Yo Vinnie,
You're like the biggest closeted fucking faggot I've ever seen. You've got classic short dumb fuck complex...talking about how all you ever do is fuck or fight. Well, let me tell you something, you illiterate troglodyte cunt, not a whit of your pathetic "tough guy talk" does a thing to disguise your obvious yearning for a big, fat cock rammed up your ass. Oh, but you love double-teaming, right, I forgot...so make that one shoved up your ass, and the other DEEP down your throat, so you're gagging on it. "What's that you say? mmmmmppppppphhhhhhhhh! I can't hear you!!!"

Go do some more steroids, you hateful piece of shit. -- Raven (by email)

"IF I DRINK SOME MORE OF YOUR URINE, WILL YOU LIKE ME THEN?"

Dear RAVEN, YOU HORRIBLE, DESICCATED CUNT: It's sad, isn't it? It's sad when your most salient personal feature or attribute is limited to your doddering ability to mumble gurgled words of pleasure around my extremely unhapp-enis. When your only ally is the fact that you aren't rushing even faster toward a time-trapped future wherein no one will love you, care about you or even want to fuck your withered ass. When your only successful conversations always end up, "can I blow you again?"

Yes, yes, it's sad. That all the hipster affectations, the slut cum vampire schtick, the sexy-girl-on-the-go stuff will wonderfully and anachronistically mock you as you wheel your 1982 Volvo to the farmer's market to buy a few oranges that will eat alone, or with a husband that secretly loathes you, and wonder where it all went.

Well, wonder no more. We are humanitarians down here and as much as we'd like to see you suffer we can't bring ourselves to deprive you, especially as it is in our power to give, of that which will renew your life's sense of purpose, meaning, direction. Namely: our loads. Whenever you're down and out and lonely, like NOW for instance, we'll gladly lend you a load to cry on. There, there, dry your load-laden eyes. It'll be OK. When no one else cares we'll be there. Hating you with a laser-like intensity more blinding than any kind of love.

You can count on us.

Cunt.

THE ULTIMATE FUCKING CHAMPIONSHIP. WITHOUT THE FUCKING.

AHHH. SO NOW YOU FEEL THE WRATH OF MY DOUBLE CLUTCHING RUG MUNCH HOLD!!!

Editor's Note: Though we've reviewed this site before, JUDGE ROY BEAN's become obsessed with it and so: Take fucking 2 of one man's obsession with battlin' bitches.

Beating ass and then taxing it; taxing ass and then beating it--whether you start moving from B to A or A to B we do all agree that the ultimates of human expression are covered thusly therein. Fucking and fighting are, in essence, the same base actions--namely a physical manifestation of the desire to conquer--hence the blueprint from which WE work.

Sex and violence are not at opposing ends of the spectrum--they exist at the apex of the circle; sitting side by side, holding hands, and smiling while the moralists of the world desperately attempt to disrupt their happy marriage and place them as enemies of one another when they are really inseparable lovers.

Every day, as our eyes and ears attend to others, we find ourselves sizing up all those that cross our path. Are they best served by the end of our dicks or the end of our fists? The answer is really dependent solely on gender, not on "love" or the propensity for. Though their stance, being that of the opposition, may not necessarily be a conscious one--pity aside--it is a necessary one, lest we face stagnation and, thus, death. Our nature is to conquer; it is that which drives us and it is that which cannot be ignored. Power is the primary nourishment of the human animal and what is best in life, as Conan himself knew, was submitting the opponent...by any means.

See, the tight-assed, big-tittied club whore in the skin-tight mini-skirt and lace stockings may not actively realize that her peacocking ways are more than feeding the innate desire to court our attention, but this does not change that, in the end, that which does not conquer HAS BEEN conquered simply by it's lack of conquering.

Well these hoes, and their peter-cheaters, will not stand for any of that nonsense. No sir...err...no ma'am! Yeah, no ma'am, we mean...whores.

Filthy, filthy fucking whores.

While we are sure that at least some of these women think that this coalesce of physical dominance and pro-active female sexual expression equates with feminist porn; we here at the Mack Ave. find it necessary to interrupt our regularly scheduled broadcasting to inform them that, indeed, we are smacking our balls purple against knuckles as we speak, and they fight.

Go on with yourselves ladies. If this is what it takes to keep our girls the fuck away from the View and Oprah and quit bitching about the $75 we rack up monthly on our cable bills ordering porn and MMA fights then so be it. We've been getting a bit sick of every woman we meet being a lesbian lately, or just hating our cocks and being tactful in relaying that to us, but nonetheless youse are fighting the good fight. The fight of the fuck. And we applaud you for that. With our cocks, of course.

And all is good and well in our world this eve, as we watch art school dropouts ground and pound fashion design school dropouts in the most literal sense.

Now, if we can just get you motherfuckers to buy something from us so that Sal can afford placing ill-advised bets on these matches...