, her Gangsta Name is Sweet Mexican, but yall can just call her Fats. I do.

Fats and I were inseparable throughout junior high and high school, and it came to light just recently that our entire high school football team thought we were lesbians. That means that we must have been way more popular than I ever could have imagined. Truth be told, we were not frolicking in my bunk bed with dildos but rather creating our own "Sit and Be Fit" home video in Gumby suspenders. Yes, we were those people.

Fats was as anti-government cheese as I was, which made us instant friends. Plus her mom worked at the school which meant unlimited free hall passes and ditching class to hang out in her office. Our parents still insist that the only reason neither of us turned out to be gun-wielding drug addicts on welfare is because we had eachother during those vital teenage years. I think it's because everyone already assumed we were smoking that good shit, so no one bothered to offer us any.

The two of us were as white as they come, but luckily we escaped the ghetto without much emotional trauma or physical scarring, except for that one time Fats got stabbed in the leg with a #2 pencil. We managed to avoid the most severely disturbed of our classmates by taking honors classes in high school. However, both of us were (white) retardos when it came to math, and were subsequently placed in the- *gasp!*- regular math classes. I believe it was in Pre-Cal where we met Carmel, a charming young gent who took it upon himself to introduce the two most sheltered honkies this side of the Mason-Dixon line to the intricacies of ebonics. Under Carmel's professional tutelage we learned such phrases as, "What's happenin' Cat Daddy?" and "Slow your roll", both of which have come in handy recently when attempting to communicate with patients who are confused, dissatisfied, horny or stoned.

Fats must also be credited with the origination of the term "Spelunking for poo". When I go out with her Law student college friends, she likes to bust out tales from the Dark Side, and by the end of the night her friends are all cowering in the far corner of the booth, sobbing and dry heaving into their plate of fish tacos. I hope they learned their lesson about asking a person who poo spelunks for a living about the grossest thing she's ever seen. Unless you are an overly curious ten-year-old boy or a scatologist, that's just not a question you should ask. I also hope they learned not to order fish tacos from a taqueria of questionable sanitation in the Bayou City unless they really like dry heaving in public.

Fats and I are brilliant and creative and majorly fucked up, so you can expect great things from us. I say "us" because... well I hope you don't mind, but I'm bringing another woman into this relationship. I know what you're thinking: "Can she cook?" All I can really say is that I hope you folks like goldfish crackers, tequila and "special" brownies.

You see, the two of us originally had the idea to start a blog together. She just didn't take me seriously until she saw all of the free nudie pics I was getting from you, my faithful readers (THANK YOU, INTERNET.) So, as usual, she starts bringing her skanky ass around the second someone mentions gratuitous nudity and now you, dear readers, get the benefit of DOUBLE THE PLEASURE, DOUBLE THE FUN. Not that kind of fun, I thought we already went over that.

So, internet, I introduce you to Fats, that Sweetass Mexican friend of mine. I hope you like her because she's not gonna leave unless you tell her they're having a sale on rastafarian hats at Gadzook's. And we all know that doesn't happen very often.

Lest you doubt, being fabulous IS her full time job.

AAW! That is so sweet. I still talk to my best friend from school days. But she is single now with her nipples peirced having sex with random men, and I am married with 3 kids. Kind of leaves us with little to talk about. Although I did get to see her nipples.
Loved the ghetto references! I'm so NOT ghetto, but work in it, so I can relate to what you're saying. So many terms I would have never heard of had I not escaped from North Dakota's white borders. I can't help but tear up when my kids say, "What's crackin B?" when I roll up at their cribs.....
Fats, I am honored to serve as your Sweet Mexican. I think I might have preferred Sweet Ugandan, but hey, no complaints here. Do you readers find it bizzare that I am almost always on the Fat One's left? Except in those first two pictures (sweet jesus, what the hell is wrong with us? I think that second photo might have been the morning, god help us, after we stayed up 'till 4am MAKING patchwork [read: tacky] Father's Day ties for our dads, both of which they wore out of the house and then dumped in a dumpster on the way to work? Talk about hilarity.) Additionally, I want to clarify that I have no recollection of stabbing myself (or being stabbed) by a number two pencil. Although life in "tha ghetto" certainly proved conducive to such activities, either I have eradicated the memory from my fragile little Southern Belle psyche or it never happened. The problem here is that Fats and I (ok, it's mostly me) tend to place each other in remembered situations when in actuality only one or perhaps neither of us were really there. I'm not pointing fingers here, but as I examine my body for pencil lead scars--finding none--I have to perhaps question my presence in said memory. Oh wait--did it happen in 8th grade? Was I wearing shorts (non-regulation, too short shorts?) I seem to remember that now. Oops. Sorry, Fats. Sorry, Internet.
What a sweet post. Your love for your best friend is heartwarming.

(BTW, my gangsta names, depending on if I use dave or david are "White Mofo Shrinky Nutz" or "Whipped Bitch")
CM: Whipped Bitch. ALWAYS, Whipped Bitch.

Fats: YOU GOT STABBED IN THE LEG IN HIGH SCHOOL. In the hallway between classes right before economics. Dude, how could you forget? You totally milked it for a week and even tried to get a handicapped parking spot.
How could you NOT get the handicapped parking space for that?

You guys are completely adorable. Howdy Fats! Your Spoonleg gal is one fuuunay beeotch.
Say Hay, Ho. Say Hay. Say Ho. Say Ho Ho Ho.

Aight, I'm luvin it! Welcome Fats, Welcome over the moon! (Wait now I am very confused!)

My gangsta name be Supa-Hard Red Snappa!
I like red snapper, g.a. very nice choice my sexy sushi friend.

overthemoon and Fats are the same person. Just for clarification's sake. Well, sometimes I am called Fats too, so don't let yourself get confused. EVERYONE IS FAT HERE. Welcome.
PHAT, y'all!
The hotness is with both of you.
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